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“Is Blake okay?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“How come you sound like shit?”
“How come you’re a dick?”
“Is that the next word in your son’s ever-evolving vocabulary?”
“Who asked you?”
“Do you want to come over?” Wait. What? Why did I say that?
“Are you drunk?”
“Do I sound like it?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong withyou?”
“Why are you bothering me?”
“How about this for being a shithead asshole fucker?” I stabbed the end button and slumped down into the pillows.
I swear I’d been less exhausted after the five miles I’d run earlier. Why couldn’t the woman answer a damn question? I rubbed my temples. If Mr. Dixon wanted to check on his daughter, he needed to do his own dirty work from now on.
I cursed at the vibration against my thigh.
“What now?”
“Why are you so pissy?”
I growled in frustration. “Why are you communicating in questions only?”
“Why are you?”
“Goodbye, Wicked.”
I pulled the phone from my ear.
“Wait.”
I closed my eyes and prayed someone would give me strength.
“Why?”
“You’re only speaking in questions too,” she said petulantly.
“Marlow, so help me God.” I yanked on my hair.
“Can you keep Blake tomorrow?”
“Are you serious?”
“Can you?”
“Why isn’t your Dad?”
