Page 26 of Moto
Reese shoots me a deadly look. It’s so menacing I actually step back. “I’m a big boy. I can monitor my own fucking meds.”
Whoa. Someone needs a serious attitude adjustment.With a crowbar.
“Reese, behave,” Dev scolds. “Or we really will bury you in the backyard. Kayla is here to help,remember?You demanded her specifically.”
Reese seems to mellow out after Dev’s proclamation.
“I can take my own meds,” he repeats, more amicably.
“Suit yourself,” I sneer.
“Good. Now that we’re all one, big, happy family, I have to get the fuck out of here.” Dev knocks me on the arm. “Good luck.”
With that, he leaves me alone with the shithead speed racer.
Reese and I just stare at each other for a few seconds, each unsure of what to do with the other. I have a few morbid ideas.
I decide to play the nice card. Maybe some TLC will chill him out. You know, kill him with kindness sort of thing.
“Is there anything I can get you to make you more comfortable?” I finally ask, swallowing my damn pride. Why did I agree to this again? Oh yeah. Money. Green makes the world go ‘round.
“A repeat of the other night?” He shifts presumptuously, shimmying his pelvis and draping one arm up over his head. “I’d like your mouth on other parts of me.”
Like fucking hell.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I fume. “I’m not your in-house ho. If you hired me thinking you were going to get a happy fucking ending every day, you are going to be sorely disappointed. What happened the other night . . .” I’m so pissed; I’m at a loss for words.
“Was what?” Reese needles.
“Was temporary insanity.”
“I thoroughly enjoyed insane.”
“It was a one-time deal.” I put my foot down.
“That’s too fucking bad.” He doesn’t sound disappointed at all. I don’t get this man one bit. “But I’ll wear you down, eventually.”
“Not likely.”
“We’ll see.”
I bristle. “Do you need anything or what?”
“Just the remote and a glass of water for now.”
“Fine.”
Dev’s “dining” room looks more like an adult playroom, and not the Fifty Shades kind. It has a flat-screen on the wall, a workout bench and free weights in the corner, an air hockey table, and an Xbox super setup complete with bells and whistles galore. Oh, there is a square glass table against the back wall under the windows, so I guess that could constitute the use of the word dining room. I slap the remote into Reese’s hand and head into the kitchen for his water. I darkly consider grinding up some sleeping pills and drugging him, but my conscience gets the better of me. Damn ethical code.
When I return to the room, the volume on the TV is up so high the surround sound is shaking the window frames. Low engine roars and a European commentator’s voice are filling the air. I hand Reese the glass while mesmerized by all the bright colors flashing across the screen.
“Ever watch a race before?” he asks as he turns the volume down. Thank God.
“Does a street race count?”
Reese scoffs arrogantly. “Grab a chair. We’re about to go fucking fast.” He tries to smile, but I see the anguish hiding behind his eyes. He yearns to be wherever that is.
I pull up one of the black chairs from the table and sit next to him; his gaze is fixated on the television.
