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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rumor has it she poisoned him.

Ainsley

“ T his is so awkward—just stop. You’ve given me too much information as it is.”

My ears are bleeding and I’m seriously concerned about all the times my mom said the moans coming from her room at night were really from eating Truffles.

“You asked for my opinion!”

“No, I didn’t!”

I sort of did, but she’s the one who took it to Inappropriateville.

“Yes, you did. You asked me how I handled being alone. I merely said books and rechargeable batteries.”

“Ahh! Don’t say it again. I just meant like what do you do when the toilet is clogged and the trash needs taking out.”

Maverick asked me this morning how I would feel about renting a house versus an apartment.

His friend said we might have more luck with a private home versus an apartment complex.

I don’t really want a house at this point in my life, but Maverick wasn’t in the hearing-me-out mood.

His glare suggested this wasn’t a multiple-choice question but rather him letting me know, in a non-shitty way, this is what I would be doing.

It wasn’t the time to tell him that even if I could afford the rent on my own, I wouldn’t know what to do with a house.

Apartments have idiot-proof chutes to dump your trash and a maintenance man who lives in the building who will unclog your drains as long as your roommate wears a crop top short enough to show underboob.

I don’t know much about renting houses, but since I have no desirable underboob to flaunt, I need to learn what to do with trash and toilets if this is going to be my new way of living—hence the reason I called my mom—a big mistake, by the way.

“Well, you need to be more specific, dear. I thought you meant something else entirely. Either way, sweetie, books and rechargeable batteries are great to have on hand during a power outage.”

Give me freaking strength.

“Also, there is nothing wrong with a woman who knows how to please herself. How can you expect a man to know what you like if you don’t?”

A whole bunch of ick is spewed in those few sentences, but when I think about it, she’s right.

Last night, Maverick had my body tingling in places I didn’t know existed.

And when I went to my room—just kidding, it was still the sofa—I tried to bring those tingles back and finish the job.

I couldn’t, if you’re wondering. Part of me was a little scared Maverick would come back out and catch me, and the other part of me wished he would volunteer to rekindle those blessed tingles.

Maybe I was tired or just too excited that I had finally won a fake million dollars, which I wrote an IOU for and slipped under Maverick’s door.

It wasn’t fancy, and I didn’t waste five hundred thousand cards like he probably expected.

Instead, I emptied a box of mac and cheese—that I hope he will cook before I get back—and flattened the box, writing: IOU too many favors to count—consider my life yours. Do with me as you wish.

I thought it was pretty funny, but when Maverick emerged, all devil-like and sweating, I knew he didn’t appreciate my humor first thing in the morning.

But it could be he’s just in a bad mood or suffering from a severe case of blue balls.

Clearly, he was just as affected as I was.

Maybe he too had problems finishing the job last night .

“Ainsley, did I kill you? Mumble if I need to call an ambulance.”

I shake off this morning’s encounter with Maverick. “I’m here. What kind of books are you referring to?” May as well be thoroughly grossed out and satisfied. “Like Kama Sutra type stuff?”

My mom hesitates for a moment. She’s probably shocked I asked her to clarify. “Yeah, those and other instructional type books. The internet works well too.”

“Mom!”

“You asked!”

I take in a deep breath. “You’re right, I did. So do I just go to a sex shop for one of these books?”

She’s quick to respond. “Personally, I like the brick and mortar bookstores. They have the best selections.”

Later, I’ll worry about whether she stumbled upon this discovery or if she asked someone to show her the sex section—I know it’s probably called something a little cuter like Women’s Fantasy.

“Noted. I’ll have to check it out on my way home,” I tell her, already thinking about which store I want to stop at.

“Are you off tomorrow?”

I take off my work shoes and throw on a pair of flip-flops to drive in. “Nope. Tucker gave me more hours this week.”

She hums in the background like she could say something nasty about him but keeps her mouth shut. “Is that cunt still giving you a hard time?”

I snort. “Mom!”

I don’t care if she calls Taylor a cunt. She is.

“A little. Tucker stepped in a few times, so it hasn’t been too bad.”

“Don’t let that weasel make you think he’s helping you. He’s the reason you’re in this mess in the first place!”

My mom, the no bullshitter in my life. “I’m not, Mama. I’m just trying to get through the shift so I can pay Mav—Mavis some rent and save for this new house I could possibly be renting when she kicks me out.”

Don’t judge me. She did not need to hear I was living with another guy after just breaking up with a liar. Remember, she’s not a man’s biggest fan.

“How much is Mavis charging you? Maybe I can help.”

I slip off my pantyhose while cranking the car. “She won’t say. Every time I ask her, she just ignores me.”

“Maybe she’s just a really sweet girl.”

I smother a snort.

“Too bad you can’t stay with her through the rest of the semester.”

I nod, grinning big as my mom goes on about Maverick being a sweet girl. “She likes her space, Mama. You can understand that.” Seeing how she’s always lived alone.

My mama sighs a deep and disappointed sigh. “I suppose. Maybe give her what you can in rent, and perhaps she’ll change her mind and let you stay.”

Or she’ll throw a hellacious packing party so that I’m out in a matter of minutes.

“Maybe,” I agree. “Kiss Opie for me. I’ll call you later. Love you!”

“Love you too, sweetie. I’ll send you some author names of these books and you can look them up later.”

God, no. “It’s okay. I’m sure I can find something on my own.”

Find one I did. This two-hundred-and-ninety-five-page instructional manual on pleasuring my vajayjay embarrassed the utter shit out of me when I bought it. The dude behind the register said it was really informative, though, so I let the embarrassment go. I’m going to do me. Literally.

I knock on the door of our—Maverick’s apartment. He still hasn’t given me a key, and that’s fine. It’s a good reminder that our arrangement is temporary. Often, I find myself getting too comfortable with our shared space and his lips.

I bang again, placing my ear to the door like the first time I stood behind it. “Maverick! Open the door. I swear I won’t use your deodorant again. It was only one time!”

Gah, he’s such a sourpuss about his stuff.

A blaring alarm sounds just as I raise my hand to knock again.

Wait. I know that sound. It’s the smoke detector.

“Maverick!”

Oh shit. He’s going to burn to death.

I look around the hallway. Empty. “Help?—”

My cry is cut off by a door opening and a hand covering my mouth. “Don’t you dare,” he says all breathily, pulling me in and locking the door behind us.

“What’s going on?”

I notice a pot on the stove—my precious macaroni noodles overflowing and burning on the stovetop. He was making it for me but why is?—

“Help me shut this fucking thing up.” He shoves a towel in my hand. For a moment, I just stand there, taking in his wet shirt and pale skin, shaking as he fans the smoke with enough force to barely move a feather.

I tug on his shirt. “Let me fan. I have more experience with fires than you do.”

I expect an argumentative comment or at least a laugh, not a grim nod and acceptance.

Moving a chair, I step up and take his place, fanning as hard as I can while Maverick turns off the stove and tosses the pot into the sink.

After a few seconds, I have the alarm quieted, and notice Maverick is leaning against the counter, looking like death.

“Are you okay?”

I push the chair back under the table and take a few steps until he stops me by holding his hand up. “I’m fine, just tired. Can you just order pizza or something tonight?”

His voice sounds weird. Is this what tired Maverick sounds like? I don’t think so. It sounds like he’s sick.

“Sure. No problem. Can I get you anything? ”

He really does look like death.

He shakes his head. “I’m just going to lie down.”

I agree. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Hopefully, it helps.

He nods and brushes past me without so much as another word. Once the door closes, I begin cleaning up the apartment. It’s not too bad, but I don’t want Maverick waking up and finding a pile of dishes and burnt—is this water? Can you burn water?—on the stove.

One less bra and a lot of elbow grease later, I’m praying I won’t be beheaded as I stack the poker chips on the table in neat, color-coordinated piles.

I’ve noticed he likes to mess around with the chips when he’s thinking, so they never stay organized until Wednesday when he has game night.

He has instructed me not to call it that—game night.

Per him, it’s called poker night, and apparently, he gets all bent out of shape if you make fun of his little get-togethers with his boys.

I’m almost finished cleaning when his laptop dings with a notification. He never leaves it open. Walking to the coffee table, I lean over and take a peek. One look won’t hurt. I simply want to know if I can swipe it away and let him rest.

From the way he looked, he could really use it. I’ve never seen Maverick sick or even less than one hundred percent. He keeps that part of himself hidden away along with his laptop. So him leaving it lying around where I can see it is a big deal.

I rub the touchpad, and his lock screen comes up, but part of the notification still remains.