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"Will that be all, miss?"
Jed blinks at Jonathan (Thomas, whoever he is today), squinting into the Mediterranean sun, her hand arrested halfway to the drink she'd idly asked him to fetch while he was getting his own. Startling, he twitches, like he's surprised himself.
"Um, that's fine." Jed tells him as she plucks the glass from his grasp. "Thank you."
"Sorry," he mutters. "Old habit."
"It's fine." Suddenly she notices the deferential incline of his posture. It's subtle. And not even something she's unused to; Richard's wealth buys deference. Yet Jonathan isn't a waiter, a bellhop. Ostensibly, he's her peer. She recalls last week, when she'd politely asked Corky to bring her phone charger while getting his from the same outlet, and he'd sniggered "Get it yourself, princess." And everyone else on this damn island either treats her with disdain or condescending pity.
(Whore, hisses a voice that sounds like her mother's.)
No one treats her like Jonathan just has. Like she isn't just the woman Richard is screwing. Like she has power.
He's still standing there, seemingly waiting for something. For her?
"Thank you, Jonathan."
Something struggles its way onto his face, a flash of vulnerability. He pushes it down. But he smiles at her, beautiful, and it's enough.
"My pleasure," he intones, low, palming the back of his neck. Jed imagines setting her hand there, feeling the bristly fuzz of shorn hair and ordering him down. And oh, how Jed wants.
"Ah, there you are," cuts in Richard's chipper voice, making her flinch. "Jed, darling, you can't spend all day lazing about poolside. We have places to be! Up you come. Thomas, lunch later?"
Jed scowls, fighting a reflexive flare of rebellion. Thomas, no, Jonathan catches her eye, his expression rueful. Commiserating, even. But without any pity.
A week later, as the sky dims with twilight, she turns to Jonathan after dinner and asks "Walk with me?"
His eyes seek Richard. "I'm not sure--"
She makes her excuse to Richard, who waves them off, blithe. If she weren't so glad he's not possessive, she'd be hurt that he doesn't seem to consider her even capable of wounding him. If she strayed, she thinks he would tut, as if at a dog who should know better, but still pissed on the rug. Disappointing. But really, only so much you can expect.
Jed begins to walk away, beckoning to Jonathan. He hesitates, still watching Richard, who has turned back to Sandy. It's Corky who bristles. It reminds Jed of her aunt's nasty little terrier, who always bit Jed's ankles when she was small. Suddenly she's very fucking sick of worrying about what Corky thinks.
"Walk with me," she tells Jonathan.
"Yes, miss," he responds. Something in Jed howls at the moon, feral, triumphal.
He smiles, genuinely pleased, yet obeying her command without rebellion; head inclined, neck bowed. Jed wants to sink her teeth into it. Wants him at her feet. Something hers alone.
And oh, oh, how Jed wants.