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Twenty-seven
Patrick
I tell myself I’mnot going to follow her. I don’t have any real claim on her. So, I fucked her last night. Big deal. She’s a big girl. She can do what she wants, with whoever she wants. If she wants to go out with some rich artist, I can’t stop her. It’s not like I own her.
You don’t come unless I say so.
She hasn’t been gone more than fifteen minutes before I’m ripping off my apron and throwing it under the bar.
“Gonna go help her pick out her shoes?” Conner calls after me, laughing at me when I throw the pass-thru up with a loud bang. “Maybe curl her hair?”
I flip him the bird before charging up the stairs.
Stepping into the living room, I slam the door behind me. The apartment looks normal. Worn leather couch, curb-find coffee table. Big-screen TV. Dinette set shoved into the corner, hardly used for more than a catch all. It all looks like it did yesterday, which is wrong because everything is different now. Everything.
I stalk across the living room headed for Cari’s room when I see the note card, tossed onto the coffee table. Her name is printed across the stark white envelope in heavy block strokes. I pick it up and turn it over, sliding the card from its sleeve. Reading it, I feel a little lightheaded.
Cari –
It was nice meeting you at the galley yesterday.
So nice, I’d like to do it again, maybe with food
this time. Dinner? If it’s a yes, I’ll send a car at 7pm.
I hope it’s a yes.
E. Chase
I read the note again. And then again, because I like torturing myself, before I slide it back into its envelope. I want to wad it up in my fist. Then I want to go find Mr. E. Chase and jam it down his fucking throat. I want to do all sorts of crazy, violent things that would probably land me on the evening news and possibly end with some sort of sentencing hearing.
Yeah, I want to. I really, really want to. But I don’t. Instead, I toss the card back on the coffee table where she left it.
Her door is open like it always is and I lean against the frame, arms folded over my chest, watching her while she flips through her closet. The painting that accompanied the dinner invitation is leaning against the bed like she didn’t know what else to do with it.
It’s worth about twenty grand and I want to put my foot through it.
She’s wearing nothing but a towel and a frown. Her hair piled on top of her head, the nape of her neck damp. She knows I’m here and she’s ignoring me. Or at least trying to. Like I’m going to let that happen.
“Guess I just missed the shower show, huh?” I say leaning against the doorframe. The thought of her in the shower, her skin wet and warm, makes me hard. So hard that I’m having a hard time breathing.
She scowls but doesn’t look at me. The birthmark on her chest is better than a mood ring. It’s a deep wine color. That means she’s pissed and Cari’s not the silent type when she’s angry. I’m inclined to wait her out.
It doesn’t take long. After a few minutes, she sighs, flicking me a glance. “What are you doing here?” she says, clearly annoyed. “I have a date.” She’s finished apologizing for what she did. For reasons I can’t even begin to understand, knowing that makes me even harder.
“I figured,” I say, careful to keep my tone casual. “That’s why I’m here—I mean, it’s my job to help you get ready isn’t it?” I give her a one-shoulder shrug. “Help you pick out a dress. Help you zip it up. Smile and wave goodbye when your douche de jour comes to pick you up.”
She glares at me and now I’m not just hard. My cock is throbbing. “Fuck you, Patrick,” she says, ripping hangers down the rod so fast she can’t possibly be considering half the shit she’s pretending to look at. “I tried apologizing. I tried explaining—you don’t want to listen. You just want to make me—”
“Wet? Come?” I say like I’m being helpful. “Scream my name so loud the whole neighborhood knows who’s fucking you?” I give her a grin, while her hand stalls on the parade of hangers and she pulls a dress out of her closet.
Not just a dress. The dress.
My dress.
I don’t feel good anymore. I don’t feel calm and reasonable. I feel like I’m going to blackout. “Don’t.” The warning comes out, rough and guttural, rumbling in my chest like I’m some sort of wild animal.
She hesitates for a moment before she turns and tosses it onto her bed with the rest of her maybes. “I’ll wear what I want, Patrick Gilroy.” She’s looking at me, her lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed with color.