Page 60 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
I couldn’t stand the cool sheets, the drafty room, the black, yawning bay windows. There was only one thing to do at a time like this. Night baking. I tiptoed from the bedroom, so as not to disturb the slumbering child across the hall, crept down the stairs, so as not to disturb the hibernating man in the study, and into the kitchen.
I opened the pantry door with a sort of reverence and fingered the packages, like a painter might before selecting his materials. A cheesecake, maybe? I’d gotten enough cream cheese for it. It would have to harden overnight, but in the morning I’d drizzle it with melted chocolate and some of those raspberries.
Or maybe something chocolaty. What was I thinking? Definitely something chocolaty.
A tart. A light chocolate crust, a smooth truffle filling, and a shiny chocolate topping. A bit more foreplay, what with the three separate components, but—ah—the payoff. My eyes glazed at the thought. It was an orgasm in cake form. Really, no one could pamper themselves better than a baker.
I crushed graham crackers for the crust, then pressed the mix into the tart mold I’d bought from Goodwill a year ago. While that hardened in the oven, I whisked eggs and melted chocolate to make my filling. Once the tart itself had baked, I poured a thin layer of glaze over the top, forming a black, glossy surface.
It would take a while to set, so I wandered through the quiet house. There wasn’t anything to see, nothing to touch, so my hands rested behind my back.
Light peeked out from under the study door.
I knocked, my timidity downgrading it into more of a tap.
“Come in,” he said from inside, and I opened the door.
This study was nothing like Philip’s. It was open and airy, matching the minimalism in the re
st of the house. A desk and chair filled out one end of the room. A small sofa sat in the other, and that’s where Colin lay. He shut the drawer on the side table just as I entered.
“Can I talk to you?” I asked.
“Sure.” He rubbed a hand over his face. Dark shadows etched under his eyes, and I felt guilty for my earlier doubt. Not that I was convinced he’d done nothing wrong, but he’d also done plenty right. And at the time he’d been little more than a stranger.
Colin resettled in the corner of the sofa, his arm out. I closed the door behind me and joined him, curling into his side. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me in tight.
I could have this forever. All I had to do was wait, the perfect, placid little girlfriend, for Colin to solve my problems. Let him control me—trust he wouldn’t betray me.
But what would the cost be if I was wrong? If he was?
And Bailey would be the one to pay.
“I’m going to talk to Andrew,” I said.
My words kicked him into standing.
“No,” he said, sounding exactly like I did when Bailey shoved peas up her nose.
I tried to remain calm. “It’s not up to you. He’s my…”
“Rapist?” he scoffed.
That stung. “My friend.”
“And what am I?” he said.
“You’re my…lover.” My voice broke.
He raised an eyebrow. Is that all?
“Well, what are you, then?” Calm was over. His silence infuriated me. “What do you want to be? I don’t even know, because you won’t…fucking…talk!”
He glared at me. Then a flicker—a small, reluctant smile cracked.
I laugh-cried back at him. Goddamned, fucking, adorable man.
It wasn’t just about trust. Living here, I’d started having little daydreams about what it would be like to stay. There wasn’t an exit date planned, not that I knew of, but this was hardly a permanent arrangement. Maybe I wanted it to be.
