with her as she climbs the stairs. I know I’m in real trouble when the door doesn’t even slam. What do they say about the calm before the storm?
“You fucking idiot!” I hiss, walking across the room to slap my friend against the side of his head.
He doesn’t let it happen of course. His reflexes are too quick to get caught off guard like that. Why can’t his mouth do the damn same?
“Man, am I glad I didn’t mention the payment through orgasms idea. I think she might’ve stabbed us with her fucking fork.”
He stands from the couch then carries his half-empty plate toward the kitchen. After scraping the remaining food in the trash, he puts the plate in the dishwasher and reaches for his wallet and key.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I hiss as he walks toward the front door. “You’re not leaving me here alone with her.”
“I have a date.” His grin is quick and sly, and my urge to slap it off his face increases with every step he takes out the door.
“I may not be alive when you get home,” I grumble as he climbs into his vehicle with a wide grin.
Chapter 38
Simone
Stewing in irritation is a crazy thing, and if I wasn’t right in the middle of doing just that, I could take a step back and realize how counterproductive it actually is.
But I can’t because I’m an hour into it and fully dedicated to the cause.
Honestly, I’m not as upset about the hospital bills or the new vehicle anymore.
It’s the fact that my sighs are going unheard here alone in this room.
Sighing is meant to be heard. The universal sign of irritation shouldn’t be done alone.
Rocker is nowhere to be found. Well, I’m sure he’s downstairs a little uneasy about coming up here, afraid for his safety with the way I acted earlier.
I know he’ll show eventually, but that doesn’t stop the sighing, or the aggravation.
The sun has set by the time the bedroom door opens and he sticks his head in, looking cautious as if I’m insane enough to throw something at him. It doesn’t mean that I don’t look around the room for something big enough to get his attention, yet small enough to not cause lasting damage.
“Bad time?” he asks, still halfway in the hall.
I don’t miss the mirth in his voice or the tiny smile he’s attempting to hide.
Even now in my anger, I can admit how handsome this man is, how even when I’m mad, the sight of him somehow manages to calm all the worries and doubts I’ve let myself get jumbled up with while in here alone.
He’s my home.
And no matter how much I hate what they’ve done, I know it comes from a good place.
They aren’t trying to control me or force my dependence on them. They’ve helped me with no expectations in return, and who can honestly say they have those types of people in their lives? The answer is very few.
I watch him, my fixation on sighing and being angry draining away like it never existed.
“What took you so long?” I mumble, my hands becoming suddenly interesting with the way my voice betrays my mixed emotions.
“I was giving you time to calm down.”
“Because I’m irrational? Hormonal? Unreasonable?”
And that shift in mood is why he’s still standing in the door and not crossing the room to me. It makes me realize just how easy it is to switch between emotions. He understands me. At least most of the time he does because he just gives me a soft smile, the glow of his blue eyes making me want to drop the attitude and reach out for him with grabby hands because I know the warmth of his chest against my face will make everything better.
“Well, yeah,” he answers, and my eyes throw daggers at him.
“You seem oddly jubilant over my mood.”
“This one or the mood from two seconds ago?”
“Ha ha,” I deadpan, but the man is spot on. “Can you get in here?”
“Are you still mad?” His grin is wide as he pushes open the door and crosses the room.
“From the look on your face, I can’t tell if you want me to stay pissed or not.”
“Either is fine.”
“You don’t care that I’m mad?” That hits like a kick to the gut.
“I love it when you’re mad.” His voice takes on a gravely edge, and somehow it hits me right where I know he’s expecting it to, right below the elastic band