He knew that stylist. The moment she appeared, his shoulders became a permanent fixture by his ears, as did the deep V between his brows. His eyes clouded with anger and pain, but what stole my breath was the shame.
The entire encounter was odd. It never occurred to me to inform him I could color my hair however I wanted because all I could see was the stress on his face. But one thing I had no doubt about? The woman was someone who hurt him. A visceral reaction like that doesn’t occur for no reason. And I hated her, despite not knowing a thing.
When he reappeared after disappearing for several minutes, a sick part of me hoped he hurt her because if anything close to what I thought happened was the cause of his distress, she deserved immeasurable pain.
Finally, Melena declares I’m done. My hair feels amazing. The light makeup she did is perfect for the show tonight. I’ve been spoiled.
And now I have to pee.
“I’m going to the restroom, okay?” I tell him as we approach the counter.
He nods. “Okay. I’ll pay and wait out front for you?”
“Perfect.” I get on my toes and plant a kiss on his cheek, making him grin.
I follow the signs to the bathroom. Go inside and do my business. I am washing my hands when the door opens. She slinks inside like a serpent. Ready to build her house of lies. And she wastes no time making it known. She didn’t happen in here by chance. She sought me out.
Her long, manicured nails dig into my bicep when she latches onto my arm, forcing me toward her. “I couldn’t let you leave here with him without warning you he’s dangerous.” Her voice shakes with real terror. Large pools fill her eyes, and they aren’t fake. She is afraid of him. “He’s violent. He came into our breakroom and threatened me.”
Good!
I yank myself from her grip, keeping my expression neutral, cold. It is wrong. So fucking wrong. But I have to know if my hunch is right. “After what you did to him? And you thinkhe’sdangerous? Sweetheart, you need psychological help.”
Blond hair swishes around her shoulders. The fear remains in her eyes, but the woman-to-woman consideration is gone.She knows I’m not buying her victim bullshit. “I don’t know what perverted version of things he gave you, but everything we did to him was consensual. So what if he was sixteen? What teenage boy wouldn’t want to be with two women who looked like us? He liked it with Richard, too. Don’t believe his lies.”
I feel sick. Acid churns in my stomach, slowly rising in my chest, leaving an acrid taste.
Jagger isn’t much older than me. This woman is in her mid-thirties. Math isn’t my best subject, but I’m good enough to figure out this equation.
In some cases, perhaps what she says is true. There are definitely teenage boys who think being with an older woman is a flex. Same with girls. I’ve known both.
But I can’t fathom them tangling in their sheets, knuckles clenching the fabric like a lifeline, fear paralyzing their bodies as terror soaked their skin like he did. Or having the reaction to a morning blowjob he had.
And she saidus.And Richard.
My smile is faker than a Louis Vuitton out of a trunk. “And that he was a minor is no big deal, right?” I played along as if I saw the logic behind her sentiment. “I mean, it’s just teenage hormones. Fantasy fulfillment.” I wink.
It works. Some of the tension in her overly injected face withers away. “Exactly. You understand how it is. Besides, if he didn’t want it, he wouldn’t have gotten so hard for us, right?”
God, is this woman for real?Women fought for millennia to be heard, not to feel shame because their bodies climax during assault, not to feel guilty because they are forced by whatever means into something they don’t want, yet this bitch…
My smile stretches until my cheeks ache. “Right.”
She pats my arm, satisfied we are on the same page.
She thinks she’s safe because she’s a woman. Because Jagger’s silence has protected her. Because no one calls her out.
But I’m not afraid to be the villain in her story.
I size her up. She has at least eight inches on me, though four are the red-soled stilettos on her feet. She looks like a spin class skank.
Not that there is anything wrong with spin class. I love it myself, but I digress.
I am an athlete because yes, goddammit, ballet is a fucking sport. Our bodies go through as much and more than any world-class athlete. Not going to lie, I’m betting those lessons with the fighter will help too, because I’m about to do something stupid.
But I figure whatever Jagger has said to her will keep her mouth shut. If not, the worst that will happen is I need bail money tonight. I cringe internally because I don’t know if it would happen before the show.
Okay. The worst case would be Jagger knowing what she told me, realizing I know his secret, and walking away. But this is supposed to end on Monday, right? At least this way, this slutty cunt will have had a fraction of what she deserves.
