38

He’s still snickering when I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Dating,” he says with a lot of amusement in his voice, “You know, seeing someone socially due to romantic interest, most often with the intention of evaluating each other’s suitability as a partner in a future intimate relationship.” I can get on board with the intimate part.
“I think you need some sleep,” I say, “Cause fatigue is eating away your brain cells.”
“Oh, come on dude, you know Kiara tells me everything -” Yeah, Kiara long ago adopted Axel as her little baby brother – even though she’s just about 3 months older than him. “And Mel shares with her.”
“Why are you not in bed yet?”
“I’m dead hungry. Besides that, it’s fun fucking with you,” he mocks.
He takes a lengthy look down the hallway. “I hope you know what you’re doing, bro … because both Kiara and I have our doubts.” I have my own skepticism.
“Well, you and Kiara can both fuck off.” He eyeballs me for a vast beat that niggles me out.
“Oh, I’m just worried about you. Unlike the last time, Jackson will seriously hurt you.” Great. Seems he knows about the zoo incident too. I forgot that he’s the psycho twin’s confidant as well. I can just hope he doesn’t share these rumors with his bestie.
“Yeah, about that,” I say. “You think he’ll actually kill me or just maim me?” He chortles and raps me on the head with his knuckles.
“He’ll probably let you live, just so he can continue the torture on a daily basis,” he laughs again.
“You’re really enjoying this, ain’t you?” He shrugs.
“Yes, but I’m gonna enjoy it more watching you struggle,” he teases.
“Asshole,” I grimace.
“Stop brooding. You’re being such a headstrong coward.” I’m not scared. I’m trying to be careful and responsible. “If you really like her, and you’re not just fucking around, go for it. True love comes but once in a lifetime.” I ignore his comment. What does he know about true love? As far as I know, his version of a relationship is planking one of his co-workers in the Station 34 broom closet when the need arrives.
“What about Jackson?” I say in a rather snotty manner while he continues to taunt me. And it’s bugging the shit out of me. Or rather, his words are. It’s annoying cause it’s the truth. “Are you gonna tell him?”
“No, it’s not my place,” he says earnestly with a shrug, “But you know by now that you won’t keep him in the dark for long.” I know.
I nod, and knowing my eyes will give away my sudden anxiety in a heartbeat, I keep them averted while sipping the coffee.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s the pizzas.
“Okay, I’m gonna take this to go,” Axel grabs one box. I take the other two and walk to her room.
It’s empty. Someone is singing ‘Lost Control’ from Alan Walker in the bathroom. Off key. She can’t hold a tune for shit and it’s fucking adorable.
I pick up the soft toy from her pillow and stretch out on her bed, holding up the turtle to look for the red heart on its flipper. She kept the darn thing. Even after everything I did. I lay it on my chest with a huge winning smirk and a familiar scent tickles my senses. Smelling it there’s no mistake – it’s my perfume.
Her phone on the bedstand makes a soft fart sound and without thinking I pick it up. There’s a message. From Ren.
Ren: I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight. I’ll pick you up – 2morrow at 4. Scoma’s. Talk then.
Douchebag. She clearly doesn’t love him so what’s there to talk about?
I notice another older message.
D Stalker: You are mine. Stay away from the biker! And the puppy lover!
Seriously. What does this man want? And the fact that he mentions Alejandro doesn’t put me at ease. It fucking rattles me up. She’s mine. Belongs to me alone and I need them all to understand that. Most of all I need her to understand that.
The water turns off and I quickly put the phone back on the stand.
A minute or so later she strolls into the room, small but curvy in a pair of men’s boxers and a skimpy red tank top – and she’s not wearing a bra. Hello, I’m a male, and I’ve gone without sex for a season-and-a-half.
“Shoot!” she yells when she sees me, giving a little jerky step back in shock. Then her face turns sour. Her hair is wet and wild, but her eyes are icy cold.
Look, I’ve seen her in bikinis over the years, I know what she looks like. But each and every time my jaw drops to the floor. Holy shit this woman’s bod is fucking smoking. Her nipples ram against the thin material of her cami. She rolled the shorts over a few times to make them fit – who do they belong to? They’re not hers.
My throat constricts at the mere thought of her wearing another man’s undies. I stare at the black briefs with skulls and the word ‘Whatever’ on the front. Hugo Boss. Maybe Jackson’s. But I need to be sure.
“Nice pj’s. Let me guess, you stole Jackson’s pants?” The surprised expression that floods her face gives it away. And I can breathe again.
“Told you I can read you like a magazine.” I wink at her and love the way she tries to nib her blush in the bud, but fails.
“What are you doing here?” With flushed cheeks, she scans the room as if looking for something. “Where’s my brother?”
“He had to go to the club.” Her body flexes slightly as she opens a cupboard and reaches up to unhook a hoodie, giving me a heart-stopping view of her fine ass. One that will take me through a few new erotic dreams. But fuck I don’t want only to dream. I need it to be real.
Feeling a little flustered I get up and pace slowly through her room.
She slips on the top. Darn.
Secretly watching me with eyes filled with suspicion, she sits down on her couch and switches on her TV, tuning into Netflix. She clicks on The Vampire Diaries; but doesn’t start it up.
As if playing a game, I keep picking up random objects from her green dresser, looking them over, and placing them back, while she keeps her eyes on me without saying a thing.
I pick up a book. Moby Dick. I hold it up so she can see the cover.
“Tell me you see the problem with the whale’s name.” She frowns but keeps up with her end of the not-talking game.
“It’s a story about a huge white sperm whale.” Her laugh tells me that although she gets it, there’s no way in hell she’s going to say it.
“I’ve always wondered if Mr. Melville did it on purpose,” I say in a monotone voice. I open the top drawer of the apple green dresser to find it filled with teeny-tiny pairs of fucking underwear. It takes me a second to digest what precisely I’m looking at. Just a second, and then my blood scoots downward, leaving me hazed and not in a mind frame to think very clearly.