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Chuckling darkly, he says, “This,” he motions around, “is not Darren’s house.” He grits his teeth.
I should grab a shirt and call for Darren – but where’s the fun in that? Rausch is so tightly wound that the sight of my breasts, or just my presence, threatens to unravel him.
“You’re right, it’s our house,” I say to piss him off.
Hopping off the counter, I grab the bowl of grapes. Rausch presses a hand against the refrigerator door above my head.
His large body presses close to mine – so close that his tie skims my nipple, causing the already tightened bud to send a shiver into my stomach. I look up through my bangs to see the corners of his mouth pull into a smile and I feel the table turn.
“Don’t fuck with me little girl,” he says in a low tone. “I don’t know who you think you are?—”
“My wife,” I hear Darren’s threatening voice declare from behind Rausch.
“I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it,” Rausch chuckles darkly.
I certainly wasn’t expecting him to laugh, but somehow, that makes it worse. When the laughter subsides, there’s an eerie silence in the kitchen.
“I might be a degenerate, but at least I’m one that keeps his promises,” Darren says, walking further into the room.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Rausch sneers, throwing his hands in the air as if someone has just played a trick on him. “What did you expect, Darren? Marry a hooker, get your money, and you’re rid of me?”
I don’t think he’s expecting an answer.
“Pretty much,” Darren says defiantly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Rausch lowers his head so he can pinch the bridge of his nose. I should leave, but my feet feel frozen to the spot, and I can’t look away. Besides, I don’t want to leave Darren.
“I shouldn’t be shocked by your behavior because you’ve always been a fuckup, but this…” he tilts his head in my direction and shakes his head again. The disappointment leaks off him and seeps into the space between the three of us.
Darren straightens his back, his broad shoulders stretching the gray t-shirt across his chest. His face is strained as if he’s trying hard not to react, because reacting is what Rausch wants.
“You’re pissed because you don’t have control anymore,” Darren challenges him.
“Do you not get it, Darren? Not everything is about you. Your parents are dead.”
The minute he says it, Darren blanches, his eyes growing wide, and all the air is expelled from his lungs. “You don’t think I know that?” Darren explodes, and I think he might punch Rausch, but instead, Darren reaches behind his head and pulls his shirt off and hands it to me. I look down at the shirt and take it from him, his hand lingering a moment longer, his fingers grazing mine. Gratefully, I slip it on.
“My father might have trusted you to handle things, but I don’t,” Darren’s voice is steady and less combative than earlier.
“That’s laughable coming from someone who couldn’t even take the Bar,” Rausch says.
Darren narrows his eyes. “Couldn’t and wouldn’t are two very different things.”
I get the feeling this is a very old argument between them.
“When are you gonna grow up, Darren?” Rausch asks rhetorically. “Your father had plans for you.” His voice softens.
“His plans, not mine,” Darren says, defensively.
In dissatisfaction, Rausch places his hands in his pockets. His face is still etched with disappointment. “This is your mess now. Don’t expect me to clean it up for you,” he says, and then exits the kitchen, leaving us alone.
Darren closes the few feet distance between us. “I’m sorry about that,” he says genuinely while his hands run down both my arms, his eyes roaming over me as if to inspect for damage.
“I know how to handle a man like Rausch,” I say, but I’m not sure I even convince myself.
“I’m sure you can,” he says with a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Thank you for the shirt.”
