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She obviously needs help, and her tough-girl routine is getting on my nerves.
“Goddamn it, Freya! Will you stop being so stubborn, and just let me do something for you?”
“That’s rich,” she says under her breath.
Huffing up the stairs in squeaky, waterlogged shoes, she opens the door.That wasn’t so hard, was it?She shoves aside the pile of boxes in her entryway to make room for this one. I set it on the ground and go back to get the remaining flatpacks. This is a lot to assemble for one person. I have no doubt she can do it, but it will be a pain in the ass.
When I get into her apartment, I actually have time to take in everything. Last time I was here, I was so focused on my sister I didn’t have the chance to look around. Her decor is industrial. The apartments are a tad industrial with the exposed brick, high ceilings, and black windowpanes. So it’s an easy leap. Still, it’s very masculine for someone with curves like hers. The space smells like her perfume and shampoo.
“Okay, well, thanks for helping me move these boxes. And, um, here.” She thrusts a shower curtain in my arms. “In case you need it.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.”
“I’m a thoughtful person,” she snaps. It’s such a contradiction to the sentiment that a small laugh rises from my throat. Her voice calms, and she glances behind me. “Well, you know where the door is.”
I will not leave her here in this mess. “Where’s your box cutter?”
“What?”
“Where-is-your-box-cut-ter?”
“I heard you, dickhead. Why are you asking?”
“We’ll need it to open the cardboard boxes.” It comes out slightly more condescending than I mean it to, but I’m aggravated.
“We?”
“You helped me, now I’m helping you.”
She bites the inside of her cheek and narrows her eyes. Scrutinizing my face like she can’t tell whether I’m serious. I suppose that’s warranted.
“Fine...The box cutter’s in one of those top drawers, be careful cutting anything, I don’t need my couch ripped before it even gets put together.” She gestures to the far end of the kitchen counter. “Be back in a sec, I’m going to put on some dry clothes.”
“Can I help?”
“Fuck you,” she singsongs, walking down the back hallway toward her bedroom, holding up her middle finger. My amused grin grows wider.Shit, she’s grumpy tonight.
Kind of wish she meant it, because even looking like a drowned sewer rat, I’d tap thatso hard. Walking into the kitchen, I open the first drawer. It’s her aprons that she wears on her live streams. This one on top with the cherries brings back lots of happy memories. I vividly recall jerking off to the image of her in this, not only the time she wore it on camera, but also every time I was in the shower for the whole week after.
She comes out of the hallway in dry yoga pants and another baggy sweatshirt, wrapping her hair into a messy bun. “Did you find the—what are you doing?”
“These cherries were the hottest,” I say, matter-of-factly.
“Don’t talk about my fuckin’ cherries! I’m still mad at you.”
“For what? I apologized.”
She rolls her eyes. “For making me trust you. For watching me naked after you found out who I was, and for leading me to believe you were... different. I really liked you. And if you recorded our phone... session, that could ruin my reputation.”
“Pretty sure I was there jacking off with you. How do I know you didn’t record me?”
“There was nothing showing that would identify you. I’ve been very good about trying to keep my identity hidden. All of my tattoos were visible in that shot.”
“Would it make you feel better if I gave you a video of me getting off?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Do you want to find out?”
