However, she's officially banned me from bringing her breakfast or anything else in bed. She said it was “too confusing.” I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t confused at all, but I forced myself to remember the goal. Slow. Meticulous.
Make her come to you.
Then make her come all night.
“I’m not taking any meds with me,” I say, leaning against the counter. “I’ll take my morning dose here, but I’m leaving the bottle at home.”
She stops stirring and just stares at me. “And why would you do something that stupid?”
“Because I don’t like operating under the influence of anything. It’s bad for my game.”
I leave out the part about not wanting to look weak in front of a pack of seven and eight year olds.
“You have no game, dumb-ass!” she snaps, waving a spoon at me. “You’re injured. And you’re going to stay that way if you don’t allow your body to heal the right way.”
Fuck, I hate it when she sasses me. Iloveit when she sasses me.
“I don't need drugs to heal, Aspen.”
She lets out a heavy, frustrated sigh. “No, it’s not strictly necessary, but it’s beneficial. You need the relaxants so your muscles can repair themselves without constant strain or pressure. You're being stubborn just for the sake of it.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. My tone is final.
She huffs, spinning around and heading toward the door. “Fine. Break your other damn leg for all I care. Don't expect me to be there to pick your ignorant ass up when you fall, either.”
I watch her go, shaking my head as a smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. She may not be Nigerian, and she certainly isn't “proper” by my family's standards, but God, she sounds exactly like my mother when she’s been crossed.
When we reach the parking garage, the morning air is thick with the kind of humidity that ruins expensive clothes. I instinctively pivot toward my Aston Martin. Aspen, however, keeps walking until she reaches her white medical van.
“I’m not riding in that,” I say, stopping dead in my tracks.
She doesn't even slow down. “You planning on driving yourself then?”
“We normally take the Aston,” I remind her, gesturing toward the masterpiece of British engineering she’s currently ignoring.
“Yes, Luca. We take your car when we go to your appointments. But I actually have a job to do today as well.”
I blink, my internal calendar short-circuiting. “Since when?”
“Since Tatum asked me to run a clinic at the same time!” she calls out over her shoulder.
“And you didn't bother mentioning this to me?”
She stops and spins around, her keys jingling in her hand. “Why? Am I supposed to ask for your permission or something?”
“It’s common courtesy, for Christ’s sake!” My voice rises, fueled by caffeine and the sheer nerves of showing facing these kids.
This is one of the biggest days of my comeback. My image is currently being held together by wood glue and prayers. I’m supposed to make a grand entrance, for crying out loud!
“You actually want me to arrive at a high-profile media event in a fucking van?”
“Do. You. Want. To. Walk. There?” she asks, punctuating every word with a look that suggests she’d enjoy watching me try.
The sass is becoming dangerous. She is testing every ounce of my restraint, and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can hold back. My brain suggests several options, most of which involve shutting that mouth of hers with mine, but I have to wait.
I need to be able to cup her cheek with one hand while the other is buried deep inside her, and right now, I can barely hold my own temper—let alone balance on these fucking crutches.
See what you do to me, wife? You have me standing in a parking garage picking a fight with a van because I’m so starved for your attention that I’ll take the venom if I can’t have the honey.
