Fix It Up - Mary Calmes Page 0,24
combative, and the verbal volleyball had worn my patience down to a nub.
“Nothing, never mind,” he barked at me, walking by.
I heard his door slam shut and, after going back and forth with it for a few minutes, got up to go talk to him.
After knocking, because we’d made that deal in June and I’d stayed out of his room since, I waited until he told me to come in.
I stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry I snapped at you; that was a dick move. So what’s up?”
He was sitting on his bed, and he looked…lost. “I was just going to tell you that I appreciated you hanging up my albums.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I always thought having them on display was sort of like singing my own praises or something, bragging, you know? I thought people would think it was in bad taste.”
“Yeah, but most big stars hang their records on the wall, or at least the ones I’ve seen in Rolling Stone magazine or on a Barbara Walters Special.”
I got a slight smile over that.
“It was nice to see them.”
“Good,” I said, smiling at him.
He took a breath, biting his bottom lip.
“Something else?”
Quick throat clearing. “Yeah. Why do you always leave your bedroom door open? Do you think I’m going to try and make a break for it in the middle of the night?”
“No,” I assured him. “I leave it open in case you need me, kiddo.”
Instant scowl. “Like what? Like I’ll have bad dreams or some shit?”
“I dunno, maybe.”
“Because I’m some little kid who’s afraid of the dark?”
“Well, you’re certainly acting like one now,” I groaned, levering off the doorjamb, rolling my eyes, and closing the door behind me.
So much for cease-fires.
He invited a friend for dinner, and I made myself scarce, staying in my room so the two men could sit out on the patio and have dinner, alone, and then later, go for a swim under the stars. It seemed romantic to me, and since Marisol served and Tony was there as well, I figured I would be fine not making a nuisance of myself as long as I got something for dessert while I played Words With Friends with Croy.
I was in the kitchen making the dessert thing happen, in an old pair of jeans, a T-shirt, my feet bare, when the two men came in laughing.
“Oh,” the man I had not been introduced to said when he saw me. “You have other company?” he asked Nick.
“No,” Nick assured him quickly. “He’s just another bodyguard.”
Technically, to Nick, that was true, so I smiled and went back to trying to form an amazing word to blow Croy’s mind with.
They went down the hall to Nick’s room, and I heard the door close. Less than five minutes later, there was throat clearing.
Lifting my head, I found Nick standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “Yeah?” I prodded him.
“Sorry about the bodyguard thing.”
“It’s fine.”
He winced. “It’s not. And it’s not nice to say about the guys who actually protect me, either. It was shitty.”
“Well, thanks, then. I appreciate the apology.”
Crossing his arms, he stared at his feet.
“Something else?”
“Can you close your door tonight?”
“Sure, if you want.”
He nodded quickly and was gone, but not even two minutes later, he was back again.
“Lemme guess. You guys want ice cream in bed?”
“Why’re you in here wearing that?” he asked, ignoring my quip.
I squinted at him. “Wearing what?”
He gestured at me angrily.
“I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt.”
“Yes, but those jeans have more holes than…and whose T-shirt is that, because it can’t possibly be yours. It’s, like, three sizes too small.”
“Go away,” I ordered him. “Go screw your boyfriend’s brains out.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” he said icily. “No boyfriend of mine would sleep around while I was in rehab and never once come to visit.”
I grunted.
“What?”
“No, you’re right,” I said after a moment. “No boyfriend of yours would. You’re worth more than that.”
A beat of time passed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, I was agreeing with you.”
“So what, then, you think he’s trash?”
“I didn’t say that,” I said defensively.
“You alluded to it when you agreed.”
“The hell I did.”
“The hell you didn’t!”
“Why’re you out here fighting with me instead of in your room with him?”
“I—that’s not—you know what? From now on, when I have company, I expect you to dress appropriately or stay in your room the entire time,” he railed at me. “It’s thoroughly unacceptable for you to not be professional.”
“It’s a quarter to twelve,” I informed him. “I can do whatever