Page 49 of Wicked Design
Chapter Thirteen
Clover gushed about the upcoming party and kept waiting for Van Gogh to share her enthusiasm or at least comment. No such luck. He glanced at everything in the room except her. She spoke faster and faster, her words a blur. Winded at last, she wound down. “What’s wrong?”
“Huh? Nothing. You want this?” He handed her his burrito. “I’m full. Want another beer?” He left her alone in the bedroom.
Not the reaction she’d expected. She padded after him.
Rather than go to the kitchen for more booze, he pulled on his jeans and avoided looking at her.
Her stomach cramped. She wasn’t sure what was going on with him, or, if she’d done something wrong, what it could be. “Are we through with each other?”
He looked over, his face white. “What?”
“We’re not going to play anymore tonight?” She had no idea how or why she’d offended him, but he wasn’t happy. Crap. He was back to being the way he was before she’d cornered him at the parlor for a tat. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough or couldn’t wait for her to back off. Talk to me.
He didn’t.
Unable to stand the suspense, she had to know what was going on even if the truth killed her. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Why would you think that?”
“You’re getting dressed.”
He looked at his unzipped jeans. Surprise flashed on his face. “I—I’m tired that’s all. I need to sleep.”
“In your clothes?”
His cheeks turned red. Frustration or anger hardened his features. “I thought I’d eat first.”
In the bedroom, he’d said he was full. “We can feed each other.”
He stepped back. “You take it all. I’ll catch something somewhere else.”
“You’re leaving to go out?”
“What? No.” He frowned. “I meant for breakfast. After I sleep.”
She chanced a step toward him. “We could go to bed now, if you want. I’ll hold you while you fall asleep.”
“Why would you do that?” He glared. “Do you think I’m a damn infant incapable of taking care of myself or of being normal?”
“What? No.” She wasn’t a shrink by any means, but she could see he was trying his best to start an argument, while she was trying like hell to keep him from it. “The way I held you at my place. You enjoyed it then. Tell you what, I’ll bring the food into your bedroom and when we wake up we can feed each—”
“It’s been a long day.” He stepped back. “I’m sorry if I can’t keep up with you. I said I wasn’t Superman, and I’m not. You’re free to stay and crash on the sofa if you want, but I have a lot to do tomorrow, and I have to get some sleep.” He strode to the bedroom.
Stunned, she followed.
He closed the door.
Even her worst dates hadn’t ended this badly or as quickly. A faint click sounded. He’d locked the door, like he needed protection from her.
He sure as fuck did. She wanted to pound on the damn thing. Kick it in if need be. As far as she recalled, nothing had happened besides her stupid party invite. Even if he didn’t know anyone there and didn’t like that idea, she’d be hanging on his arm and running interference if need be. Besides, it wasn’t the first time she’d asked him somewhere. When she suggested he join her to visit her folks at the colony, he’d looked appalled but hadn’t run away. After the first awkward seconds, they’d eaten and screwed around.
Tears filled her eyes. She brushed them away, too confused to let herself feel hurt. That would hit in the morning and during the endless days ahead if they actually broke up before they even got started. And over what? Damned if she knew. She wanted to knock and ask him to talk to her but was afraid he might and give her an answer she couldn’t bear.
With no other choice, she packed her stuff, dressed, and left, hoping he’d rush out and follow, like a scene from This is Us or any other stupid TV program where people got back together for a little while before their relationships tanked again.
A few couples passed on the sidewalk, holding hands or kissing.
