Perfect. For the first time in my life, everything is perfect.
Dex
Arizona is…fucking dry. I suck down Gatorade as I get into the elevator and push the button for my floor, my suite. Yeah, I upgraded to a suite with the hope that Fi would come with me. But she informed me last night that she was “riding the crimson wave” and there was no way she would be traveling. It took me a moment to figure out what a crimson wave was, then I promptly blocked the image from my mind. Or tried to. Some things can’t be unimagined, unfortunately.
And yet I love that she was comfortable enough to tell me so bluntly. I love having bras hanging to dry in my laundry closet, the multiple bottles of shampoo, conditioners, and body wash—sweet Jesus, girls have a lot of fucking body washes— cluttering up my shower. Hell, I even love the boxes of tampons invading the sink cabinet.
And I don’t give a shit if that makes me weird. Because all of it affirms that Fi is living with me. That she’s claimed my home and me.
So when she looked at me yesterday with pained eyes, I manned up, asked for a list of what she needed, and went to the store to buy her brownies, Midol, and, yes, more tampons and pads—what the fuck “wings” are I don’t really want to know.
I did it without one word of complaint, and then I left for my game, a man content.
Now I’m going to sleep and looking forward to getting back home. For the first time in what feels like forever, I think of my townhouse as home, and ain’t that a beautiful thing?
I’m smiling as I pull out my phone and check my messages while the elevator takes me up to my floor.
CherryBomb: I ended up working on a piece today. Tired now so I’m going to sleep. Good game, baby. You were great! See you soon. XOXO
I still can’t believe she watches my games. Fi has never hidden her dislike of football. Now she not only watches, but she sleeps in my jersey—when I don’t strip it off her.
I let myself into my room and am greeted with light instead of darkness. Did the maids turn on the lights? For some reason, the little hairs at the back of my neck rise.
I hear a noise, and I realize I’m not alone.
Instantly, every muscle tenses, my senses going on high alert. Then I see the bra on the floor. Lacy and pale purple, it lays like a heap of discarded flower petals, and my heart stops. I’ve seen a bra like that before.
Fi? Is she here? Was she trying to surprise me? I set my phone down on the table and move across the room toward the bedroom door. A tiny pair of underwear dangles from the door knob.
I cross the small living room in two steps, a smile blooming.
The smile dies a swift death when I reach the bedroom.
“What the fuck?” My shout echoes through the suite.
The naked girl in my bed winces but puts on a brave face. “Hey there. I…ah…”
“How the fuck did you get in here?”
I’m trying real hard not to shout again or lose my shit; I’m a big dude, and there’s a very naked chick alone with me. I’m aware of her vulnerability and her sheer stupidity, even if she isn’t. I could be into beating women for all she knows.
And I’m also aware that she could spin this any way she wanted. Suddenly I’m afraid of her. Of what she represents.
I back up, my shoulders hitting the wall. “You need to get out. Now.”
The girl rises to her knees, her tits pointing straight at me. The sight does nothing but send a rush of frustrated outrage through my chest.
“But, Dex, honey, it’s okay. I want to be here! I want help you.”
I laugh without humor. “I don’t think you’re getting it. I don’t want you here, and the only way you can help is to get dressed and go.”
“I’ll split the money with you,” she says, parting her thighs.
I look over her head. “I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that earning money on your back will eventually eat at your soul.”
“Are you calling me a whore?” she screeches.
Oh, I want to laugh. I really do. Only I want to punch the wall more. I take a breath and relax my fists. “Out. Before I call the police.”
I hear her huff, and she launches off the bed, gathering her clothes.
“Are you gay? Is that it?”
And there it is, the cheap shot. I don’t even answer. When she stomps past, I look down. Thankfully she’s dressed—if you call the band of pink spandex that barely stretches over her ass a dress. “Come anywhere near me again, and I will call the cops.”
Her face flushes red. “I wouldn’t fuck you now if you begged me on your knees, asshole.”
Right. That’s why she’s hovering in front of me, her eyes wild and desperate. I gesture to the door, and she snarls again before rushing off. The slam of the suite door tells me I’m alone.
I want to sink into my bed and sleep. But I’m not touching it now. Instead, I reach for the phone and prepare to hand hotel security their ass.
It isn’t until I’m in a new suite—comped after profuse apologies from the management—and crawling under fresh sheets, ready to drift off, that my eyes snap open with dread as I realize something. The little witch stole my phone.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Fiona
Expect the unexpected has got to be the most annoying phrase ever. I mean, if you’re expecting it, how can it possibly be unexpected? And yet that stupid phrase runs like a taunt through my head when in the kitchen for my morning coffee, I open my browser—as I always do—and see my own face smiling back at me.
It’s weird. I stand there looking at myself, the same face I see every day in the mirror, but I can’t quite accept that it’s me. Why is a picture of me front and center in my Twitter feed? And then the shape of me takes more meaning. It’s not just my face. Not by a long shot.