he needs. He scrambles, half cartwheeling over me and pinning my shoulders with a thick forearm across my chest while his knee pins my hips down. I writhe and wiggle beneath him, still yelling and cursing a blue streak.
“What the fuck, woman?” he roars from inches away.
I blink in surprise, the reality of the situation hitting me. I attacked him. He threw me over his shoulder like I weigh no more than a rag doll. His thigh is between mine. Our breath is mingling hotly between us.
He stole my fucking book!
The fury of hundreds of sleepless nights, of writing and deleting incessantly, of questioning myself endlessly, of creating something born of my soul, only to have it ripped away, ignites in a mushroom cloud of destruction, demanding justice. I bring my knee up sharply, slamming him right in his junk.
He grunts in pain, falling over to the grass beside me in the fetal position. “You kicked me in the fucking ballbag,” he snarls.
“You deserve that and so much worse,” I tell him, still wheezing from having the wind knocked out of me by the hard ground. We lie next to each other, too hurt or tired to keep trying to draw blood at the moment.
One of my neighbors, Jane, or at least I think it’s her, calls out, “Okay, folks. Show’s over. Looks like Poppy’s got this one well handled.” To me, she says, “Let me know if you need a shovel and an alibi. We women gotta stick together.”
I barely know Jane, but in this moment, she becomes a much closer friend. I’m going to bring her cookies next time I buy a batch.
Everyone must comply and wander back into their houses because by the time I prop myself up on an elbow, there’s only the sound of my panting breathing and the asshole’s moans of pain.
“Where’s . . . my . . . laptop?” I demand.
“What laptop?” he says, but the pain must be subsiding because he’s starting to stretch out. His legs are impossibly long next to mine, and I’m reminded how hard and wide he felt over me, pinning me down. If it’d been a different situation, that could’ve been awesome.
I roll myself up, thankful for the handful of sit ups I did three weeks ago in a fit of creative movement that was supposed to unblock my writer’s block. To no surprise, it didn’t and only made my stomach sore. I really should do more, but this isn’t the time to debate my lack of a fitness routine. For now, I manage to sit up and bend a knee, getting ready for round two. Because it’s coming . . . I can feel it in the air between us.
“My laptop. The one you stole last night,” I explain as if he could’ve possibly forgotten what he did yesterday. “You were right there, the lights went out, and then poof . . .” I flash my hands like a magician doing a bad trick. “No laptop and no you. I know you stole it, Chad, Kyle, Cole . . . whatever your name is. And I want it back!”
I point an accusing finger at him, one with now-chipped red polish. Damn shame what a roll around in the grass will do to a manicure because I just got my nails done yesterday morning.
Not wanting to listen to more bullshit from him, I start round two, jumping over to pin him beneath me and slap at his chest. He blocks the blows at first, arms up to protect his chest and face, but when he realizes that despite my spitfire tendencies, I’m more of a weak kitten than a badass pit bull, he lets his arms fall to his sides. His hands rest on my thighs, which straddle him again, this time from the front, and he starts to laugh at my piss-poor attack, his flat belly bouncing beneath me in a not-unpleasant way as my hands start to sting from slapping his rock-hard chest.
“I didn’t take anything,” he says between laughs.
“Yes, you did!”
“Prove it!”
“I can’t! I already talked to security and the police, but I need my laptop!” I hate the hint of a whine that’s entered my voice, but I’m desperate. “If I don’t get it back, I’m done.”
His hands tighten on my thighs, and I can tell he’s trying to control himself. I have no doubt that he could throw me off him easily, but he’s not. Instead, he seems to calm and looks