The Devil Wears Black

“Clementine wanted to say goodbye.” Amber leaned toward me, pushing her chest even tighter. I really didn’t want it to burst. It would delay my trip back to New York by at least a few hours.

“I’ll come see her before we leave,” I tried to clip out, but I couldn’t help it. My voice came out softer than intended where Booger Face was concerned.

“We need to talk about her.” She put her hand on my arm. If she thought it’d stop me from moving, she was dead wrong.

“Booger Face or Madison?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” Amber huffed.

“Same,” I deadpanned.

I resented Julian and Amber for calling their daughter a name with zero nickname potential. Clemmy sounded like it was short for chlamydia, and Tinny made her sound like a mini can. I therefore referred to her as Booger Face, even though long were the days since she had sported actual boogers. When Clementine was born, Amber had asked me what I thought about the name. I’d said I didn’t like it. I was certain that was why she’d chosen it.

“Fine. Tough crowd. Let’s start with your fiancée. Is it real?” Amber glowered.

I zipped Mad’s overflowing suitcase wordlessly. What the heck kind of question was that?

“She’s a bit of an oddball.” Amber’s palm slid from my arm, her fingernail running circles on her thigh absentmindedly.

“She suits me.”

But she didn’t, and we both knew that. I hadn’t considered the fact that Madison wasn’t my obvious choice back when I had dated her, simply because I hadn’t thought there was anything to consider. She was supposed to be a fling. Nothing more. Now that Julian and Amber had pointed it out, I had to admit they weren’t wrong. I liked my women the same way I liked my interior design: impractical, obscenely expensive to maintain, with zero personality and frequent updates.

“About Clementine . . .” Amber stopped circling her fingernail over her thigh, digging it into the fabric. She was nervous.

“No,” I snapped, looking up. She reared her head back like I’d slapped her. “We’ve discussed it, and my demands were clear. Either you accept them or you zip it.”

“Are these my only options?”

“This is your only ultimatum.” My gaze flicked to the closed door of the bathroom. The stream of water stopped, and the glass door squeaked open. For a reason I didn’t care to explore, I didn’t want Madison listening to this clusterfuck of a conversation.

“You think I’d lie?” Amber’s emerald eyes flared. She had the audacity to put her hand to her neck and fake a dainty gasp.

“I think you’d do anything bar selling Booger Face to the circus to get what you want,” I confirmed nonchalantly.

She stood up, fists balled at her sides, no doubt about to spew something out. Another lie, probably. The bathroom door whined. We both glanced at it, Amber’s mouth still agape.

“Out,” I growled.

“But—”

“Now.”

Amber stepped toward me. Her face so close to mine I could catch the individual freckles under her three pounds of foundation. Her tits brushed my chest. They were hard and big, unnaturally enhanced. Nothing like the soft, small ones Mad had.

Don’t think about her tits Friday night when you put your sweatshirt over her body.

Oops. Too late for that.

“This isn’t over, Chase. It’ll never be over.”

My father once told me, “If you truly want to know someone, make them mad. The way they react is a telltale sign of who they are.” Amber was working extra hard on riling me up. Little did she know, my number of fucks to give was constantly on the decline and reserved for immediate family and true friends only.

“It was over before it started,” I hissed into her face, smirking tauntingly. “Before I even laid a finger on you, Amb.”

She galloped to the bedroom door and slammed it in my face, making a scene. She wanted Madison to know, to ask what had happened, to plant the seed of insecurity in her. My fake fiancée opened the bathroom door a second later in a bathrobe, rubbing a towel into her short locks. Odd timing. I eyed her suspiciously.

“Was that the door?” She tilted her head sideways, letting the towel fall to the floor. She strode to the bed, flicked open her suitcase, and—check this—began to unpack everything I’d packed for her as she sifted through her clothes. She lifted one frock at a time, examined it, then threw it over her shoulder, in search of something else to wear.

“What the hell are you doing?” The question came out in wonder more than anger. Her eccentric behavior always took me by surprise.

“Choosing an outfit,” she chirped. “What else would I be doing wrapped in a bathrobe, fresh out of the shower?”

Sucking me off.

“So?” she asked again. “Who was it? I heard you talking to someone.”

“Amber,” I grunted, my eyes tracing the outline of her body under the bathrobe hungrily. I hated that I wanted to pound her like a piece of schnitzel. (Madison, not Amber. I wouldn’t touch Amber if it brought world peace.)