Page 67 of One Last Rainy Day
Lifting my bed sheet to sniff, I catch another strong whiff of her.
She’s everywhere.
In my head, in my sheets. Even my libido is starting to play Fido.
Fuck this.
Springing to my knees, I grip the fitted sheet and tug hard. The ends snap off the corners before I toss every pillow in the center of it, wrapping them up and fisting the bundle like a sack over my shoulder. Dragging it behind me downstairs, I hit the landing as another hint of her engulfs me, and I toss them to the foot of the stairs like they’re on fire. Marching toward the kitchen, I’m stopped short by two pairs of curious eyes. Tyler stands frozen on the other side of the island, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Sean is across from him at the stove, spatula in his hand. Stalking past them into the kitchen, I snatch a trash bag from underneath the sink.
“Morning, buddy,” Sean says, his voice full of mirth. “Have an accident? Don’t worry. It happens to the best of us.”
Glancing up as I stuff my bedding into the bag, I see Tyler biting his lips to keep from laughing as I glare between the two of them.
“You do know,” Sean drawls, lazily cutting through his eggs with the spatula to scramble them, “you canwashthe pillowcases, right? No need to toss the pillows, too.”
“Fuck you,” I snap, tying the trash bag before heading up the stairs.
Laughter erupts out of both of them as I grip the rail and take them two at a time.
“He’s so fucked,” Tyler sounds through a chuckle. “I swear to God he was listening to K-Ci and JoJo last night when I popped into his room.”
“It was on the radio, you dick!” I defend, stalking toward my bedroom.
I may have found the song in my cloud and replayed it once or twice.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Sean coos up at me in taunt. “The meaner they are, the harder they fall.”
“Don’t confuseyour entrapmentwithme!” I boom, taking the last few strides to my room and snapping my door closed behind me. Chest heaving, I palm the back of it as if the sheets might come back for me. “Jesus Christ, King, get a grip.”
But I can’t because, deep down, I know exactly what this is.
She’s trying to domesticate me!
Scanning my room for any remnants of her, I spot a hair tie on my nightstand and narrow my eyes. Grabbing my trashcan, I walk over to it, flick it off, and into the can—satisfied when I earn two points.
If this is longing or attachment, it ends right here.
Right now.
“Have you ever been in love?...It’s not a stupid question.”
“It is if you find love irrelevant.”
“Why is love irrelevant?”
“Because it doesn’t interest me.”
“Never will,” I say to absolutely no one as I stalk towardthe shower and turn it on, spotting a tube of lip shit on my sink before swatting it into my nearby trashcan.
Love is a four-lettercurse. No bird I know of—who’s been struck by it—has ever flown quite the same way.
She may have the looks to rival every woman I’ve ever fucked, a pussy made for worship. She may even be a decent conversationalist and reading partner, but I. Will.Not. Be.Domesticated.
Chapter Thirty
I’VE BEEN DOMESTICATED.
Somewhat.
