“I… see,” he replies carefully. Then, as if trying to reassert authority, “I look forward to seeing you.”
Wait.
“Regardless of your clothing situation,” he adds with a very suspicious calm.
Oh. Oh my God. That was a flirt. That was so a flirt.
Fucking pervert.
I thank him and hang up and take a cleansing breath.
I don’t have time to spiral about Margo’s HOA-fueled reign of poolside terror, or Kira’s whole “nude muse who maybe gives Rhys tantric back pain” vibe, or whatever fresh shade Office Bitch With the Weird Eyebrows is serving at the front desk like it’s Satan’s DMV.
No.
Today’s about Jett.
The man too pissed to want me and too disciplined to snap.
Which is exactly why I’m going to crack him open like a glow stick and dance in the radioactive fallout.
And technically, technically, today was supposed to be all about him. But since he didn’t have the common fucking courtesy to tell me to fuck off like a regular emotionally constipated man-child, I don’t feel bad about spending his entire morning trying to mindfuck Rhys instead.
Anyway. Now it’s Jett time.
I throw my gym bag on the bed and unzip it with the reverence of a witch opening her grimoire.
Inside: Pink boxing gloves custom-painted skulls with little glitter bows, because I’m an apex predator and a princess.
Fingerless lifting gloves because I like the way they make me look like I’m about to punch a cop or give a very intense handjob. Violent Barbie couture.
A sweat towel. Pink. Soft. Also skulls. Smells like strawberry lip gloss.
The outfit is scientifically engineered for maximum psychic damage.
The shorts are hot pink, and slutty enough to make eye contact with God every time I bend over, so high you could see my sins and maybe my cervix. The top is not a shirt. It’s a bra trying to cosplay as a workout tank pretending to be innocent.
It’s not.
I’m not.
Jett knows.
I sit at the mirror and start war paint.
Foundation, because I’m not letting my trauma pores breathe today. Concealer to erase every bad choice I’ve ever made. Liner winged and wicked, sharp enough to send a cease and desist. Lip gloss, plumping, cherry flavored, evil. It’s the kind that tingles like rejection and broken boundaries.
Last is the statement. The sin.
The hat.
It doesn’t match anything. It’s black. Worn. Smells like motorcycle exhaust and aggression. It’s his.
The one I took from his saddlebag. Thee one he definitely noticed was missing. The one I’m wearing like a trophy and a middle finger.
I sniff it, of course. Gently. Because I may be a pervert but I have manners. Then I pull it onto my head. My pink tips peek out under the brim.
It’s not aesthetic. It’s not cute. It’s psychological warfare.
