JENNIE
You know that icky feeling when you pull on a pair of underwear fresh out of the dryer only to find they’re still damp? Or when you’ve got no time to heat up your leftover mac and cheese, so you have to shovel it back while it’s cold and hard? Both fucking gross, exactly like the feeling I get when my dance partner watches me the way he is right now, like he can’t wait to make me his next meal.
Poor guy hasn’t figured out yet that I’m caviar; he can’t afford me no matter how hard he tries.
Simon leans against the bench press, dropping his elbow to the bar, and flicks his head up. His brows waggle. “Like what you see?”
“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.” I brush by him, heading to the change room. He follows, because he’s a persistent little shit.
Don’t get me wrong: I like Simon well enough. We’ve been dancing together for four years now. But in addition to his persistence, he’s cocky as fuck and seems to be under the misguided impression I’m simply making him work really hard for it.
It’s not that difficult a concept to grasp. I have absolutely zero plans of letting him inside my Disneyland. The sooner he accepts this, the better.
“This is the women’s change room, Simon. You can’t come in here, no matter how far back you tuck that thing.”
Grinning, he slaps a hand over his crotch. “I couldn’t tuck this thing back if I tried.” His breath smells remarkably like beef jerky when it brushes the shell of my ear. “Can’t hide a package this size.”
I shove him backward, shooing him away and stepping inside the change room. “Knock that ego down, like, a hundred pegs, fuckboy.”
Simon chuckles. “I’ll grab a shower and meet you out front.”
One of my character flaws is agreeing to plans in advance. By the time they come, I’d much rather take my bra off and not have to put it back on.
I swipe at a line of sweat making its way into my sports bra. “I’ve got plans tonight, and I’m pretty tired, so—”
“But it’s your birthday.”
“Right, and I—”
“Five minutes!” He kisses my cheek and jogs toward the men’s change room. “Gimme five minutes! Gotta freshen up for my favorite birthday girl!” He winks and disappears before he can catch my eye roll.
Sure, we’re friends, and yes, we spend 75 percent of our time together in intimate positions with his roaming hands on me. Still, on a pseudo–lunch date with Simon ideally isn’t how I’d spend my twenty-fourth birthday. In fact, I can think of at least ten better ways to spend it, like a two-hour couch nap, jilling off in my bedroom, or taking my cat for a walk.
I don’t have a cat.
But I’m partial to free food, and we wind up at Taco Cantina, which is nice—tacos are life—though I’m unimpressed with Simon’s insistence to share the chips and guac as a starter. He devours all but two chips I manage to sneak.
“Oops.” His fingers brush the dusty bottom of the teak chip bowl. “Kinda ate it all, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.”
He dismisses me with a wave. “S’okay. You don’t wanna worry about the extra calories.”
My brows rocket so fast up my forehead I’m worried they might fly right off. “Pardon?”
“The extra calories.”
“Right, I heard you. I was giving you a chance to change your words.” I sip my virgin mojito, savoring the sweet tang. “When has it ever been okay to comment on what a woman should or shouldn’t eat?”
He regards me cautiously. “Calm down, Jennie. I was joking. And it’s not like you’re not used to it.”
I am used to it, that’s exactly the problem. I’ve spent my entire life fighting the urge to cower from the scrutinizing stares of dance coaches that nitpick any amount of softness, that scour my food logs, searching for any indication that I’ve been anything other than strict with my diet, something to explain why I’m moving a bit sluggish one week, or why my outfit fits a little snugger one morning. I’ve hugged too many toilet bowls and cried, afraid of harsh words, but more afraid to start an addiction that can too quickly turn lethal.
That I can sit here now and order three loaded tacos and a sugary drink without a care in the world or an ounce of remorse is a miracle, something I’ve been working toward since high school with an incredible amount of therapy. I won’t let Simon’s careless words steal years of progress.
And then he adds: “Plus, the winter show is next month. You don’t wanna be packing on unnecessary pounds.”
I keep from crushing my glass simply because this drink is banging. “You’re digging your own grave. Keep it up, and I’m going to put you in it.” I tack the dipshit on in my head.
He covers my hand with his. “You know I think you’re the most beautiful girl out there, Jennie. I’m lucky to have you as a partner.”
I smile up at the waiter, mouthing a silent “Thank you” as he slides a platter of tacos in front of me. To Simon, I say, “Damn right you are.”
He devours half a taco in one bite. “Your brother still married?”
“It’s been two weeks, so, yeah.” Also, Carter’s obsessed with Olivia. Good thing he’s a professional hockey player. If he were in town every day, Olivia might strangle him. I’m still unsure how I made it twenty-four years without doing it myself. My brother’s great, he’s just a little…boisterous? Ostentatious? Self-assured? Extra as fuck? All of the above?
“Two weeks seems like more than he can handle in a committed relationship,” Simon manages, showing me a mouthful of ground beef, lettuce, and cheese. How he manages to get into the skirts of every girl in the dance program at SFU is far beyond what my mind can comprehend.
“Should I remind you you’re as big a manwhore as Carter was prior to Olivia?”
“I am not.”
I accidentally cackle. Whoops.
Simon rolls his eyes. “How come your brother gets the chance to change his reputation, but I don’t? Maybe I want to settle down too.”
Do people deserve the benefit of the doubt? Normally. But I know this man. I’ve watched him lure in countless girls with his charm, only to sleep with one for a week or two before replacing her with another, one he likes to flaunt right in front of the former. He tosses women away without thought, all the while never missing an opportunity to hit on me.
Like right now, as he hooks his ankle around mine, pulling my legs between his under the table. He smirks that fucking smirk, and I’m reminded of exactly why I’ve affectionally labeled him Simon Syphilis.
“C’mon, Jennie. Let’s go back to my place. Lemme give you a real birthday present.”
“Yeah.” I catch the waiter’s eye, twirl one finger in the air, then point at my tacos. “Can I get a to-go box, please?” I lay my chin on my laced fingers and smile. “You know, Simon, I’d absolutely love to. Love to stay and finish this lunch too.” I accept the small box from the waiter with a grateful smile and start lining up my tacos inside. “Unfortunately, I don’t feel like making any fuckboy-sized mistakes today.”