Page 28 of Mating Theory
He looks up at me from the ground, panting, disbelieving. “You don’t know. How is it possible… you don’t know? She’s a fucking prostitute, Sutton. She’s a whore.”
The urge to kick him in the stomach almost cripples me. “I know what she is. I know her a lot better than you do, you sick fuck.”
“That’s what you think.” A laugh that sounds unhinged. “I had her before you, you bastard. I had her weeks ago. She was a bad fuck. Scared and jumpy. Is that how you like them?”
He scared her. This is the man of her nightmares, her first client. The realization settles into my bones, and before I can think, I throw a vicious kick to Mason’s middle.
His whole body slams against the wall, and he slumps to the floor, spasming.
For the first time in my life I kicked a man when he’s down, and it feels… good. That makes my fall complete. I am like my father. I want to do it again and again, until he regrets ever touching her, until he regrets ever seeing her.
It’s only with force of will that I reach down to haul him up. I slam him against the wall, but he’s clearly nowhere near able to fight back at this point. His gaze is unfocused, his mouth drooling. I slam him against the wall until his eyes meet mine.
“You don’t know her.”
The man has no sense of self-preservation. “She’s a—”
“You’re mistaken.”
He swallows around the pain. “Okay. Okay.”
“Say it. You’re mistaken.”
“I’m mistaken.”
It doesn’t feel like enough, this admission. I want him to beg for forgiveness at Ashleigh’s feet. I want her to refuse. I want her to give me permission to rip his sorry head from his body.
There are a handful of Mayfair bastards in Tanglewood.
Some of them had good childhoods. Some of them didn’t.
Some of them are good men. Some of them aren’t.
Only one of them do I hate—and that’s Mason Smith. When I look at him, I can only see my father. It’s wild to think that in some alternate universe we might have been brothers. Real brothers who grow up together, who fight and support and love each other.
Out of hundreds of thousands of men in the city, she had to get him as her first customer.
Mason’s always had a cruel streak. It came out when we were in school together. Ironically he had a good mother and a clueless father. He resented me, my existence, and he made my life hell. Not with fists. He always knew I’d beat him in a fair fight. No, he turned his rich friends against me. The teachers. Anyone would believe a good straight A kid over the dirty, angry Sutton Mayfair.
When I leave the closet I wash my hands, because I need to clean them of the bastard stink. The scent of violence and desperation and liquor that never quite leaves, no matter how hard I scrub.
Ashleigh’s waiting for me by my car, while the valet chats her up, clearly interested. Anyone would be. I have no doubt that the man in the BMW getting out of his car, the old guy in a tux with his wife—they’ve all noticed her. The gold dress highlights her smoking body, but her smile is enough to make even the most hardened man believe in a higher power.
The valet says something, and Ashleigh laughs.
Her fear pulsed from the closet. The only thing I felt when I saw her with Mason was rage. Now that I see her with another man, though, I know how easy it would be for her to find someone good for her. Jealousy. That’s the name of the seething mass in my chest. Which is fucking stupid, because I have no claims on her. I don’t want any claims on her. I don’t need to care about someone else who doesn’t care about me.
Chapter Fifteen
Ashleigh
The ride home is quiet. I see the red marks on his knuckles. It’s easy enough to guess some kind of altercation went down. Maybe he sees it as some man poaching in his territory, even if we’re only doing this for pretend. For some strange reason it actually makes me excited to think about him fighting for me. It must be an evolutionary instinct that makes me want him to fight a saber-toothed tiger.
At his house, he comes around to open the door for me. That’s the thing about Sutton. He’s still a gentleman, even when other people aren’t watching. A gentleman, even with reddened knuckles.
When he helps me down I keep hold of his hand. I lean down to kiss the bruises and marks, gently. I want to say thank you. He probably didn’t do it for me. It was his own pride, but the primal cavewoman inside me doesn’t care.
His eyes turn to ocean as he looks down at me, deep and full of secrets.
