The Devil Wears Black

I was on my second attempt to hoist myself over the sink and try to brush my teeth when Chase kicked the door down. Unhinged, it flew to the floor, landing with a thump. Luckily, the Jack-and-Jill bathroom was more spacious than my studio, and the door landed a few feet away from me. I looked up and blinked at him, my mouth slack.

Asshole kicked the door down.

“You . . . you stupid . . .” I squinted, trying to find adequate words. And failing. He strode over to me, picked me up from the floor, and righted me against the sink. He turned on the tap and began to wash my face for me, running his big palm over my nose and mouth. He held me by the waist to keep me from falling.

“Finish that thought, Mad. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be amusing,” he said tonelessly, plucking my toothbrush from the silver container by the sink and applying a generous amount of toothpaste onto it.

“Conceited . . . arrogant . . . egotistical . . .”

“Nah-ah. You don’t get to use synonyms. That’s cheating.”

“Bastard!” I roared.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He stuck the toothbrush in my mouth, applying gentle pressure as he brushed my teeth for me. He was a thorough brusher. Of course he was. “What else have you got?”

“Stupid . . .”

“You already said ‘stupid.’”

“Okay, dumb . . .”

“How about we continue this tomorrow?” He cut through my stream of insults. “I promise to be convincingly insulted and cry into my pillow the minute you’re done.” He finished brushing my teeth, rinsed the toothbrush, and filled a glass of water for me to gargle.

I was too disoriented to pretend to care he was taking care of me. In all of the six months we’d been dating, I’d been careful not to expose him to any part of my less glamorous side. I’d brushed my teeth before he’d woken up to avoid morning breath, gone number two while the shower was on so he wouldn’t hear (which had also cornered me into taking frequent showers at his place), and categorically pretended my period hadn’t existed, sparing him any mention of Mother Nature’s visits to my body. Now, here I was, letting him clean traces of my puke straight from my mouth with his ring on my finger. Oh, irony really did have a sick sense of humor.

I gargled the water he helped me sip before spitting into the sink and side-eyeing him. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“Thank fuck for that, you’d be a nightmare to tame.” He didn’t spare me a look, picking up my pink bag of toiletries and plucking two sheets from my makeup-removal wipes. He began to scrub my eyes, probably worried my $5 waterproof mascara would stain his $5,000 linens.

“And you’d be a tyrant to work for,” I slurred. He chuckled, tossing the dirty wipes into the trash can, picking me up honeymoon-style, and carrying me back to the bedroom. I was still trying to come up with creative insults, refusing to cave to temptation and wrap my arms around his neck. The aftertaste of puke still lingered on my breath, but I was oddly unbothered when I spoke directly to his face.

“You’re not even that attractive,” I muttered confrontationally as he put me down on the bed. He removed my shoes, then reached for the hidden zipper in the back of my pencil skirt and rolled it down. He was stripping me bare. It felt too good to get rid of my work clothes to care. Anyway, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. And we weren’t exactly seducing one another. I was half-dead, and he’d basically admitted my mediocrity to Julian by not defending me.

Oh, also—I hated his guts.

“And you’re cold and sarcastic and lack basic empathy.” I continued listing his shortcomings. “Just because you’re helping me now doesn’t mean I forgot who you are. The devil incarnate. You’re far from Prince Charming. For one thing, you’re rude. And not the saving-princesses kind. You’d probably send someone over to save them for you. Also, you’d look ridiculous on a horse.”

I was half-sorry I wasn’t still puking. Vomit was favorable to what left my mouth as I tried to insult Chase. That was some second-grade stuff right there.

“Permission to remove your bra,” he said thickly.

“Granted,” I huffed.

He unclasped my bra with one hand, then produced a Yale sweatshirt from his nightstand drawer. He pulled it over my head, then stopped, staring at my breasts for a few good seconds.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

He tugged the sweatshirt down in one go, his throat bobbing with a swallow. The fabric was warm, soft, well worn. It smelled of Chase.

“And what kind of name is Chase Black, anyway?” I let out an unattractive snort. “It sounds made up.”