Of course it is. I’m not a songwriter like Kiki, but this has got to be some kind of metaphor for the disaster I woke up to this morning. My head swims with pain and fatigue as I make my way into the house.
No stopping at Griff’s room. That dream’s all the way popped. In the cold reality of morning, I make a straight beeline back to the guest room and the tote I should have finished packing yesterday instead of making lunch for that jerkhole—and oh my gosh, deciding to do Molly just because I didn’t want the good time I thought I was having with him to end.
Well, it’s ended now, all right. I pull on my roadhouse shorts and tee since I have no idea where either pair of my Christmas pajamas got off to. And more castigations pile up in my head when I throw my broken phone into the tote. Even if I manage to get the phone’s screen fixed, there's no telling if I'll ever be able to get it to work again considering I left it outside overnight in the cold.
Meanwhile, how am I supposed to find a cracked screen store—or even get home without GPS? Or let Kiki know I’m probably going to be a little late to her party tonight.
“Where are you going?” a voice asks, interrupting my panicked thoughts.
I look up to find Griff doing his naked-standing-in-the-doorway thing again. Just like yesterday. But unlike yesterday, I’m no longer so hopped up on sex endorphins I can’t see right through him.
“Home,” I answer, keeping my voice hard and clipped.
“Didn't give you permission to leave yet, Red.” He holds up one hand, revealing a condom I didn’t see before clasped between his index and middle finger.
My chest fills with rage. Is he kidding? He’s got to be kidding.
Yesterday, his blend of sexy menace and laid-back humor would have sent a secret thrill through me. Yesterday, Boring Bernice would have handed the keys to our car right back over to my inner bad girl, Red.
But today, I feel nothing but stupid. So, so stupid. Seriously, what was I thinking, spending two whole weeks with a paranoid criminal biker?
“No. I'm not playing any more games with you.” I turn away and start throwing the rest of my things into the bag—all the stuff I put on the bed to pack yesterday before he interrupted me. “You accused me of doing something I would never do. Ever. That means the game is over.”
Silence. But I don't hear him turn away to leave like he should as I pack up the rest of my things.
And when I haul my bag onto my shoulder and turn toward the door, he’s still standing there, naked, save for all those tattoos.
But the sexy menace has disappeared from his expression, replaced by something much graver.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn't have said that to you outside.”
“I would never do that,” I immediately shoot back. My chest crackles with outrage and hurt. “How could you accuse me of that?”
“I shouldn’t have said those things to you. Shouldn’t have accused you.” He raises both hands in the air with a pleading look. “That’s why I’m here apologizing. I fucked up, and I’m sorry. You need to believe that.”
His apology tugs at my heart. But…
“No. No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Sorry is not enough. I don't know why you're like this with women. But you don't get to treat me like crap and then have sex with me. At least not without my consent. And you don't have my consent. Not anymore. Now please step aside.”
He doesn’t step aside. If anything, he becomes even bigger in the doorway.
“So that's it?” he asks. “You're just going to leave?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?” I shoot back. “I was supposed to leave five days ago. Apparently, you were too wasted this whole time to let me. Or maybe that was my plan all along—since it’s all my fault we had sex without a condom—which could really mess up my plans for the next eighteen years as well, you know. It’s not just you regretting last night.”
He flinches, as if I slapped him again—like I hurt him. But it’s me who feels all cut up.
“Move! Please, you’ve got to let me pass. All I want to do is leave and pretend like none of this ever happened.”
He stares down at me, his entire expression filled with apology and regret. But he doesn’t move.
Not even when I drop the bag and shove at him as hard as I can. “Move!”
“Red…” he says, his voice cracked and desperate.
“Please, move!” I beg. “If you don’t move, I’m going to cry, even though it was only two weeks. Two weeks I shouldn't have given you. I shouldn't have trusted you. I most definitely shouldn't have trusted myself when it comes to you. And now I can't stop talking. Please, let me by. Just please let me by.”