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Goddamnit. When isn’t he on my mind?
With a final swig of beer, I scroll for a show. Something, please, distract me. And it better not be anything starring Redix Dean.
No, give me something happy.
A strange knock hits the air. It raps again on my front door.
“Don’t shoot.” A voice pours into my space. “Mama G gave me your key. She said I had to check on your ankle.”
“I’m fine. You can leave.”
Redix Dean better not enter my home.
He better not find me sitting on my sofa in pajama shorts and a sports bra with my wrapped foot propped on the ottoman beside my pathetic plate of pizza crusts, crushed candy boxes, and empty beer bottles.
I’m a Grade A pathetic sight, and it’s about to make his day.
Fuck me.
He appears in my living room looking like masculine perfection while I slouch on the sofa like a feminine cautionary tale.
“Take a break from the ice,” Redix instructs like he’s Dr. PleaseFuckMe entering the room. “Let’s give it twenty minutes, and then we’ll ice it again.”
“Let’s give it a go fuck yourself for ten more years before you can kiss my sweet ass again.”
And fuck him for leaving me hanging today.
The smile on his lips? A convent would be seduced.
“Pull those sexy shorts down,” he says, “and I’ll pucker up right now for that hot ass.”
I cut my eyes back to the flatscreen, clicking on YouTube to find a song about women who murder their exes.
They exist.
Redix waltzes into my galley kitchen like he owns it.
I watch him through the pass-through, how he pulls open drawers until he finds the one with dishtowels. Without a word, he comes over and plucks the dripping bag of ice off my ankle. Wiping the puddle away before he wraps the bag in the towel, he tosses it across the room into the sink. Of course, he makes the shot with a grin.
“Satisfied?” Damn, those jeans look good on him. “You can leave now.”
“I’m not leaving.” He plops down in the side chair. “You said we need to talk.”
“About that night?”
“Nope.”
“Then don’t let the door hit ya where my bullet can split ya.”
He laughs, nudging his bare foot against the beer bottles. “Are you drunk?”
“I’m not drunk.” I reach for my real vice—a fresh box of Lemonheads. “I don’t have a drinking problem. I have an ex-fiancé who’s a famous horny asshole problem.”
“No, you have a messy condo problem.”
He jumps back up and, in one sweep, has all my trash from the ottoman in his hands before promptly dropping it into the garbage can under the sink.
I crunch the sweet lemon candy I love.
