Rhys chuckles. “It’s not a sex club. It’s at the art center. Only the model is nude.”
Benji dips another bite of cheeseburger in his goddamn cheese like he’s not the devil. “So you sit there in a suit andsketch while someone’s just naked up there? That’s kinda kinky, doc. You gotta admit.”
“It’s not,” Rhys says.
“The fuck it isn’t,” I say.
“Kinky,” Benji grins around his bite. “I like it.”
Great. Fucking great. So now it’s not just tender smiles and sweet-boy safety he’s offering her. Now he’s got kinks. Now he’s interesting. Exciting. Probably lets her tie him up and calls her ma’am.
Would it be a felony to smash my plate into his face? Just a little?
“You should come too,” Rhys says to Benji.
The fuck he just say?
“Okay, what the hell is happening here?” I snap. “Did the air get weird or did you two just start fucking without telling me?”
“What does it feel like?” Rhys asks, tone maddeningly calm.
“Screw you,” I growl. “It feels shitty and I want to break your nose and his hands.”
There it is. The truth. Right in the open.
Rhys remains too relaxed. “Do you want to sit with that or talk about it?”
Benji, fucking Benji, nods solemnly. “It is uncomfortable,” he says like he’s announcing the weather. “You wouldn’t get it yet. You haven’t fully invested in her.”
“I haven’t?” Rhys tilts his head, brow arching. “It’s my job to invest in her.”
No, I think, it’s my job to protect her. And you’re both in the way.
“Not the same,” Benji says, calm as a bomb that hasn’t gone off yet.
And fuck him. We are not on the same team. I don’t care if he agrees with me or wants to hold hands and sing hymns about how we all love the same girl. I thought I could handlethis. Thought I could sit here, eat my fucking onion rings, and act civilized. But I can’t. “I’m gonna need you to stay the fuck out of my space. Don’t touch her. Don’t breathe on her when I’m around.”
Benji lifts his hand like he’s telling a kid to slow their roll. “No.”
“No?” I repeat. “Excuse me?”
Rhys folds his hands pretending he’s just a fucking therapist instead of the reason I fantasize about punching drywall. That smug little lean-back in his chair, that deliberate patience like he’s watching an animal snarl behind glass. Safe.
“Yeah, you too, doc. Because I catch you with your hands on her…” I start.
“You feel uncomfortable about how you left things with her,” Rhys cuts in, all quiet authority and monk-like bullshit. “How do you come to terms with this?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Isn’t that your job? Aren’t you the one with the fancy degrees and the laminated ethics code? Fix it without a nosebleed, right?”
“Maybe it starts small,” he says. “Maybe it’s you three sitting in the same space. Not tearing each other apart.”
I bark a laugh. “Okay, let’s stop bullshitting. It’s not three. It’s four. Let’s just say it. You’re gonna fold eventually. She’s going to smile at you the wrong way, and you’re going to be on your knees, and don’t pretend you haven’t already jacked off in the shower thinking about her.”
A couple at the next table turns. I shoot them a smile that says move along or bleed for it.
Benji stays quiet. Of course he does. Cheese-dipping, good-boy, girlfriend-forever Benji.
“How is any of this helping her?” I say, pointing between us. “She’s got charges coming at her from all sides. She’s scared. You want me to what, start a knitting circle with the competition?”
