Page 24 of Carnal Urges

I text back,YOU’RE NOT TALKING TO ME, REMEMBER?

She sends back a middle finger emoji.

I can’t fucking believe this is my life.

NINE

SLOANE

Thirty minutes after Declan leaves, Kieran comes in, carrying a tray with food. He sets it on the coffee table and turns to leave.

“Kieran?”

He stops in his tracks. He doesn’t turn back to me. He simply exhales in dread.

“I just wanted to ask how you’re feeling.”

There’s a pause, then he says in his thick Irish accent, “Come again?”

“Your nose. You okay?”

He turns just enough to scowl at me over his shoulder. “Stop acting the maggot.”

Yikes. What a lovely visual. “I don’t know how that translates to English, but I’m guessing it’s not complimentary.”

“Yer bang on.”

“Um. Okay?”

“Not the full shilling, are ye, lass?”

Apparently, we’re going to run through the entire gamut of obscure Irish slang before I can get a yes or a no. I need to move thisalong. “Arnica cream will help with the bruising. And remember, ice is your friend.”

He stares at me like he’s trying to decide between shoving my hand down a garbage disposal or running me over with the SUV.

When I send him a winning smile, he grumbles under his breath and walks out.

I test the door after he slams it shut behind him, but it’s locked. No luck.

The tray he left is filled with an array of food that would appeal to any fifteen-year-old boy. There’s a can of Coke, a bag of peanut M&M’s, a bigger bag of beef jerky, a party-size bag of Lay’s potato chips, and a jar of ranch dip.

Now I understand Declan’s mood swings. He’s in full-on sugar crash within an hour of every meal.

There’s also—the horror—a bologna sandwich on white bread with a slice of that kind of American cheese that comes individually wrapped in plastic and will easily remain edible through the next ice age because of all the preservatives embedded in its shiny, nuclear-orange skin.

I pick the bologna off the sandwich and sniff it. There’s not much to smell as it’s covered in a thick layer of mayo. I wipe all the mayo on one of the napkins that came with the tray, then take a nibble of the meat.

It’s so salty, my ankles are probably already swelling. How does this qualify as food?

I spit it out. Then I send Declan another text.

If you’re trying to poison me, it’s working.

He hasn’t answered any of my other texts, so I’m not expecting anything this time, either. But within seconds, a response comes through.

Finally, some good news.

I answer back, smiling.