He’s pissed, violently angry as he drags me out of the car. My Stanley cup bounces to the concrete, the charms breaking on the floor.
“Fuck you, Jenna!Answer me.”
“I—”
“Brock.” McCarthy shakes me. He’s holding me up by the front of my shirt, my feet kicking helplessly, bare toes flailing at his shins. “You’ve seen him here, haven’t you?”
“Ma-maybe?” I stammer out.
“That’s it,” McCarthy spits through blood-flecked teeth.
Looks like I got him in the mouth.
“I’m so fucking done with you.” Hand under my ribs, he carries me to the elevator.
“You better figure the fuck out why he was here!” McCarthy screams at the guards as he practically throws me into the elevator.
The floor is cold under my feet.
“You can’t force me to stay in your penthouse.” My voice sounds small.
McCarthy is silent as the doors open up at the penthouse level. The guards are nervous and alert as he half drags me out of the elevator.
“Are you locking me in here?” I’m still shaken from seeing Brock, from seeing McCarthy’s anger.
He reeks of raspberry lemonade as he picks me up and deposits me in the living room.
“I have guards posted outside. You’re not getting far.”
He pulls off the sticky drink-soaked shirt and undershirt, wadding them up, the muscles and tendons in his arms knotting.
“What are you doing?”
Truman is pawing at my legs. McCarthy’s gray eyes slide over me, then he turns on his heel.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“I have work to do. I’ve wasted too much time today on you and your bullshit.”
“What about me?”
He turns to look at me over his shoulder.
“You refuse to stay in a bedroom, so you can sleep on the floor if you’re going to be stubborn, but you’re not leaving.”
“What about me having to beg you?” I race after him to his study while Truman runs after us, thinking it’s a game. “Hey! You can’t just unilaterally decide to keep me here.”
McCarthy stops abruptly in the doorway, and I almost run into him.
“Clearly your stupid dog has a better sense of self-preservation than you do, so I’ve decided that you live here now.”
“To do what?” I squawk. “Sleep with you?”
“You didn’t take a bath today,” he sneers, looking down his nose at me. “I don’t want you in my bed.” He turns away from me.
“Y-You had your tongue—” I stammer, trying not to say it.
“In your pussy?” he says, unhelpfully.
