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I don’t want his explanations.
What I want is to hate him.
Fuck him.
Fuck him.
Fuck. Him.
The arrogant, meddling, fucking son-of-a-bitch.
I glare at the ceiling some more.
I nearly topple off the bed when the loud banging on my front door shatters the silence.
I sit up and stare dumbly at the door.
The fuck?
Silence again.
I get up very slowly and very carefully. Nothing. No sound. So I walk across the floor. Still slowly. Carefully.
I reach the door just as the next round of pounding begins.
I blink and stare and then, because I’m apparently five, I slam my own fist against the door and lift my chin.
Well, you showed him.
There’s another beat of silence.
Then…
“So you are here,” Ryker says. It’s a shitty excuse of a door, so I hear him so well he might as well be standing right in front of me, no barrier between the two of us.
“Go. Away,” I grit out.
“No.”
“Then enjoy sleeping out there.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Baby, if I don’t get to sleep, believe me, you won’t get to sleep either. I’ll break this shitty door down if I have to.”
It feels like my bones have jellified. Like they don’t have the necessary strength to keep me upright any longer. I slump against the door and breathe. In and out. In and out.
There’s another thump.
“Open the door, Lake.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I’d rather you do it.”
My dick is fucked up enough that it stiffens.
I straighten up and tear the door open. He’s leaning against the doorjamb with one shoulder, eyeing me calmly.
“I figured I’d give you till morning,” he says, “to lower my chances of getting punched in the face. But then I realized, nah. It’d just give you time to stew.” He rolls off the jamb and leans toward me, arms stretched out, fingers clutching the doorframe.
