The 3 Rules of Hanging Out With Your Ex
Rule #1: Meet on Neutral Ground. Vic's club didn't really count as neutral ground, but I forced him to meet me in downstairs bar, avoiding his secluded office upstairs.
"I told you not to wear panties." He walked me backward until the backs of my legs hit the edge of his desk, his voice a growl, his eyes dark on mine.
"And I ignored you." My breath hitched when his fingers lifted the edge of my skirt, confident and possessive when they gripped at my thong and yanked.
Yes, I've been in that office many times. Bent over that desk. Laid back on top of liquor invoices and payroll docs. Pressed up against the window, looking down on the sea of bodies as my own was teased into oblivion. Vic loved that office. I don't want to think about how many women, both during and after me, he had up there.
So he yielded and met me in the small bar downstairs, one that empties out after 10. The crowd was already thinning when he pushed through it and found me, on a stool at the marble bar, absently stirring the quickly melting ice of my drink with a straw.
Rule #2: Don't drink or do drugs. You must have a clear head. I can't tell you how many times I've drunk dialed him. Or seen him out and flung myself into his arms. I don't make good decisions when drunk. So despite the over-friendly bartender's best attempts, I nursed a Diet Coke in the 15 minutes it took Vic to show up. When he showed up — late, natch — it was in a dark gray suit, a pale green shirt underneath, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie loose around his neck. His hair was rough, like his hands (or someone else's) had recently been through it, his skin perfectly tan from his trip to the South Pacific. He smiled at me as he approached and my hand tightened on my glass. The problem with not drinking is that you lose the careless steel it can give your spine.
Rule #3: Control the Conversation. Yeah, I failed that rule quickly. Alpha males don't really like to be controlled. I started to speak when he sat down, the stool next to me quickly vacated with one sharp look from him. He cut me off and leaned forward, and we were suddenly close. "Cute outfit."
"Thank you." I'd dressed casually, knowing it would irritate him, especially in this club, an establishment that prided itself on an unbendable dress code. My jeans and V-neck had the doorman shaking his head as soon as I had stepped up, his pursed mouth souring into a scowl when I flashed the gold card that Vic had given me. There were only a handful of them in the city, some VIP bullshit that Vic had printed up, but they gave carte blanche to the user in any of his places. I hadn't ever used it when we'd dated, everyone knowing who I was but now, a year later, all of the faces were different, the city of New York one that changes often and easily forgets.
Vic pulled his stool forward and it was then that I realized that the bar had emptied, the bartender gone, the velvet curtain to its entrance pulled shut.
We were alone, the quiet bar suddenly a tomb and god, I hated it when he did shit like that.
Well, I hate it now. I used to love it.
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