"For the rest of my life, the only fights I’ll get in will be because of you."
I thought that was a little uncalled for, since I was just puttering around. It was unprovoked. I barely caused any trouble at all last night, and the one small incident that did occur was not my fault at all. I swear. But Jason’s right. He’s not a violent person. He’s not a troublemaker. His only fault is that he married a crazy woman, and often has to deal with the path of destruction she leaves in her wake.
Still, I fight my own battles. I know I have a big mouth. I don’t exactly look for trouble, but I don’t shy away from it. I don’t back down. I’m a truth-teller and can be slightly inflammatory when I start swinging around my razor-sharp tongue. I’m abrasive enough to get myself into scrapes, but cute enough to charm my way out of them too, for the most part. If Jason could just learn to let me handle my own brawls, there would be lots of drama, but far fewer blows. Unfortunately, Jason still has that protective instinct, and when things get heated, he feels he has to puff up, and intercede on my behalf. Puh-lease. I can handle myself, thank you very much. I don’t need a knight in shining armor; all I need is someone to drive the getaway car. But boys can’t handle that. They get possessive. Last night Jason was counting up all the black eyes he’s bound to rack up in his lifetime with me, and apparently the tally was impressive.
"I think you’re exaggerating a bit, Jason. When’s the last time you got in a fight over me, anyway?"
But Kingston wasn’t really my fault. In fact, I’d say it was Jason’s fault. It was his bright idea to whisk me away for a long weekend of pampering and partying. It was his choice that I wear the too-short skirt, and it was Jason buying all the drinks. So when we were shaking it on the dance floor, it should have come as no surprise that we were attracting a little attention. When the guy tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to dance, I pointed at Jason and told him politely that I already had a partner. When he suggested that I change partners, I said quite firmly that I’d come with Jason and intended for it to stay that way. He insisted that he was a ‘trade up’ that would be worth my while. Well, okay, I admit I smirked a bit at that. Give me a break. There were hundreds of people there, and I’m sure plenty of liquored-up girls just oozing for an opportunity to be with this cocky frat boy. I wasn’t one of them. I even dragged Jason to the other side of the dance floor in an effort to shake this guy off. It’s not my fault that he grabbed 3 of his buddies and tracked me down. It’s not my fault that he was so intent on dancing with me that he had his friends surround Jason to break us apart. I made every attempt to get away from him, but when he wouldn’t let me, I stood still, crossed my arms, and was prepared to wait him out. He was just a jerk with a bruised ego and too many beers in him. I knew if I stood there ignoring him, he’d eventually get huffy and walk away. But he made a rookie mistake: he touched me.
Before I even had time to knee him in the balls, Jason was angrily breaking out of the wall of frat-boys and charging at us full-force. I tried to put myself between them. This guy was a local, and I could tell he easily had at least a dozen buddies with him there that night. Not good. But Jason didn’t stop to do the math. In less than a second, he was on the guy, fist to face. Turns out, for all the big talking he did, this guy was a bit of a pussy. He sat on the dance floor, his nose bleeding, looking like he was trying not to cry. He wasn’t much of a threat, after all. But his buddies were closing in around us, so I grabbed Jason’s hand and headed for the door. We luckily caught a waiting cab and drove away while all the angry frat boys shouted obscenities and shook their fists at us.
Jason insists that I should have learned my lesson that night, and he’s right. This is what I learned:
Jason + fight = surging testosterone = really great sex when we get back to the hotel
I would almost say it was worth a repeat, except that one of my favourite shirts was sadly torn in the scuffle. Oh, who am I kidding? It was totally worth it. Plus, I think black eyes are sexy. Rrrrrrrrroooowwwwwrrrr.