Page 87 of Inflamed Touch

“I’m not in the mood, Riff.”

He pushes past me after glaring at the socks and goes into the living room, looking about for something . . . or make that someone.

I think of getting the gun, but I don’t. Because even though I didn’t invite him in, I did open the door knowing who it was. But Diego’s here, and it’s not like Riff’s going to do anything to me.

Still, I don’t feel like talking to him. I take a swallow of my drink and stand while he perches on the sofa, eyeing the seat next to him like I should sit. I don’t.

“Where is he?” Riff asks.

I don’t answer exactly. “You sure have a lot of interest in Diego. Do you want to date him?”

“He’s a bad influence on you.”

“I’m not a child, Riff. No one’s an influence on me.”

He sighs. “Can I have a drink?”

“Why are you here?”

He folds his hands together. “Peabody told me the trouble you’re in.”

“So, you’ve said. Sort of. And that’s your problem because?”

He lets out a noisy sigh. “I’ve got plans for the future, Nadia, our future. And it’ll be beautiful. You don’t have to worry about work.”

I frown. “I like my job.”

“You’re suspended. And you thumbing your nose at the school isn’t going to improve that, just make it worse. But once we clean up the town, I get more money and power, you won’t have to worry about jobs.”

“As I said, Riff, I like my job. I like to work.”

“I don’t want my wife working, and when we have kids —”

“Riff, I’m not sure I want children. And as for your wife, I’m not marrying you, so it doesn’t concern me.”

He stands, glowering. “It’s that fucker, Fernandez, isn’t it? Offering you a little rough and tumble and adventure, putting ideas in your head. He’s a criminal. Do you know he works with organized crime? I don’t have proof, but I will, and—”

“Riff.” I set my glass down with a click and stalk up to him, poking him in his flabby dad bod stomach. “Diego Fernandez is not a rough and tumble adventure. He’s—”

“A piece of shit mafia gofer.”

“No, he isn’t. I’ve known him since I was twelve and Diego’s one of the best men I know. So, please go.”

“He’s poisoned your mind. Stop being a stupid bitch—”

A crack fills the air, and I stare horrified at my hand.

I just slapped him.

I don’t hit people.

I try to be nice, the voice of reason and understanding.

I just hit Riff, who’s jealous and probably hurting. My stomach clenches.

“I’m—”

“Fucking stupid slut.” He grabs me, fury blazing in his eyes as his fingers bite into me.