Chapter Eighteen
Sierra
Todd inhales sharply. I hold my breath, more shocked by what Griffin’s implying than Todd’s claim about my being frigid because he’s always complained about that. In his world, me not climaxing just for being in the same room as him is a problem—with me.
But I didn’t expect Griffin to come up with that response. And he delivers the line with such steady calmness that even I wonder for a moment if he and I had sex at some point.
Todd swivels his entire body in my direction. An apoplectic shade of purple is stark against the white bandage. “You’ve been cheating on me?”
“Um, we are divorced.”
He looks lost. “But we’re in the process of reconciliation!”
“No, we’re not.” As I say it, I’m torn between relief and sadness. Relief that I left him, but sadness to see that he’s changed so much—that he isn’t the man I thought he was when we first met.
Back then, he was more attuned to my moods, more considerate of my needs. If this scene were taking place three years ago, he would’ve known Griffin was lying just by my reaction. But now Todd is so lost in his own thoughts and feelings that he isn’t picking up on anything.
Ellie says that people don’t change, and that I just failed to notice Todd’s selfishness at first. But my failure doesn’t make me feel any better. Not when he’s embarrassing me.
Todd’s eyes narrow, getting that weird, determined gleam.
Oh dear, I know that look. He’s going to have a tantrum about how we’re meant to be and my evil divorce lawyer broke us apart.
I’m not letting him indulge that delusion. It’s time he sees the reality of his situation.
I loop my arm around Griffin’s and tilt my head so it’s resting on his shoulder. The muscles underneath stiffen, but I pretend I don’t notice. My fingers flex on his biceps, which are thick. He must work out. You don’t get arms like these from grading papers.
Up this close, he smells good. Like soap and male and wood and…
Oh no, no, no. Getting turned on and distracted in front of my ex wouldn’t be good, even if the cause is the hottie professor in my clutches.
“Now listen, Todd. It really is time for you to go,” I say with a you’re-not-part-of-this smile.
Todd opens and closes his mouth a few times. Doesn’t that hurt with his messed-up jaw? Or maybe the Midnight God didn’t kick him that hard. He should’ve.
Wait… There’s something wrong with the bruises on his face, which are more blue than purple now. I look closely. They’re sort of sliding down his slightly sweaty skin…
“Did you fake those bruises?” I ask, more out of shock than the need to confirm. I know more about makeup than he ever will.
“What?” He covers both sides of his face with his palms, rather than just the left.
“Your bruises are melting.”
“No, they’re not,” he says, but he sounds uncertain.
Griffin leans forward.
Todd turns his head away. “Stop! Stop it!”
“Oh my God,” I say. “They are fake.” I wondered how they could last so long. It’s been two weeks since the Midnight God kicked his head.
“That’s low.” Griffin straightens. “His jaw injury might be fake, too.”
“What?” Todd screeches like an opera singer who just sat on a thumbtack.
I frown at Griffin. The Midnight God kicked Todd hard enough to make him pass out. “What do you mean?”
“Nobody talks that much with a dislocated jaw,” Griffin explains.