“I wasn’t asking if you were cooking. I’m telling you that you are cooking.”
“The babysitter has a babysitter, which kind of makes me the boss around here. I’m not fucking cooking. I’m going to do takeout for us while we’re here.”
“That’s because your brain’s in your feet.” No that’s because he’s an asshole, but in the interest of keeping our bullshit down for Georgie’s sake, I don’t point that out. Besides, he already knows that’s how I feel. “All some rabid fan has to do is see your bulldog face and my location will become known.”
“I didn’t go with you to rehab,” he points out.
Fuck, I should return to get the fuck away from him.
“Sloane,” he grits through his teeth, so I know whatever he’s going to say is almost killing him. “I’ll be careful. With Georgiana here, I won’t allow anyone to smoke you out. Okay?”
With reluctance, I agree, then go to my room and change into shorts and running shoes. I intend to bring a woman here who might very well rat me out. It’s hypocritical of me to insist Kiln not have contact with outsiders.
Georgie
Alone in the house, I search drawers cabinets, whatever that has doors or drawers that may hide my electronic devices. I’m on the verge of loonyness. A small grumble escapes me. More loonyness.
In Sloane’s room, my quest is interrupted to breathe in his lingering scent. The jeans he wore at breakfast are thrown over the back of a chair. The heavy boots he likes sit on the floor nearby. His shirt is crumpled in the space between the bed and the wall, and his bed is haphazardly made.
Curiosity gets the best of me and I glance over my shoulder, in full stealth-mode, before tipping to the side of the bed closest to the door. Each time I slept in his room, he always took that side, as if he’d be the first line of defense for any intruder surprising us.
I lift the pillow and bring it to my nose, closing my eyes at the scent of musk and Sloane, the scent a combination of cologne and him. Although I want him to take me in his arms, I know why he can’t. I just don’t understand the end game here. Why is he acting like a drill sergeant instead of my friend?
Sitting on the edge, I curl my arms around the fluffy pillow, then lean over and open the nightstand drawer, biting my lip at the pack of condoms greeting me. My heart sinks. My bedroom is isolated from the other two, on the opposite side of the house, along a small, separate hallway. I might hear if he has company, and I might not.
Does he care?
My fingers tremble as they close around the box. The bandages around my wrists mock me. Pain at the jagged slash points prickle. I can’t decide if I’m sad or grateful to be alive.
“Acceptance of…” The saying jumbles in my head. I concentrate to get the words right. “That which cannot be changed…”
That isn’t it, either. All I see is the box of condoms. I’m hurt to my soul. Mom’s conversation that day in the studio returns, the facts about Sloane’s lifestyle that she threw in my face. A different woman in his bed every night. Blondes. Buxom. Older.
It surprises me, but tears aren’t rushing to my eyes. There’s nothing but numbness when I recall her words. She’d said if I were lucky I would be dead by thirty-five. I was almost gone at sixteen. Would she have loved my memory? Pretended there was no bad and held onto the good as so many people do? A person reviled in life is suddenly revered in death. Would that have been Mom’s feelings about me?
Tossing the pillow against the headboard, I grab the remote control, still stubbornly holding those condoms. The moment I flick the TV on, Sloane walks in and halts, narrowing his gorgeous blue eyes at me. His mouth thins in displeasure. He stomps to me, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off again.
He’s shirtless, sweat clinging to his chest and abs, dripping down his forehead and clinging to his hair. A small bit of hair beneath his belly button disappears into the waistband of his shorts. Heat sweeps through me, rising to my face, and fanning out over my entire body.
“What are you doing in here? More to the point, what the fuck did you do to this house? It looks like a fucking tornado hit it.”
My eyes snap to his and we face off. Suddenly, I’m so angry I can’t see straight. I throw the small box against his chest. “Fuck you, asshole.”
A perfunctory glance at the package before he lunges for me. I dart to my feet, steady beneath the firmness of the mattress. He’s so quick, grabbing my legs and tackling me beneath him, covering me with every hard plane of him. He pins my hands above my head and breathes hard. Harder than he had been when he first walked in.
“Let go of me!” I yell, squirming against him, determined not to lift my head and press my lips to his. “Take your fucking condoms and fuck your life away.”
“I intend to,” he tells me with a hard note.