I give him a sweet smile. “I was right. So…” I gesture toward the hallway. “Can I get some water?”
“Are you stupid?”
I draw back at his question. “What?”
“How is it that the entire world is afraid of me and knows to leave me alone but you don’t seem to care?” He nods, as if coming to a conclusion. “You have to be stupid. That’s the only explanation.”
I climb up another step so now we’re even closer. In fact, we’re the same height. I look into his dark brown eyes as I whisper, “I’m going to tell you a secret about me.” His frown is curious. “You know what’s my favorite fruit?”
“Is that the secret?”
“It’s strawberry. And you know what else?”
“What?”
I smile. “I’m allergic to it.”
“You’re allergic to your favorite fruit.”
“Uh-huh. But I still eat it if I’m in the mood to throw up. You know what that means?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
He looks lazy and relaxed and so freaking delicious that I have to stop a second and gather my wits before answering. “It means I’m a masochist, Mr. Edwards. I like the pain. The pain doesn’t scare me. You don’t scare me. And let me tell you another secret – masochists like me? We have really tasty skin. You can eat me up all you want. You can eat me up a hundred different ways. I’m gonna like your teeth and your tongue and I’m gonna fall in love with the sting of it all. You’re my Strawberry Man. At least, that’s what I call you in my head.”
There’s a certain heat radiating off his sleepy, bare skin. Thick like molasses, and I’m reveling in it.
Reveling in the treacle that’s sliding down my bones and his smell and his nearness.
He flicks his eyes down to the side of my neck and I feel him there. I feel the sting of his teeth that he hasn’t given me. The wetness of his tongue that I’ll never know.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Jailbait.”
Jailbait.
It’s supposed to be this stigma-filled word. It should horrify me and it would, if he hadn’t said it with… a fondness, almost. Or at least, with some lightness injected into it and if I hadn’t felt it in my belly.
“You do that, Strawberry Man.”
Then, he puts a period in the conversation with another glug of his whiskey.
“You know you really shouldn’t drink first thing in the morning.”
“You know you should really mind your own business.”
I laugh.
I don’t know why but I do, and something changes in him for a second.
Something goes both soft and intense on his face. He swallows like his throat is dry when I know it isn’t; he just took a huge swallow of that dreaded whiskey.
He drops his eyes to my mouth, as if willing me to laugh again. Willing me to stretch my lips, and it’s such a crazy thought that he wants me to smile for him that I speak. “Mr. Edwards?”
He jerks up his eyes and almost glares at me. He takes a violent pull of his liquor before growling, “I don’t like loud sounds first thing in the morning. So keep your laughter to a minimum.”
I’m so confused as to what just happened that it takes me a few seconds to realize that someone has knocked at his front door.
Someone is at his door.
Someone is at his door.
Oh Jesus Christ.
I’m not equipped for that. I’m not equipped to handle knocks at the door.
Okay so, along with not being able to enter through the front door, I kinda get spooked when someone knocks at the door as well. Back in Connecticut, as soon as I heard the bell, I’d lock my room, dive into my bed, put my headphones on so I wouldn’t hear why someone was there. Or if someone was there for me, gossiping about me downstairs in the living room. It has happened during the initial days when the story had just broken.
And now someone is here and I don’t know what I’m going to do because I’m this close to losing my shit.
Right in front of Mr. Edwards’s eyes.
Oh God.
No.
No, no, no.
I can’t have my doomsday brain ticking up right now.
I try to breathe normally. I try to purse my lips, press them together lest my heart jump out of my mouth and smack Mr. Edwards in the chest. I even try to control the flush that’s rapidly covering my throat.
Oh God, please. No. Please, please, please.
I’m usually fine. Why is this happening right now? Why in front of him?
Not to mention, he is frowning.
He also takes a step back and I think it’s because he knows I’m losing it by the second. He’s finally realizing what a basket case I am.
Which is so not true.
I’m fine.
Fiiiiine.
But no, that’s not it. He hasn’t realized it yet.
Oh God, he hasn’t.