He gives me a lifted eyebrow. “Let me guess … you’ve invited your boyfriend over here. I want to meet him.”
“No. Chloe’s on her way. And she thinks you’ve moved out.”
“Why does she think that?”
“Because I told her.”
“Why did you lie to her?”
“Jesus Christ, Jimmy! Just go to your room.”
“What do I get in return?”
“I just said I’d give you fifty dollars.”
“I don’t need your money.”
Just my house and a death grip on my sanity.
“What do you want?”
“I want to stay and work things out.”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“Then I want a blowie.”
“I’m not sucking your dick.”
“Then I’m not getting off the sofa.”
Everyone has a limit, maybe not the same limit, but everyone has one. I march into the kitchen and grab that gifted butcher knife. “I’m going to cut off your testicles.”
“No you’re not.” He scoffs.
Gripping the knife tightly, I make a beeline for him, cock my arm back, and plunge the knife forward between his spread legs.
“The fuck?” He jumps back, covering his junk with one hand while eyeing the knife I just stabbed into the sofa cushion where his left testicle was just seconds earlier. “Are you insane?”
Yes. I’m officially insane. A docile optometrist by nature. My non-confrontational demeanor is what got me into this Jimmy situation. I need something bolder to get me out of this situation. Maybe that’s destroying a sofa that I plan on burning after he leaves. Maybe that’s removing a testicle. I’m not sure yet, but I’m going to figure it out.
“Not insane Jimmy …” Okay, I can feel my wild eyes on the verge of busting a blood vessel or two; they might look deranged. “Fed up. I’m fed up with you and your assholiness. I’m spending way too much time thinking about all the ways I could make you leave my house and at least half of them involve your body being unresponsive and lacking a pulse.” I remove the knife from my sofa cushion and rest it gently at my side while taking a slow breath and an easy step backward.
Jimmy releases an audible breath.
“It’s not a threat. Don’t think you can twist my words and use them against me. It’s just a natural reaction to you fucking with my life. You are responsible for all of this. You are the culprit. You are the reason I feel twitchy and violent. If you poke a bear, bang a stick against a beehive, or step on a rattlesnake, you will get a violent reaction that is not the fault of the bear, the bee, or the snake. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Jimmy’s wide-eyed gaze ping-pongs between me and the hole in the sofa just inches from his man parts. “I’ll move out tonight for fifty grand.”
I have the knife. He should be paying me fifty grand not to kill him, maim him, castrate him. “Sleep with one eye open, asshole.”
The doorbell rings.
My grip on the knife handle tightens again.
His gaze flits to the knife. “I’ll go to my room.” He slowly stands, throat bobbing. “It will cost you.”
With Chloe at my door, I don’t have time to negotiate any sort of cost. As he makes his way to the bedroom, I quickly return the knife to the block and hide his shoes and hoodie by the door before opening it.
“Hey.” I smile.
Chloe eyes me a second before stepping inside, a bag in each hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Absolutely.”
I’m not okay. When Chloe calls me complaining that her newborn baby is unsettled and colicky all the time, I’ll know it’s Jimmy’s fault.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Orange frames. I think they’re my favorite,” Shep says when I get about ten feet from him and release Cersei to play.
I instinctively adjust said orange glasses and smile. “Thanks. How are you?” I’m so good at small talk and really proud of myself for not starting the conversation with, “Why do you think I’m bad in bed?”
“Better now.” He grins.
I want to walk right into his arms and rest my cheek on his chest. I want to tell him that my friend with the squatter boyfriend is me and that I’m thinking, saying, and doing the most awful things. Who was that woman who tried to skewer a man’s testicle? In high school, I was voted Most Likely to Join the Peace Corps. We didn’t have a Most Likely to go to Prison, but that would have been Robbie Hartgrave or, come to find out, more accurately, Sophie Ryan.
“Want to golf this weekend?”
I nod.
Why do you think I’m bad in bed?
I smile.
You seemed to enjoy it. You said “fuck” and you sweated and … why? Why? Why? WHY?
I clear my throat.
“Are you okay?”
I nod … and smile.
“Can you speak?” He laughs.
I bite my lips together and take a deep inhale. “Sorry,” I say on the exhale. “It’s weird. I’ve never taken a step back like this, so I’m trying to figure out how to act or what to say. There’s an order. Friends. Flirting. Lovers. Break up. Going in reverse is weird. Lovers to friends. What’s the protocol? Do I ask you about your dating life? Do I tell you about mine?”