“WHAT THE FUCK, LEX?” Patrick snaps at me as he walks into the house, slamming the door behind him. I’m sitting on the couch, reading the latest book from my favorite author, when he comes over and rudely interrupts me.
“What did I do now, Patrick?” I say, rolling my eyes. He walks up to me and grabs my face, one hand under my chin. He squeezes both of my cheeks, hard, and simultaneously pulls me to my feet. I am so close to him, my face less than an inch from his. It hurts, but instead of saying anything I grit my teeth and stare directly into his cold, gray eyes. I refuse to let him know he is causing me pain.
“For starters, babe, you took up the entire driveway with that piece of shit Ford of yours, and I had to park my Porsche on the curb. And if you roll your eyes at me again, you’re going to wish you hadn’t.” He pushes me away from him, finally letting go of my face. My car is actually pretty new and top of the line, it’s just not his taste, so he deems it garbage.
“Jesus, Patrick, all you had to do was ask me to move my car. How was I supposed to know you were coming over? You didn’t call or text.” I massage my jaw as I turn and head into the kitchen. He inhales slowly, stretching his neck from side to side, and throws himself onto the couch.
“Bring me a beer while you’re in there,” He shouts at me from the living room.
Patrick is going to start drinking, we’re going to have horrible, boring-as-hell sex, and then he’s going to pass out and hog my entire bed all night. That’s just what I need after working all day. I reluctantly grab him a beer from the fridge and walk back into the living room.
I need to think of a way to get him out of here .
Handing it to him, I slouch down onto the couch. As he takes the beer from my hand, he sets it down on the coffee table and pulls me closer to him. With his left arm wrapped around me, he lightly brushes my cheek, urging me to look at him.
“I’m sorry, Lexi. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” Patrick slides his hand under my shirt and kneads my breast. While he’s kissing his way down my neck he says, “You can just go move the cars after I get my fill of you.”
Oh, lucky me.
“On second thought, just move your car. I can’t have you scratching the Porche.” He continues to fondle my breasts with his weak attempt at foreplay. I can’t do this anymore. I need a reason to get him to back off tonight.
“Patrick, we can’t tonight. I’m on my period.”
That’s the best I could come up with?
It works, I guess, because as soon as the words are out of my mouth he backs away in a huff. Little does he know, I was actually on my period last week. I’m running out of excuses. Fast.
AS I DRIVE DOWN the winding, tree-lined highway, I make a decision that I should have made months ago: it’s time to break up with Patrick.
When we first met, I was attracted to his soft gray eyes and lush, kissable lips. His muscular body wasn’t bad, either. His only downside? He has a crazy temper. It took a little time for him to show his true self. He would be totally sweet with me one minute, and the next thing I knew, he’d be spazzing out over something as small as not using a coaster under my glass of ice water. I just left him in a rush with some made-up story about getting called in to work tonight. I only said that so he would let me leave. Which is ridiculous. I shouldn’t need an excuse to leave my own house.
While I got dressed, he kept rambling on and on and on about himself, his band, and his precious car. I’m all for taking good care of your vehicle, but he treats his like it’s worth millions and made out of solid gold or something. Sure, it’s nice, and I mean, it is a chrome-colored 2014 Porsche 918 Spyder. It’s an expensive car, but at the end of the day, it is still a car. Patrick’s parents own a chain of successful car dealerships and they’ve always given him anything
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