14. Liv
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LIV
I ’ve never considered myself someone with a temper. I don’t tend to get angry. I’m a problem solver. When someone causes issues or breaks my trust, I tend to just remove them from the equation, never bothering to think about them again. My reaction to seeing Callum Noble having a lovely dinner in a trendy restaurant with a girl he’s clearly serious about and her fucking parents not even a week after railing me in the restroom should be to cut him out of my life for good. Which happens to be handy, as I’d decided to do just that even before today.
Except I’m not surgically removing him from my mind, the way I’ve done with countless other scum. I am fuming .
I try to make myself focus on what’s going on around me—my newfound sister, who’s epic; her friends, who are pretty cool; the adorable birthday girl, who loves my present so much she immediately throws it over her gold outfit—but my eyes keep drifting back to the asshole.
He’s all touchy-feely, kissing the brunette’s knuckles, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, making her laugh. I never considered myself a violent person, but I’m clutching my knife so tight the metal digs into my flesh. I suddenly understand crimes of passion. If he were closer, I could imagine myself plunging it into his stupid hand.
Here’s the thing: I don’t like cheats. The very notion of a person betraying someone else’s trust is disgusting to me. And up until now, I’ve prided myself on never having so much as flirted with a guy with a ring on his finger. Sure, some married guys found their way to the strip club where I worked, but it was their business, and I never directly interacted with any of them. That’s one of the many reasons I was never interested in lap dances. I don’t want to be an accessory to infidelity.
But turns out, the guy made me the other woman, by fucking me when he’s quite clearly taken.
I hate him. I hate him IhatehimIhate?—
“Who are you staring at?” Grace asks, following the direction of my gaze.
Shit .
“Oh! That’s Cal and Camilla . I didn’t see them.”
Camilla. A ridiculously perfect, posh name to go with the perfect, posh girlfriend. I bet he’s not fucking her in any public bathrooms.
It takes a mountain of effort, but I do force a smile. “Looks like it.”
“Where?” Bella cranes her neck. “Oh, yeah. Ugh. Don’t they match ridiculously perfectly together?”
Astrid snorts. “Too perfectly. They look like brother and sister.”
She’s right: both have dark hair, light eyes, the same-ish complexion.
I try to help it, but I can’t. I clear my throat, then the question’s out before I can stop it. “How long have they been together?”
“ Forever .” Lucinda rolls her eyes. “Like, I moved from England when I was, what, twelve? And they were already an item.”
Grace nods. “Yeah, but I don’t think they’ve ever been that serious. I mean, I’ve seen her date other people.”
That defuses some of my tension.
“By the looks of things, it’s about to get pretty damn serious,” Bella retorts. “I mean, dinner with the parents? No one does that unless there’s a ring coming in the near future.”
So much for that. I’m right back to seething and wishing my eyes could shoot lasers into his treacherous back.
Just then, as though the sheer force of my gaze got his attention, Callum looks over his shoulder and sees me, glaring at him.
Then the asshole has the gall to smile, and wave.
Fucking wave .
I’m going to murder him.
But in the interest of having an alibi—not to mention, some self-respect—I fake my brightest smile and wave back.
Then I redirect my attention to the table of girls around me. We’re meeting for dinner, then the rest of Lucinda’s birthday is happening in a club.
I do my best to stay focused on the conversations around me, but my mind refuses to let go of the jerk and his damn girlfriend. Dinner is delicious, though a lot more casual than Luminaris: I recognize all the ingredients, at least. And the wine is perfect, and better yet, plentiful. The servers never stop pouring, and I don’t try to stop them.
We’re halfway through our mains when the happy couple leave, Callum’s arm thrown around Camilla’s shoulders in the most natural of embraces.
I snap.
I blame the wine, but I can’t help it: I grab my phone and search for his name.
Me: Does your girlfriend know you like to buy girls to fuck in your free time?
I put my phone back in my pocket. It’s not like he’s going to reply, given the company he’s in, but I feel better, now I’ve called him out on his shit.
My hand’s still clasping the device when it buzzes into life, signaling a reply.
Really?
I half expect someone else has messaged me—although the only other person communicating with me at the moment is seated next to me, and definitely not texting.
But it’s from Callum.
Callum: So that’s what it takes to get your attention, huh?
I blink at the screen incomprehensibly. Get my—what the hell is he on about?
Me: Don’t text me again.
I don’t even have time to put the phone back into my pocket before the three dots are flying.
Callum: You started, love.
I’m incredibly annoyed about the fact that he’s right.
Me: And now I’m ending this. Bye.
Callum: Strange that my messages are still getting through. Never heard of the block button?
Again, he’s correct. I could have just blocked him. And I certainly should now. But I find it much more satisfying to just reply with a middle finger emoji, so I do that, before putting the device back in my pocket.
I can’t pinpoint why exactly, but I feel considerably better. I guess I don’t do well with unresolved issues. I said my piece now. He knows I think he’s full of shit. And needless to say, I’m never letting him touch me again.
I can focus on my friends for the rest of the night, and only daydream of murder a time or ten.