Page 11 of Floored (Frenched 3)
“Hi.”
“Hi. It’s only been like five minutes. You checked out the station already?”
“Not yet. I had to finish my report. I’m heading there now, but I wanted to give you this first.” He held out his hand, which held a twenty dollar bill.
I stared at it. “What’s that for?”
“I’m paying you back the money I stole from your lemonade stand. I feel bad about it now.”
My eyebrows rose. “Now you feel bad about it? Like twenty years later? What’s the extra eight fifty for, interest? Or did you want change?”
He smiled. “Nah, keep the change.” When I didn’t take it, he tucked it into the pocket of my robe. “Planning to stab me, Red?”
I looked down at the knife in my hand, then back at him. “I might, if you keep calling me that.”
He held up his hands. “I come in peace.”
“Fine. Now go in peace.” I pulled the twenty from my pocket and held it out. “And take this back. I don’t need charity. Give it to St. Jude’s, which is where it was supposed to go in the first place.”
He dropped his hands. “Take it. It’s yours.” Then he grinned mischievously. “Put it toward a real pair of hand cuffs.”
I slammed the door in his face. “God, he’s annoying.”
“What was that all about?” Mia asked. She was pouring a glass
of water into the kitchen herbs I had on the windowsill in little pots that said BLOOM on them. Although in my case they might as well say DIE because for some reason I can never remember to water plants.
“It was Charlie Dwyer again.” I replaced the knife in the block and touched my cheeks, hoping they weren’t as red as they felt. “He wanted to pay back the money he stole from me almost twenty years ago, of all things.”
“Oh?” She and Coco exchanged a look, which I decided not to acknowledge. “It’s nice that he’s taking a special interest in you.”
“He should, as a public safety officer,” I huffed, plunking down on the stool again. I avoided meeting their eyes and picked up the pen. “If they would have caught this guy already, I wouldn’t have been robbed tonight. Number one,” I said loudly, eager to drop the subject, “laptop computer.”
I’d like to sit on his lap.
I forced myself to concentrate, gripping the penis—ahem, the pencil—way harder than necessary. After I wrote down everything the burglar took and its replacement value, we searched for alarms on Mia’s iPad. It looked like the least expensive option would be to have my cable company put in a wireless system. But it would add to my cable bill each month, and I was on a really tight butt—tight budget, tight budget—right now. (Jesus, what was the matter with me? Could there be a more inappropriate time to be thinking about Charlie Dwyer’s ass?)
Where was I? Budget. Right.
“God, why did I have to make that big announcement about new flooring?” I moaned. “I told everyone I’d have a brand new surface in the downstairs room by Christmas.”
“People will understand.” Coco rubbed my back. “These things happen.”
I stared at the list. “You guys. I have to say something out loud.”
I want to ride Charlie Dwyer like a deranged cowgirl.
“Go ahead, honey.”
I took a deep breath. Shooed the wasp away. “I’m scared I did the wrong thing taking over that studio.”
“Why?” Mia asked. “Are the kids driving you crazy?”
“It’s not the kids so much as the mothers. It’s stuff that has nothing to do with actual dancing, either. It’s jealousy and resentment and she-said-this and she-said-that and threatening to leave if I don’t put so-and-so in this number or partner her with him or bring in this particular choreographer…nothing but drama.”
“Are they really that bad?” Mia looked surprised.
“Yes.” I took another drink. If only I had some way to relieve the stress…for example, taking out my frustration on Charlie Dwyer’s cock.
