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My hand freezes on the bottle. How the fuck did she find me?
“I know you’re in there. Open the fucking door.”
Why is she even here?
I walk over to the door, looking through the peephole. Sure enough, Marley is standing there. She looks like a fucking dream.
My hands are shaking when I unlock the door, twisting the knob, opening it. I lean against the door frame and allow myself a moment to look at her. Who knows when I’ll get the opportunity again? She looks angry, but it’s fucking sexy as hell.
“What is fucking wrong with you?” She asks, pushing her way inside.
I shut the door behind her and watch her eyes take in the scene in front of her.
“Why is it so dark in here?’
I don’t say anything, just continue to stare at her. My apartment is a fucking mess. She looks like a diamond in the middle of a fucking dump.
“Are you just going to stare at me, or actually respond when I ask you something?”
“Why the fuck are you here?” I walk around her, back into the kitchen.
“Why are you ignoring everyone? People are worried about you.” She says, following me.
“Nobody cares about me.”
“Then why am I here?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I guess you’re trying to get me killed because your brother told me if I went anywhere near you he was going to fucking murder me.” I take a swig from the bottle and she grabs it from me.
I start to protest, but she takes a drink too, and passes it back to me.
“He’s the one that called me and asked if I’d heard from you.”
“Probably to make sure I wasn’t disobeying his wishes.”
“Why is it so dark in here?” She asks, again.
“The power got shut off,” I say, shrugging.
“What’s going on, Clark?” She asks, her voice isn’t as harsh now.
It’s almost as if she cares. It would be better for all of us if she didn’t.
“You need to leave.”
“I’m not leaving until you talk to me,” she sighs, walking out of the kitchen into my shitty ass living room.
She’s too good to even be in the presence of me right now. I wonder if she knows that. I watch her sit down on the couch, sinking into the worn-down cushions.
“I bought that couch from a second-hand store,” I tell her. I’m not sure why I even say it.
“I don’t give a shit,” she says, pulling a joint from her pocket, and lighting it.
I sit down next to her and she passes it over to me.
“Aren’t you worried about what your boyfriend will say about you being out this late?” I snip.
“Says the guy with a fucking fiancé, ” she says.
