Blackthorn

by J.T. Geissinger

“Let me make myself clear. I don’t want your help with this or anything. My family is none of your business. Get lost.” “None of my business? That’s a stretch, considering how close you and I were.” His amused tone turns throaty. “Do you remember how many times we were together? Because I sure do.” His smirk is so aggravating, it takes every ounce of my self-control not to take off my sensible shoe and throw it at him. “I don’t remember anything except that you’re the worst mistake I ever made. If I don’t put a bullet between your eyebrows while I’m here, it will be a miracle.” “Eight.” I stare at him, disappointed that my eyes aren’t laser beams capable of slicing him into tiny, less villainous pieces. “It’s the number of times we fucked. Eight.” “You’re hallucinating. It was half that at most.” His burning gaze locked to mine, he slowly shakes his head. “The time in the greenhouse on top of the bags of soil. Twice in my bedroom. Once in your bedroom. Three times in the backseat of my car. And of course the first time where we did it standing up in the alley behind the movie theater after you threw your soda in my face and called me a soulless, spoiled brat with the intellect of a garden slug.”