Resist (Songs of Submission #6)(13)

“To write,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

I pulled away. “I might also go to the bathroom once or twice. Do I need to fill out a form or call you first?”

A smile drew across his lips. A joke was incoming, but there was a click as the door was unlocked from the outside. Jonathan got his dick back in his pants before the cleaning crew swung the door open.

Chapter 12.

“Saying I don’t know what I’m dealing with is plain insulting.”

We were on the matte black rocket, which I loved because I had my arms around him, inside his jacket, and I could feel the angles and bumps of his body. I’d tucked my skirt around my thighs to his satisfaction so I wouldn’t expose my pantie-less glory to Los Angeles. Once that was settled, he’d put my helmet on me as if to cut off any further discussion. Talking to him when he was a disembodied voice was hard. I didn’t want to wait until we got to my house to talk to him because we’d be in a private place and he’d try to shut me up with sex again. It would work, for the hundredth time.

“I’m not insulting you. I’m telling the truth. Jessica can teach Machiavelli a few things,” he said through the speaker in my helmet.

“I need to see your face.”

“You’ll see plenty.”

“Stop the bike.”

We were on Sunset, by the Junction, the one neighborhood where people gathered on the street, walking from bar, to restaurant, to bar, to home.

“We’ll be to your house in eight minutes.”

“Now.”

He stopped at a light and pulled off his helmet. His hair spiked and curled with the disruption, and when he turned to me, incredulity was in his eyes. I couldn’t hear what he said, and I folded my arms. I meant what I said, no matter his unheard response.

He held the corner of the helmet to his lips, and his voice came through my helmet. “You don’t get to give orders.”

I pulled off my helmet. I could only imagine what it did to my hair, but I was past giving a shit. I put the helmet on the seat and slid off the bike.

“Monica.”

“Jonathan.”

The light changed. Horns shrieked. Curses cut the night. Jonathan and I stared at each other as our lane slowly sifted around us.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, paying the flipped birds around us no mind.

“I want to talk, and I want to do it somewhere you can’t f**k me.”

“You think dragging me into a coffee shop is going to stop me from f**king you? Shit, if I want you in the middle of this intersection, I’ll take you.”

He would, too. But also, he wouldn’t.

I stepped away from the bike. A dented Acura came to a screeching halt inches from me.

“Fuck!” Jonathan shouted, swinging his leg over the seat as if he was about to cradle my broken body in his arms.

The Acura’s driver cried obscenities. Something about me being a stupid f**king bitch. Blah blah. I’d been called worse on a random Tuesday night at the bar. I flipped him off without even looking, walking backward, drawing Jonathan out of the street.

But what I considered a meaningless gesture, the driver considered a call to arms. He leaned so far out of the car I had no idea how his foot stayed on the brake. “Get your big flapping twat outta the street, you bitch whore!”

Jonathan put the kickstand down on the bike, which I didn’t understand. Why on earth would he park it in the middle of the street? The light had turned red again, but obviously that was temporary. The guy in the Acura flung some more curses my way. Apparently, he didn’t see the guy with the stone-cold expression heading for him. If he did, he might have stopped calling me a f**king skank and started getting into a defensive posture.

Shit.

I darted in front of Jonathan, but he was moving so fast, I had almost no time to get between them. My ass pressed against the door of the car, and Jonathan was nearly there. I held up my hand. “Stop.”

“Get out of the way.”

“Hey, bitchface!” said the guy behind me.

“Get the bike, please,” I said to Jonathan.

“Get out of the way.”

“Are you a f**king adolescent? You’re going to get into a fight on Sunset Boulevard? What the f**k? Please, bend me over in the intersection instead.”

“You people are f**king crazy!” said the driver the second before the light changed. Despite the fact that I was practically leaning on his car, he took off.

More honking as Jonathan and I stared each other down in the middle of the street. More cursing as his bike sat in the middle of the center lane. We had to yell to be heard over the noise.

“Why can’t I meet with Jessica?” I demanded. “Why is it so important to you?”

“You’re asking me here?”

“If you can f**k me in the intersection, I can ask questions.” He grabbed my arm. I shook it off.

“You don’t know her! This is a game, and you don’t know the rules. If she gave you her number, it’s because whatever she’s trying to do to me, she’s going to use you for.”

“So you’re protecting yourself,” I said.

“And you.”

“I don’t need protecting,” I yelled. A delivery truck missed me by inches as it tried to make the light. The wind shear thrust me forward a few inches.