Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Finished in the bathroom, I hit the kitchen and ignored Cap standing in it with his hands on his cargo-clad hips (today, black, with a navy blue short-sleeved thermal) and went direct to the coffeepot where, fortunately, there was already coffee brewed.
Because I was confused, anxious, and annoyed—a volatile combination with anyone, definitely with me—I performed my version of getting up in his shit by making him wait even longer.
I opened the fridge, grabbed the creamer and made myself a mug before I turned to him and took a sip.
Only then did I repeat, “Where did you find that?”
“Again, who gives a fuck?” The card was still in his fingers, and he lifted it before he went on, “Tell me why you’ve got this.”
I did not like his bossy tone.
Therefore, unwisely, I shot back, “Tell me why it’s your business.”
He flicked the business card so it slid across my bar.
He then proceeded to rock my world when he said, “Clarice was a kid who hung at the same shelter I did when I was a runaway.”
Uh…
What?
Holy shit.
Now that couldn’t be just a coincidence.
I stared.
“She’s now a viciously successful defense attorney,” he went on. “So again, what the fuck?”
“I—” I began.
“Raye…”—he learned forward and barked…actually barked…at me!—“talk!”
Oh no he did not.
“Do not speak to me like that,” I fired back.
“Then use your mouth and explain that shit to me.”
“Tell me where you got that card first,” I demanded.
“It was sticking out of the cushion of your armchair.”
Oh.
Well then.
Guess I wasn’t very thorough in tucking all of that away.
“Raye,” he said warningly.
“I don’t actually know her,” I told him. “She was in my apartment last week when I got home one night.”
“In it, like, you didn’t let her in?”
“In it like you were in it. Somehow, she broke in.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When did this happen? Before Elsie Fay or after?”
I shook my head in confusion as to why that was relevant but answered, “After.”
His hard face, if it was possible, got harder. “So you knew me by then, and you spent the entire weekend with me, and someone broke into your house, and you didn’t tell me?”
Uh-oh.
I realized then why it was relevant.
“I didn’t get around to it,” I said, and even I thought that sounded lame.
Cap agreed it was lame.
I knew that when he replied sarcastically, “You didn’t get around to telling me someone you didn’t know accessed your apartment.”
I wasn’t fond of his sarcasm.
“A lot was going on, Cap,” I reminded him.
“That’s kinda fucking important, Rachel,” he returned.
“I meant to tell you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Today?” I asked like he could confirm.
“Today is about however-many-days since she was here too goddamned many before you shared that shit with me,” he bit out.
“I’m seeing that now,” I retorted sharply.
“You should have told me the minute it happened.”
A lot had been going on and at that moment I was freaked and angry, I couldn’t put it together where he and I were at that time, but if memory served, we weren’t a thing yet.
“We weren’t a thing,” I said.
“We weren’t a thing,” he whispered so sinisterly, it felt like the words slithered over my skin, and it didn’t feel great.
I powered through that and affirmed, “We weren’t a thing.”
“We were a thing the minute you looked up at me from Paul Nicholson’s floor.”
This was kinda true.
Kinda not.
I was going with not at that moment.
“I didn’t even know if you were a bad guy then,” I sniped.
“Jesus Christ,” he bit off.
“You need to calm down, Cap,” I warned.
He didn’t calm down.
He ordered, “Why was she here?”
“I’m not sure you’re in the mood to listen to that at this juncture.”
“I’m not sure you have a choice in that.”
Was he serious?
“I’m not sure you get to tell me what my choices are,” I replied heatedly.
“You get what I do for a living?”
“Yes,” I snapped.
“And you get you’re a server in a funky coffee bar?”
Oh my God!
Now I was whispering. “Tell me you didn’t just say that.”
“I’m angry because I’m worried about you.”
That would be nice, if I wasn’t so pissed.
“And I’m an adult, and I’d like my boyfriend to treat me like that, not a child.”
“So I’m your boyfriend?”
Oh snap.
“I—”
“I am, Rachel,” he confirmed, and I didn’t get to praise hallelujah at that, not only due to my mood but because he kept talking. “Which makes you my woman. You were flat-out wrong in what you said to Dream. People can belong to each other. That’s what relationships are. Making that commitment to look after something you hold that means something to you. And I can’t look after you unless you communicate with me.”
I was close to yelling when I returned, “I’m a big girl. I don’t need you to look after me, Cap! I know because I’ve been doing it for a really long time. I also don’t belong to you or anybody, and I never fucking will.”