I wheel them past the couch, intentionally checking my hip against the side where his head rests, hard enough that I might have earned myself a bruise.
Nothing.
“You son of a bitch,” I growl as my anger boils over, letting the cases roll into the kitchen cabinets with a thud while I go back to get my laptop. “I should open the door and let Bandit in. Wouldn’t that be something to wake up to, asshole. You’d sure as hell deserve having your place ransacked.” What is he even going to say when I confront him tomorrow? Will he just smile smugly at me and throw a clever line?
And what will Agnes and my dad say? Will they shrug it off? Will my dad say he’ll have a talk with him? Will Agnes wave her hand and say, “Oh, he likes to play games,” or something along those lines again?
Looking at him lying there, blissfully dead to the world, that mop of straggly hair scattered over the pillow, that wiry, tangled bush on his face, I should just . . .
I feel the vindictive smile slowly stretch over my face.
Chapter 17
You can’t walk around downtown Toronto without passing the homeless. They hide in plain sight beneath layers of blankets as they sleep. They sit on street corners, with Tim Hortons paper coffee cups held in their grasps, their matted hair hanging over their grim faces, waiting for the loose change of a charitable stranger.
I’ve sometimes wondered what those people look like beneath all that grime and poverty. What a hot shower, a comb, and a razor might do for them. If people might not speed up when they pass them, might not disregard them so quickly. If they might look at them in a different light.
Kind of like the way I’m looking at Jonah now, more than a little awed at what kitchen shears and clippers, which I discovered tucked away in a bathroom cabinet, could achieve.
It was supposed to be one cut. One highly noticeable chunk taken from the right side of his beard with a pair of scissors, one of those practical jokes that guys play on their friends when their friends pass out drunk on the couch. Just enough maiming to force him to take action when he woke up.
But then I thought to myself, What if he leaves it like that, just to drive me insane? Because that’s something Jonah would do.
So I started cutting.
He didn’t stir once.
Not when I lopped off handfuls of blood-flecked hair. Not when the buzz of the clippers filled the silent living room. Not while I carefully—with the most delicate touch—trimmed and combed that formless bush covering half his face. It kept shrinking and shrinking, until I had uncovered the full, soft lips and the sharp cheekbones and the promise of the chiseled jaw I knew was beneath.
Jonah now has a thick but tidy beard, the kind that inspires envy from men, that causes girlfriends and wives to shove magazines into the faces of their bearded significant others, demanding, “Make yours look like this!”
I didn’t stop there, though. I hacked off that straggly mop on his head, shaving the sides and back—as well as I could given his horizontal position. I left a strip of hair about two inches long on the top, which I’ve styled because, lo and behold, Jonah also had an old bottle of cheap gel tucked away in the vanity.
Now I sit back and admire the ruggedly handsome man I uncovered under all that wild, dark-ash-blond hair, in peaceful slumber, itching to smooth my hand over his face. He’s even more attractive than the picture version I was drooling over earlier, his face filled out with age and weight, the delicate lines making him more masculine.
And I wonder, how the hell did this go from a simple act of vindication to me sitting here, fawning over the conniving bastard?
I groan. “You’re an ass even when you’re unconscious, aren’t you?”
His head shifts to the right and I inhale sharply. I hold my breath as his eyelids begin to flicker.
And release it with a heavy sigh of relief only after he stills again.
I don’t want to be here when he wakes up, I realize as mounting dread shoves aside whatever glory I’ve been basking in up until now.
Because how is Jonah going to react when he sees what I’ve done to him? Will he laugh it off in a “well-played” manner?
Or did I just go way too far?
I mean, I cut off a plane crash survivor’s hair while he was sleeping off his injuries.
Anxious flutters fill my chest as I scoop up the obvious evidence and dart to the kitchen.
This isn’t just about his taking my clothes, I remind myself, as I shove my weapons into a drawer and toss the bag of hair under the sink. He’s been a dick to me over and over again. I finally snapped. That’s what happens when you push someone too far—they snap and cut off all your hair while you’re sleeping.
I grab the pad of paper and pen that sit on the counter and scrawl a quick note, and then leave it on the side table next to his pills and a full glass of fresh water for him when he wakes up. A pretty lame peace offering.
Where I was intent on using my luggage as a battering ram earlier, now I tiptoe, easing each suitcase out the door and down the steps with painstaking efforts to not make a sound. It’s an absolute nightmare, lugging each weighty suitcase across the wet, marshy land, and my arms are burning by the time I finally reach the safety of my dad’s house.