HER
I’m so hungry, I might eat a table leg.
Which seems so ridiculous, considering there are two perfectly cooked pork chops dripping in marsala mushroom sauce, homemade pasta and a green salad on the table right in front of me.
Well, they were perfectly cooked.
Now they’re perfectly ruined.
I check the clock on the oven.
8:35 p. m.
Dickhead.
I push myself away from the table and carry the two untouched plates of food back to the kitchen. I snort as my mind flashes with a “deja vu” sign, and I wonder how many pork chops will be sacrificed before he finally decides to come home… while I’m actually awake.
Wrapping the plates tight I put them in the fridge before skulking over to the kitchen to gather up the dirty pots and pans and carry them to the sink. I turn the tap on, hard, all the way, and the water splashes on me, little water droplets clinging to the hoodie for a second before absorbing into the material, leaving a dark stain.
“Fuck!” I curse and I feel a hot flush slowly climb up from my chest to my neck.
Why didn’t he come home? Am I really so offensive that he couldn’t even bear to be with me for a few minutes? Even if it’s just to get rid of me, to get me out of his home?
“Fuck HIM!” I yell this time, grabbing the sponge and scrubbing at the greasy pot with a renewed vigor, not caring that water and suds splash all over the sink and the bench.
“What an asshole!” I tell the pots about their owner. He might be a life saver, but he sure wasn’t much good at anything that needed people skills.
There’s a traitorous twitch of my chin, and I try to ignore it, biting the inside of my cheek. A hot tear splashes from my eye down into the bubbles-filled sink.
“I’m only crying because I’m tired,” I mumble out loud to myself. “I want to go home too, you know.”
And you’re hurt he didn’t come home to see you, the voice of truth pipes up in my head.
“I am not! I couldn’t care less!” I argue with myself.
My hands are rubbed raw when I finish the dishes and I suspect some of the branding of the pots have been rubbed off, too. I find a dish towel and dry the clean kitchenware, putting them back in their exact places while growling at the impeccable order and organisation of his kitchen.
“Neurotic tight ass,” I grumble, pettily.
The sky is completely black now, and while in the beginning it was a little unnerving to be staring out at the uninterrupted view, I’ve become quite attached to it.
Turning off the lights, the entire apartment turns dark instantly and I wander back into his bedroom.
The memory of the silken decadence of the quilt cover overtakes reasoning. And an irrational desire to annoy him rises in me.
I bet a stranger sleeping in his bed would annoy the fuck out of that tight ass, I giggle to myself.
In a sheer moment of crazy, I pull the blanket corner from the bed, I slide myself between the sheets.
‘OH. MY. GOD,” I moan. It’s like floating in a pool of butter. I thrash my legs around, enjoying the feel of the smooth fabric on my skin. I roll over to the middle of the bed and do an Egyptian cotton angel, waving my arms and legs in arcs, unable to contain my giggles.
I curl onto my side and let my head sink into the firm but supportive pillow.
A strange sense of calm and security washes over me.
And I’m asleep before I know it.
HIM
“Another double, please,” I motion to the bartender.
“Maybe it’s time to go home, Mr. Ashley.”
I say nothing. In a battle of wills, my driver will let me win every time.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry nod to the bartender, who reaches for the bottle and tips it into my glass.
The burn down my throat when I tip my head back to swallow my drink whole is nowhere near harsh enough.
I want it to sear like a hot poker has stabbed me in my gullet.
Something, anything to distract me from that image looping in the back of my head.
A girl in a hoodie, with no other clothing to hide what’s lurking in those shadows between her legs.
“Another one,” I growl, beckoning the bartender over with a flick of my wrist.
“I really think you’ve had enough now, Mr. Ashley.”
“Go get the car. I’ll meet you outside.”
“But…”
“Or would you rather I stay here all night?”
“But.”
“Go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One more,” I say to the bartender. “You heard me. One more and I’ll go.” He doesn’t move.
“I said, ONE MORE!” I slam the glass down onto the bar and it shatters. Blood drips instantly from the cuts on my fingers and I shake my hand to get rid of the glass fragments.
“Mr. Ashley!” Henry exclaims, running back to my side, grabbing a handful of napkins to wrap my hand in.
“I can do it. Just go get the car.” I take the napkins from him and press them against my hand, pushing myself away from the bar.
“Well, well. What the fuck happened here?” I hear a familiar voice speak up, and the hairs on the back of neck prickle.
“Go, Henry,” I say, low and calm to my driver when I hear a rumbling in his chest. Glad to know the sight of my uncle isn’t only disturbing to me.
Henry slowly exhales and pushes past Jacob, his shoulder making contact, knocking the older man slightly off balance.
“What a thug,” my uncle scoffs in Henry’s direction before turning back to me. “Is that the kind of company you’ve been keeping, Kaine? Thugs. Or just saving damsels in distress from them? Or maybe they’re not damsels… so much as gold-diggers?”
As much as I’ve had to drink, it takes the sight of my adopted uncle to make the contents of my stomach churn. But that’s not new. It surprises me, though, that he’s picked up that the mystery man with the hoodie in the news is me. His slur on Jade is vicious and unnecessary and if my hand wasn’t already injured, I might just be inclined to use it to break his face.