Beautiful Graves(57)

“Don’t be an asshole. It’s not like I used your heart as a squishy toy. And back downstairs, we had an audience,” I hiss. “What was I supposed to say back there?”

“No,” he drawls blandly, looking at me like I’m a complete idiot. “Know that word? Starts with an N, ends with an O. People use it from time to time. No.”

“I use it. I used it on Dom before we started dating, because I still wasn’t over you!” I ball my hands into fists, slamming them against his chest. “You self-righteous asshole!”

But Joe soldiers on, not even acknowledging my words, and not budging an inch at the physical contact.

“. . . though I’ll be honest, you seem to have a weakness when it comes to a Graves dick. You do know Dad is taken, right?”

I slap his right cheek. The sound of my palm against his flesh rings in my ears. When he looks back at me, deadly calm, a terrible smirk smears over his face. It is the first time I’ve seen Joe ugly. He reminds me of Rhett Butler in that scene when he leaves Scarlett O’Hara with a stolen, half-dead horse and a carriage full of people to fend for herself. This is the trouble with Joe. I never know if he loves me or hates me. If he is indifferent to me, or if he is just playing a game because he doesn’t want to get his feelings destroyed.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He licks his lips, grinning devilishly. “Slap me.”

I swallow hard. “Why?”

“Because now I know how deep I’ve gotten under your skin. Just like the tattoo you were so scared of getting. Inked permanently. Not to be removed or lasered off.”

He grabs me by the throat with scary selfishness and kisses me. Hard.

My body is a series of volcanoes, blowing off one after the other. My spine, an endless row of dominos that fall piece by piece until my legs buck. Everything is hot and desperate and raw. His fingers curl around my neck, drawing me closer. My lips slam against his with a pained grunt. His tongue pries them open, not asking—demanding—to get inside. The fool that I am, I yield. His body is flushed with mine. I feel him everywhere. Down to my toes. He scrapes the inside of my mouth with his teeth, skimming the line between pleasure and pain. Marking me, making my lips deliberately swollen.

We kiss with such passion I feel like we’re both about to combust. But he tastes wrong. Not like that night in Spain. Like anger and vengeance and hate. Like everything I feel toward myself for not being proactive about starting to fix the mess also known as my so-called life.

I push him away. “No!”

Even though I did the pushing, I’m also the one who stumbles backward from the impact. I clap my hand over my mouth. “Holy shit, what have we done?”

Joe drops his head back, face tilted at the ceiling. He looks fed up, and I can’t blame him.

“Kissed. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.”

“Stop being a smart-ass. But I—”

“Let me guess, regret it? I’m noticing a theme here.”

“How can you be so blasé?”

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing the room. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your precious boyfriend. Sorry, fiancé. Just another secret to toss into Pandora’s box. Well, well. This marriage is going to have quite the turbulent start. I’ll save you all my prayers.”

Another reference I don’t miss. He remembers my favorite song in the whole wide world. Dom doesn’t. In fact, Dom and I never discuss music.

“Don’t be a hypocrite. It wasn’t me who said we shouldn’t tell him about what happened six years ago.” I hate myself for continuously making mistakes when it comes to this man. My self-control is in the toilet where he is concerned.

Joe chuckles darkly. “Whatever you say, Lynne.”

“Don’t Lynne me. What we did to Dom right now was horrible.”

“Drop the guilt-fest.” Joe shoves his feet into his sneakers. He is going to see Presley. There’s nothing I can do to stop him. “No one’s buying it. And even if I did—I don’t feel guilty about kissing you.”

“Why are you so angry?” I ask. He’s not always angry. Most of the time, he is resigned to our fate.

“Because,” he says, calm, collected, and bored. “We never broke up. Technically, Ever, you’re still my girlfriend.”

It’s like a punch in the face, and as such, I stagger back. “You can’t be for real right now.”

“I can, and I fucking am. No breakup talk—no breakup.” He shoves his shoelaces into his sneakers, as opposed to tying them.

“How we broke up was terrible, but we did break up. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“You hurt yourself too. You chose mainstream.”

His words hit me. I remember them from all those years ago.

Mainstream people aren’t revolutionary. Nothing good ever comes out of them. Average equals comfort.

But I need comfort. I need safe.

“You stopped being a choice the day I kissed your brother,” I rasp. “We can’t do this to him, and you know that.”

“God, you’re like a broken record. Your morals bore me.” He lets out a short breath. I see his frustration. All the things he’s given up over the years for Dominic. The attention. The sleepless nights. The worrying. Always low on the totem pole. Even now, Dom is the golden child. The one who went to college, who got a good job, who is getting married. “And the worst part is, I am the only aspect in your life where you do the good thing, even if it’s not the right thing. Everything else about your relationships, including Dom, is fucked up because you always take the easy way out.”