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“I must say, Tornada,” Rami adds with a smirk, “I did very much enjoy you drenching the asshole. I only wish I was recording that.”
Fran tries to restrain herself from laughing as we exit on the top floor and make our way to Carrie’s apartment.
“God, I thought I was done making an asshole of myself in front of that man.”
“Apparently not,” she snorts as I open the door.
“Let me just soak this in some bleach and then we can head out,” I say, stopping in my tracks as I spot the lid of the bottle I had been looking for sitting and taunting me right there in the freaking dishrack next to the cups and plates I washed earlier while tidying up.
“Fuck, it’s right there…”
“I hope you know that that stain’s never coming out, hun,” sings Rami, half chortling to herself as if enjoying my predicament.
“Oh, fuck, don't say that. Where’s the freaking bleach?”
* * *
Greyson
“Thank you,” I say to the maintenance man who mops the juice from the dark floor, readying myself to converse with the man walking towards me.
Landon.
His intemperate glare wanders in displeasure down and then back up my body, his face contorting in vexation.
His snarls slices through the air. “What thefuckdo you think you’re doing?”
Out of my peripheral vision, I spot the maintenance man look up, and I move a few feet away to spare him from what I already know from Landon’s foul expression will be as unpleasant an exchange as he can possibly make it.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
His execrable glower strays over my torso before he leans into me, his face the kind of merciless tempest I’ve come to expect of late in the last months… since I finally began to dare defy him.
“What’s the fucking problem?” he repeats contemptuously. “There is a room full of people over there expecting you to do your fucking job.”
The scent from the juice soaked into my skin soothes me inexplicably, adding light around the edges of his darkness.
“I’ll need ten minutes to wash this off. Give them my apologies. I’m sure you can hold the fort without me.”
“That’s not the fucking point,” he seethes. “What were you thinking taking your shirt off like that? Trying to impress the dumb cunt who threw that at you? The bitch probably did it on purpose. There’s no shortage of worthless whores willing to throw themselves at you, is there, Greyson?”
My body goes rigid at the man’s odious words.
“How are you supposed to have any authority over your staff if you take your fucking clothes off to impress the local whores?”
I tip my head, examining his dark eyes.
What don’t you want them to see?
My body?
Or the scars?
“I’m sure they’ll recover,” I reply, wishing I had the guts to turn his own face red… with blood.
“Who is she?”
“No one,” I growl, but his eyes flare in curiosity at the speed of my response.
