Fix It Up (Torus Intercession 3)

“What?”

I let out an annoyed growl and turned my attention back to the screen. He was beside me seconds later.

“He spelled ephemeral, and you spelled ego?”

“Seriously, why don’t you go get laid,” I groused, shoulder-checking him.

“What the hell was that?”

“That’s my ‘beat it, kid, get outta here’ move.”

“Not a kid,” he apprised me, his voice dropping low in warning.

I smirked at him, and he stalked out of the room, only to reappear almost instantly.

“You can play the word laird,” he suggested and was gone again.

“How the hell am I supposed to play layered? I don’t have a Y,” I yelled after him.

And he was back again. “Not layered, dumbass, laird, L-A-I-R-D.”

“What the fuck is a laird?”

“A Scottish lord, like Jaime Fraser.”

“Who?”

“Hello, Outlander.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying to me right now.”

The look I got, like I was stupid, made me flip him off.

He disappeared then, and moments later, the date charged down the hallway, through the kitchen, into the living room, hurled open the front door, and was gone, leaving it standing ajar. I heard his car roar to life seconds later, and Nick jogged over, closed and locked the door, and rejoined me, taking control of my iPad.

“What’re you doing?”

“Playing the word,” he replied irritably. “Could you scoop me some of that ice cream you’re binging on?”

“I’m not binging on—”

“Hah, look, he knows you didn’t play laird yourself,” he scoffed.

I reached for my iPad. “Give me the—”

“Just make with the serving,” he ordered, twisting away from me, slipping around the island so I couldn’t reach him or my personal property.

“That is not yours.”

He made a noise that seemingly challenged my claim.

“I’m wearing whatever the fuck I want, whenever I fuckin’ feel like it.”

“What?” he asked, not really paying attention to me.

“You just said I had to dress—”

“Yeah, whatever, sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” I retorted, staring at him.

After several moments, he finally looked up at me. “Where’s my ice cream?”

After that evening, I began to have real concerns about his mood swings. He would change at the drop of a hat. One second he was fine and the next, he was berating me.

“I think he should see someone,” I told Mr. Cox on the phone.

“I agree, but not for mood swings,” he maintained, his tone implacable on the phone. “He doesn’t have mood swings.”

“I beg to differ.”

“But he doesn’t, he never has. Even when he was drinking and using drugs, he was even. Either up or down but no in-between.”

“Then how do you account for––”

“Listen, I talk to Brent all the time, and he says that Nick is doing amazing, other than his operatic dustups with you.”

“Then, you see? I’m the problem. I should really think about turning this job over to someone else.”

“Oh no, no, Mr. Barnes, we almost have him out of the woods and onto real and lasting change. Let’s not rock the boat now.”

“Yeah, but—”

“He has not been sober this long since he was eighteen.”

But if I was somehow triggering him, that wasn’t productive for his recovery.

I was feeling on edge, which I hated, so I went for a swim to calm myself, showered off, and then went to the kitchen to grab something to drink, where I found Callie and decided it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone other than Mr. Cox about what was bugging me. “I don’t think you’re actually upsetting him,” Callie said. “At least not how you think.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked her, because as far as I could tell, Nick was continually oscillating between the idea that I was maybe, kind of, starting to be his friend, or I was the devil. There was no middle ground with him.

“He feels safe with you, so that’s why he picks fights with you,” Callie assured me. “He’s testing to see how far he can push you.”

“But it’s not like we’re in a relationship. We aren’t even friends.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Well, insomuch as I’m his fixer, yeah, but if he pushes me too far, I’ll tell him to go to hell, and I’m outta here.”

She made a noise that sounded like disbelief, scrunching up her face at the same time.

“I will,” I promised her firmly. “Watch me.”

“No.”

“Uh, yes,” I countered implacably.

“He knows better. He knows you’re not going anywhere.”

“I tell you what, the second I get the word from Mr. Cox that he thinks Nick is good to go, I’m on the next plane home.”

“But are you?”

“Yeah,” I assured her.

“But are you really?”

I glared at her. “I’m telling you honestly, yes.”

“Are we sure?”

“Cal, yes, seriously,” I insisted. “Gone-gone.”

She tipped her head and made a face like I was both adorable and clueless.

“Cal,” I stressed, needing her to hear me, “this is short-term for me, not long-term like it is for you and Marisol and Felix,” I explained, in case she’d missed what was going on.