I made a disbelieving sound and answered, “I’m talking about me, Mickey. You and me.”
He was done with our conversation and shared this by stating, “I got shit to do and part of that shit is not fightin’ with you.”
“Then I’ll let you go,” I shot back. “You and the boys enjoy your donated microwave and TV. Good-bye, Mickey.”
“Later,” he bit off and hung up on me.
I stared at the electronics store through my windshield, gave a moment’s thought to how all that could have gone so bad and came up with one answer: Mickey. Then I emitted a muted, frustrated scream.
After that, I started up my new Rover and drove away.
*
It was late. I was in my bathroom in my nightie, cleaning my face when the doorbell rang.
I looked to the mirror, grabbed my hand towel, dried my face and nabbed my robe off its hook before I walked out.
I wanted not to answer.
But unfortunately I was grown up.
I was home. He probably knew I was home. So it was mean-spirited not to answer.
I swung the robe on as I walked down the hall and inspected the body shadowed in the stained glass before I went to the door, opened it and looked up at Mickey in his firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire uniform.
“Can I help you?” I asked coldly.
“I’m a dick,” he replied.
Unfortunately, as I’d spent the day gearing up to hold a Robin-style grudge against him (the new Robin, the one who held a grudge for twenty-four hours, not eternity), his words delivered a direct hit to that determination.
I held on to enough to share, “You can be.”
“We both been through the wringer. You got shit left over to process and get past with your ex. I do too.”
He was correct about that and my determination took another hit.
This time, I decided on no reply.
His brows went up. “Gonna make me stand on your doorstep sayin’ this shit?”
“You have an ongoing issue with my wealth, Mickey,” I informed him.
“Workin’ on that,” he informed me, but he didn’t deny it.
He might be working on it but he was obviously failing.
“I am who I am. I have what I have. And frankly, before things progress further between us, we need to discuss it so this doesn’t fester in a way that it wreaks devastation at a later date.”
“Agreed, but I’m takin’ a break from the house to come do this so I don’t have the time to do that now.”
“We’ll schedule that meeting,” I said tartly.
His face softened as did his tone when he replied, “Amy, let me in. Let me give you a kiss. And let me go knowin’ you’re good and we’ll sort this out when we got time.”
I was no match for Mickey’s soft looks.
So I sighed as I reached out, bunched his t-shirt in my hand and pulled him in.
He made it easy and, once close, wrapped his arms around me, bent his neck and I lifted up on tiptoes to offer my mouth.
His kiss was deep and sweet and when he broke it, he lifted a hand to sweep the hair off my shoulder before curling his hand around the side of my neck.
“Phone by your bed,” he murmured.
“Okay,” I replied.
He looked relieved and it was troubling that we’d had the fight we had and the possible reasons behind it that I experienced deep relief just seeing his relief.
“See you later tonight.”
“Okay, Mickey.”
He gave me a squeeze, let me go and walked out of my house.
I was watching as well as closing the door when I stopped because he did and he turned.
“I am who I am. I have what I have. And one of the things I got that I wanna keep is you.”
I licked my lips, pressed them together and held his eyes.
“We’ll sort it, baby,” he finished.
I nodded.
“Sleep good,” he said.
“Stay alert,” I replied.
He smiled, lifted a hand, turned and walked to his truck.
I closed the door thinking I knew top on the list of things that could kill a relationship was money.
And the kind of money that sat between Mickey and me was serious.
And Mickey was the kind of man that was Mickey.
I liked that he wanted to keep me. I wanted to keep him.
I just worried that one day something that was obviously disturbing him because he brought it up so frequently would make him rethink that.
*
I was on my knees, face in the pillows, taking Mickey’s cock, doing it moaning and whimpering.
He was giving it to me hard and rough.
He’d arrived after his shift at the firehouse and it had been what it always was. I opened the door; it started insanely good and progressed even better.
But this time, it was different.
Mickey didn’t talk much during sex, but I said things.
Both of us were silent.
But still, something was being communicated.
I didn’t get it and I had my mind on other, vastly more pleasant things, so I didn’t attempt to figure it out.
But I felt it.