Her eyes meet mine, and the look on her face is murderous. “She woke up to herself,” she whispers. “When she realized what a fucktard you are.”
My mouth drops open as I feign shock.
She walks forward toward me, and I walk backward. “You barge into my home, uninvited, and then drink my fucking wine. Not to mention—” She cuts herself off.
I shrug as I nearly trip over the couch behind me. “Well . . . apart from those things.”
“Go home, Tristan.”
“Is this about me going out with that other woman?”
“I don’t care who you date.”
“Is that a lie, Claire? Because you seem to care.”
“Go home,” she snaps.
“I can’t. I’m over the limit.”
“Fine, you’re on the couch.”
“Can we talk about this?” I reply.
“No.” She goes to a cupboard and retrieves a blanket and pillow and throws them at me with force.
I catch them midair. “You’re not very hospitable, Claire,” I huff. “You really should work on this.”
She rolls her eyes and goes to the stairs. “I hope Muff pees on your head.” She stomps up the stairs.
My face falls as I process her words. “What?” I look around and catch sight of the mangy cat sitting on the couch. We lock eyes. “Is that a possibility?” I call.
Silence.
“Claire?”
Silence.
“I’m allergic to cats, Claire. I need to sleep with you,” I call. “In your bed.”
Her bedroom door slams.
I scratch my head as I stare at the cat. He stares back. I point at him. “You come near me while I sleep, Muff Cat, I’m putting you outside,” I whisper. “You’ll be bear food.”
I spread my blankets out on the couch and put the pillow down. Damn this. I want to go home, but I want to speak to Claire in the morning more. I climb in and wriggle around as I try to get comfortable.
Fuck, this couch is made of concrete.
Two hours later
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
“What the hell?” I whisper as I glare at the clock on the wall. What kind of sick fuck has a clock that ticks this loud? No wonder everyone’s crazy around here.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
I can’t take it anymore . . . I’m at a breaking point.
“That’s it.” I throw the blankets off and sit up in a rush. I stand on the couch and take the clock off the wall. “You’re going in the trash, motherfucker.” I storm out to the kitchen, clock under my arm, and look around in the dark. “I can’t see shit.” I flick on the light and walk over to the back door and open it in a rush.