by Kristy Marie
“Do you have your own room?”
Yes! A question I can answer honestly. “Yes, I do. It’s nice. There’s no puke stains or barred up windows.”
It’s actually really clean with relatively fresh paint, but I haven’t been sleeping in it. Each night, when Maverick finally turns his light out at like two in the freaking morning, I sneak into the living room and curl up on the couch and tiptoe back into my room when the sun peeks through the balcony doors. I know Maverick did a lot for me to have my own bed, but I don’t want it. He was right. Tucker probably did fuck Taylor on it. And even if he didn’t, he probably lay awake at night, next to me, and thought about her.
I know it’s stupid.
I know.
But ever since the survival instinct left me, and I found myself safe with a man everyone fears, the tears flooded my soul, and pain invaded every inch of my heart. I can’t stop it. It’s like waves and waves of memories hit at the worst moments. Moments when I should be showing Maverick that I’m grateful, and I appreciate him leaving a clean towel on the bathroom sink when he finishes showering. It’s like he’s the most hateful, considerate host ever. I don’t want him to think I’m a mess of a person. I might be a mess now, but I haven’t always been.
“So he’s being good to you? You’re okay, I mean?”
Look at Boss being all paternal.
I flash him a confident grin. “I’m fine, and I won’t be there too much longer. Maverick’s friend is looking for a place for me to stay. Me staying at his apartment is only temporary.”
I don’t know why I added that last bit, but I felt like I needed to justify what we’re doing. It’s not like I’m banging him, but if I were a dad, that would be the first place my mind went.
That big head of his tips just a little before he nods. “You’ll let me know if you have any problems with anyone.” It’s not a question. My fire-savior is my very own Thor—protector of my Universe. I’m legit living a Disney movie. I have a genie and an Avenger.
“Will do, Boss. Now, I gotta run. I have a class to get to.”
I stand to leave and look at Kyle, who is already reaching for my plate. “Sorry,” I mouth. He waves me off, and Bostic grunts like I’m ridiculous by feeling sorry for the trainee.
“I’ll see you guys later,” I say, reaching for my bag and pointing from my eyes to Luke’s, letting him know I’m watching him. The shit has been on the phone the entire time I’ve been here. I didn’t even get to speak to him.
Next time.
Right now, I need to get through this next class, and then I’m going to go home and make my magical genie a surprise dinner to show him that I’m not the worthless slug I seem.
Have I mentioned I have zero cooking skills? Like below awful. Once, my mom tried teaching me how to bake cookies, and I mixed up the measurements for salt and sugar. Why do you put salt in cookies anyway? Isn’t the whole point to make them sweet?
Anyway, my cooking Maverick dinner before he gets back from wherever he goes every day—hell maybe—is going epically bad. So bad that when he finally does come home, I’m standing on the kitchen/poker table, waving a dishrag in the air trying to get the smoke detector to shut the hell up before someone calls the fire department.
“Everything is okay,” I assure him.
A hint of a smile plays on his lips. “Looks like it.”
Such a smartass. “Who changes the batteries in these things anyway?” I’m out of breath, and my arms feel like noodles.
“The person who’s living with a pyro,” he says smugly, going over to the stove and turning off the switch, which, in hindsight, I should have done before I ran to the smoke detector. Still, given my recent experience, I didn’t want to get Maverick or myself kicked out of this apartment.
“What the hell were you cooking?” His nose scrunches up, and he grasps the pot handle with a dishtowel, leaning it to the left so he can look at the contents.
Oh no. Not now. Not again.
The burn starts at the bottom of my eyelids. Don’t do it, Ainsley. Don’t you dare cry.
“I’m so sorry.” Sniff. “I was trying to show you that I’m grateful for the room and”—hiccup. Fan the blasted smoke detector—“that I’m not such a mess all the time. But—”
He dumps the contents of the pot in the sink, ignoring my emotional outburst and the wailing alarm.
“Is that macaroni?” He sounds shocked. “Were you trying to make mac and cheese?”
A tear streaks down my face just before the proverbial dam breaks. “I can’t even make boxed macaroni and cheese,” I wail. “I truly am worthless.” And throwing the world’s greatest pity party. I have stooped to new lows. “I wanted to make you dinner, but I’m not much of a cook.”
He flips the switch for the garbage disposal and fights an eye roll.
“Get down.”
Oh shit. Now he’s mad. Instead of him coming home to a hot bowl of mac and cheese—that I wanted—he’s angry.
“I’m so sorry.”
The words would sound so much clearer if I could stop sobbing. What is with me? Is this the five stages of grief? Could I be—“Ahh!” My legs are yanked out from under me, and I brace for the impact that never comes.
“What are you doing?” I choke back the fear. At least the tears are gone, and Maverick’s shoulders are . . . amazeballs. Like these things are boulders shoved under his shirt. When does he work out?
His answer never comes. Instead, he sets me down and snatches the rag from my hands. “Go get dressed.”
“Oh, no. Are you throwing me out because I really was just trying to say thank—” I stop at the glare he’s giving me.
“Would you like me to repeat myself?”
Uh, no. I don’t think so.
“I’ll be just a minute then.” I try not to sound defeated when I click the door closed, and the smoke alarm quiets. But when I hear the dishes rattle and him cleaning up my mess, I succumb to the ache. Why had I never learned to cook? Why did I rely on Pat, our cook at Studs and Spuds, to leave me a plate every night? Would it have been that difficult for me to YouTube some kind of class?
It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. At least spring break is coming up in the next couple of weeks. I can go home and see my mom and eat about a billion calories. I can sleep in my own bed that hasn’t been tainted with bad memories and affairs.
“You have five minutes,” comes the low voice at my door.
Great, looks like we’re headed back to the fire station. Bostic will not be happy. He’ll for sure think it’s me this time.
I hurry and throw on some leggings and a sweatshirt—no sense in looking fancy while being tossed out of your second apartment in a week.
It’s whatever, though. This too shall pass. I will be stronger than I was before all this happened. I hope.
A few minutes later, I’m packed and standing in an empty living room. “Maverick? I’m ready to go. I’ll come back tomorrow for the rest of my things.”
When he doesn’t clap or answer, I take a look around, noting the clean kitchen and the balcony door cracked. Ahh.
I walk over and peer outside into the dark, noting his tense form sitting in a chair. Rapping softly on the glass, I tell him, “I’m packed and ready. I’ll need to come back tomorrow for my things.”
At first, I think he intends to ignore me, but then I see his arm extend—is that a beer?—and pour the contents of the bottle on the porch.
“Eek!” I hear someone cry from below and then a “Shh,” before the door closes.
See? Even the neighbors know when he’s in a bad mood.
When the bottle is empty, he rises unhurriedly and almost lazily. He takes a sweep of my clothes. “You’re ready?”
I look down at my comfy attire. “Yeah, these are my eviction clothes.”
No smile. No laugh. Not even a comment that I now have designated clothes for evictions. He just brushes past me, tosses his beer in the trash, and grabs his keys. “Come on.”
“Do you really need to escort me out? I promise I will leave. I won’t even camp out in the parking lot. I’ll pick another.”
“Stop talking.”
Oh. Okay. This is serious.
I nod and let a little, tiny, baby sigh go. I think I’m going to miss his couch the most.
“Leave your bag.”
Devil say what? “Uh, I need my bag. I can’t drive without my license, and I need my wallet to get gas so I can sleep—”
“Ainsley!”
I drop my bag. I don’t need it tonight anyway. I can ride on fumes for a while.
“Let’s go.”
Without further objections, I follow Maverick out the door and—
“Get in.”
Is he planning to kill me? Did I really find a new age Ted Bundy? For the love of all that is holy.
A deep sigh bursts from Maverick’s chest while he holds open the passenger door of his car.
“Are you planning to drop me off somewhere deserted where no one can find me?”
You never know. A lot of rumors float around about Maverick. One can never be too careful.
“I might if you don’t get in and hush.”
Hush. That’s better than shut up or “Hey, down this drink and let me secure this gag in your mouth.”
“Where are we going?”
Maverick rubs his forehead like I’m giving him a headache. “To get something to eat. You’re hungry, yes?”
I told you he was an angel, and people just talk shit about him.
I grin really big and do a little bounce on the balls of my feet. “Damn straight I’m hungry!” I streak past him and burrow into his black leather seats. Gah, why must everything of his feel so comfortable? “Besides, you owe me. You scared my blood sugar low.” Seriously. Sitting in this seat, I’m suddenly exhausted and starving—all his fault.
He slams the door, ignoring my comment, and walks around the front of the car, shaking his head. Must be the headache.
In what seems to be an hour, Maverick pulls up to a little pizza place and throws the car in park. “Do you like pizza? I know it’s not mac and cheese but—”
“Don’t even start,” I interrupt. “I’ve had a stressful night, and I could use a little less of your sarcasm right now, okay?”
Yes, it was a bold thing to say, but when he’s sarcastic, he seems to be in a little better mood.
One of his eyebrows arches in a way that could be playful or threatening. I’m going with playful. “I want plain cheese.”
That gets a better reaction out of him. “Just cheese? What kind of person are you?”
I cock my own damn eyebrow. “A plain one.”
He chuckles, getting out of the car. “There’s nothing about you that’s plain.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, following behind him as he pauses to lock the car. “Are you saying I’m complicated?”
I guess that would be true. I have my issues like everyone else.
“What do you want to drink?”
Great, he’s ignoring me. “Why are you asking me about my order in the parking lot and not inside?”
He holds the door open. “Because you started ordering in the car. I thought that might be your thing.”
“I thought I asked you to tone down the sarcasm?”
“I thought I asked you to hush?”
Touché.
I grin, knowing he doesn’t really mean it, and walk inside. The restaurant is small and quaint. Dare I say it’s even cozy. It’s exactly my thing, and I’m in love with it.
We follow the nice woman to a booth in the corner. It seems like she knows Maverick, but she never addresses him by name. After taking our drink orders, she leaves, and of course, I must be nosy. “Do you know her?”
He’s mid-sip into his water. Yes, you heard that correctly. He’s drinking water with his pizza. Who drinks water with their pizza? Everyone knows you need carbonation with pizza.
“Why do you think I know her?”
I watch for any signs of nervousness. None. “She smiled at you,” I note.
“I imagine that would fare well for her with tips.”
He’s impossible.
“I mean, is she one of your clients? Like me?”
He makes an amused noise. “Like you?”
I nod. “A client?”
A sinister grin forms, and he leans on the table like he’s trying to get closer to tell me a secret. “Remember what I told you the rules are for being my client?”
Ew. I think this is a tricky question. “Can I admit that I may have forgotten a few minor details?” I was pretty worked up that day. I can’t even remember what I was wearing and if I had eaten. Those few days blur together.
“Let me remind you then,” he says all sultry and—
“What? No! Why are you giving me another card? I didn’t ask for a favor.”
He slides the ace of hearts across the table, clenching the cap of the marker in between his teeth just like last time, and scribbles out IOU before placing the cap back. “You never talk about me or my favors, remember?”
I do now.
“But I was just talking to you about it,” I argue.
“Never in public.”
But that doesn’t make sense. “Don’t you do business in public?”
He puts the marker back into his pocket. “Sometimes.”
“And . . .”
He doesn’t smile. “My rules.”
“So that’s just it. You can make up the rules, and I’m just supposed to do whatever you say and be indebted up to my earrings?”
“Sounds about right.”
It sounds unfair to me.
“Why were you cooking for me tonight?”
He’s changing the subject, and I’m not sure I want to. Sure, I don’t want to end up with yet another IOU, but didn’t I already try to explain this, and he cut me off?
I let out a deep sigh; talking to Maverick is exhausting.
“I just wanted to do something nice for you. I know it hasn’t been easy living with me for the past couple of days. I’ve been crying and just a total disaster. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry and that I appreciate you helping me get my stuff from the apartment. I know it was a deal and all that—” I wave the comment away in case he tries explaining the rules again. “But I appreciate your kindness nonetheless.”
“So, you thought cooking boxed mac and cheese would be thanks enough?”
“Are you making fun of me?” Seriously. Is that a smile on his face? I think it is!
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re laughing.”
“I’m not laughing.”
Yes, he is, and it’s cute. Really, really cute.
“I’m not that great of a cook, and well, Tucker was always the one who cooked in our relationship, and I noticed you mainly just have a bunch of fruits and vegetables in the refrigerator, so I thought I would cook something warm and yummy for you.”
“Warm and yummy,” he repeats but in a way that makes me think he’s thinking of something else or mocking me.
“Clearly, I’m still perfecting the recipe,” I say, interrupting his lazy smirk.
“Clearly.”
Now I’m sure he’s mocking me.
“I’m going to learn how to cook when I get my own place. There’s so much I didn’t do when I was with Tucker.”
He stirs his water with the straw, only glancing up at me briefly. “Like what?”
I pause, thinking hard about all the crazy things floating around in my head the past couple of days. “Like—”
Our waitress places the plain cheese pizza in the center of the table, breaking our connection.
“I thought you didn’t want cheese.”
He pulls off a slice and slaps it on my plate. “I never said that.”
“You asked what kind of person I am for wanting plain cheese,” I remind him.
He puts two slices on his plate. “And? Where did you he
ar that I wouldn’t or couldn’t eat plain cheese?”
He’s freaking infuriating!
“Fine. You win,” I say, taking a bite of the cheesiest, most delicious pizza I’ve ever tasted. “Oh, wow. This is really good.” I moan with each bite. “You’re going to need to carry me out of here. I plan on eating way more than this one piece.”
He snorts. “That’s why we ordered the whole pie.”
“I’m just saying,” I continue, slapping another piece of pizza on my plate. “I’m not one of those girls who won’t eat in front of a man. I honestly don’t care what men think of me anymore.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that last part since I’m not being honest. The fact is, I do care what he thinks of me—sometimes. I wish I didn’t, though. I wish I could give zero fucks and not care what anyone thought, but I do.
I shrug when he only stares at me like I’m a mystery or weird. “Anyway, that’s what I want to work on. Me. Who I am and what I enjoy. I don’t know where the old Ainsley went, but I’m going to set out to find her. This time, I’m doing me.”
Rumor has it he did her in a kiddie pool.
I asked her for one thing.
One fucking thing!
“You have nine minutes! I have no qualms about throwing your ass out naked.”
And she can’t bother obeying my one rule. Okay, so it isn’t one rule, but it’s the main rule.
She can’t be here for Wednesday night’s poker game.
“Eight minutes!”
It might be easier to explain why I broke the bathroom door down than it would be to keep fucking counting.
I rub the ache behind my ribs, my heart rate increasing with the dwindling timeline.
One meal.
One mistake.
Showing her I cared that she didn’t starve was the worst thing I could have done. It didn’t matter that I pushed an IOU across the table last night and barked out orders for her to remain scarce tonight. She’s not scared. Maybe she is a little; she did hustle out of the kitchen when I was yelling at Rowan on the phone earlier.
But the air has shifted. Ainsley James realizes that I’m not as scary as the rumors make me out to be.