Page 65 of Break the Ice

I follow her into the kitchen where she flicks a switch and bathes the room in bright white light.

“Has anyone ever told you’re what I imagine Satan to be like?” she asks.

“Does that make you Eve who let me tempt you with the apple? Fitting when you think about it.”

“I wanted to have a regular night in, eating my dinner and online shopping.”

“What’s stopping you? For once, Sugar, I’ve come in peace.”

“Dripping blood.”

“Forget the blood,” I say. “It’s unimportant.”

The stare she gives me is priceless.

But she seems to accept my insane logic. She disappears down the hall and then reemerges with a first aid kit. We sit down in her living room, and I clean up the slash mark on my arm.

The moment my whole day seemed to hinge on finally arrives. My chance to explain what happened at the end of round two. I’d said something fucked up and for once wasn’t happy to stand in it.

“It was wrong,” I say, assessing the gash on the inside of my forearm. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Is that your version of an apology?”

“Yeah, it actually is. I don’t apologize often.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“My point is, it was out of line.”

“Save it,” she replies, an aloofness about her. Her expression’s dry and unreadable. “You’re under no obligation to be kind to me. It might make it more awkward considering I hate you.”

“Should it make me hard that you do?”

Marisse shoots me a wrinkle-nosed look that’s half amused, half offended. “Again, why am I not surprised?”

She’s returned to the kitchen to start on the dinner she mentioned. I glance up in time to catch her grabbing a box of cereal from one of her cupboards. A laugh cracks out of me and the blood-soaked cotton balls I’ve accumulated in my lap fall to the floor.

“Is that… are my eyes… the big dinner you were looking forward to is… Lucky Charms?” I throw my head back for another laugh. “That’s… that’s actually pretty fucking cute, Sugar.”

She clutches the cereal box and blinks at me a few times. For the second time tonight, she’s disarmed. Then she realizes she might as well roll with it as she turns to the fridge and grabs the milk jug. “Sometimes, after a really long day in the office, I like to have a dinner that’s not really a dinner. Sugary cereal drenched in milk. A bowl of Crunch Berries or Frosted Flakes. It’s comfort food.”

“Real cute, Sugar. I gave you your nickname ‘cuz your tits are fucking fantastic, but it seems it’s more fitting than ever.”

“Would you like a bowl?”

“So long as you give me more marshmallows than those nasty oat things. I didn’t expect to be treated to dinner when I visited.”

“I’m from Georgia. We mind our manners. If you have a guest in your home, you offer them what you have.”

I smirk at the slight twang her voice suddenly gives. “How did cereal become your comfort food?”

“It was always one of my favorites as a kid. Then, when I started competing in speed skating, I had to watch my diet more than ever. Every last crumb I ate. The day after a competition was just about the only time I got to indulge.”

“Pour yourself a big fucking bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”

She laughs, the sound melodic and surprising. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. Here’s a question for you—milk first or cereal first?”

“Cereal first. Even Satan’s not that evil.”