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“Jeeeeezuuuz!” I screech-shout. “What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?!” With absolutely zero shame, he’s sitting on the end of my bed, legs spread apart––clearly to accommodate the boulders he has for testicles––lying back on his elbows, in his so-called underwear. Incredulity forces my eyebrows to the top of my head.
His unblinking gray gaze slides up and down my body. “What if I paid you?”
I stand there dumbstruck trying to process what he’s just said, until rage hits critical mass and takes over. “Explain to me why you think you have the right to barge in here?” I squeeze out between clenched teeth.
“The door was open.”
“For Sam! In case, he needs me.”
“I need you.” By the look on his face, he’s as shocked he said that as I am. “You’re the only person that wants a relationship less than I do.”
Can someone actually go mute from a surplus of anger? I wonder, because I can’t force a single word out of my mouth. Ten minutes later, nostrils flaring, red faced, I say, “Get out.”
“Why?”
He can’t be serious. “You’re messing with me, right?”
“No, I really will pay you. I’m not messing around.”
“Not about the money! Although that’s completely screwy, too. I’m talking about you intruding on my privacy while I’m naked! Boundaries! Ever hear of them??”
“You’re not naked. You’re wearing a towel.”
“Calvin, if you don’t get your barely covered ass off my bed and leave right this minute I will throw something at your head.” A second later, my eyes are searching for an object of substance within reach. Utilizing the two brain cells he does posses, he gets off my bed and stalks to the doorway, hovering just outside of it.
“Think about it. What are you going to do once the three months are up? After taxes, that hundred grand isn’t going to last very long.” There are so many things wrong with that doozy it would take way too much of my time to correct him. “You don’t have an income. What if you can’t get another job?”
Walking up to the door, I say, “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Champ.” Slamming it shut, I lock it. Because I really don’t put it past him to come in while I’m sleeping.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning while I’m busy preparing breakfast, elbows deep in eggs, he thunders into the kitchen. There’s power to his stride and energy of purpose surrounding him. Basically, he means business and he wants me to know it. His relentless stare is making my hair curl and I can’t even get a kink out of it with a hot iron. The only reasonable thing for me to do is to continue stirring the scrambled eggs and pretend he doesn’t exist.
“What’s it going to take?”
I don’t dare look at him. Instead, I shovel some eggs on Sam’s plate. “Strawberry or grape jelly?” I ask Sam, who is sitting at the counter.
“Strawberry,” is Sam’s slow reply because his attention is completely on Calvin, whose attention is completely on me. I spread the jelly on Sam’s whole grain toast as slowly as possible.
“I’ll have some eggs,” the big man looming over me eagerly announces.
When I look up, I don’t like what I find––at all. He has his game face on, the one that’s won him championships and some shit.
Exhaling deeply, I get a plate, push the rest of the scrambled eggs on it, and add a few slices of toast. He has not yet given up on trying to stare me into submission, even as he devours his food.
“Sam, why don’t you go brush your teeth and I’ll meet you in the playroom after I speak to your uncle.” Sam doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s up the stairs before I can even finish my sentence.
I brace myself for the onslaught of Cal’s force of will. Bend not break is my motto today. I am determination with a capital D. “Okay. Give it your best shot so I can say no, and we can go about our business like this never happened.”
“Name your price.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone’s got one, honey.”
Honey? “I’m starting to worry. Is this what dementia looks like, or is it just regular garden variety stupidity? You’re a gorgeous, famous professional athlete. Walk out the front door and ask the next woman that walks by to do it––or man, whatever tickles your tail. But it won’t be me.”
“You think I’m gorgeous?”
Huh? What? Where do I go from here? How did I even get here? But I’m not given time to respond. Nope. He doesn’t even slow down when he sees the expression on my face––an equal amount of anger and frustration.
“Look, I need someone I can trust to keep me from getting molested every time I walk out that door.” Hands buried in his sweatpants, he shrugs up his big shoulders and bites the inside of his cheek. “I need you.” That’s the second time he’s used those words so clearly the first wasn’t a slip of the tongue.
