something else. Something that would shove the panic rising in her chest back down. “How’d you meet Trevor?”
“I believe someone said
hello
and we probably shook hands. Exciting stuff. You should be writing this down.”
When Trevor came home, which had better be in the next five minutes or Riles was toast, she was going to ask him just exactly when he’d lost his mind and thought Riles being anywhere in the state of Louisiana was a good idea, much less driving her crazy in what was supposed to be her own home. Dipping her in a big vat of acid would have made more sense at this point.
“I’m going in to work,” she said, getting up and heading into the kitchen to find her purse, “and you can be all super psycho guy over in a corner somewhere.”
He followed her. “You’re supposed to stay here. You’re on vacation.”
“Only if we spell ‘vacation’ ‘h-e-l-l.’ If I stay here, I’m going to paint that living room again.”
“That’s not going to work, by the way,” he said, nodding toward her keys, indicating her car. “I disabled the battery.”
She stopped, keys hovering midair. “You did what?”
“I disabled your car. You’re staying home.”
She slowly scanned the small kitchen, seeing without really registering the surroundings. A white (of course) curtain hung at the small kitchen window over the (white) sink, a set of (white) empty open shelves on each side, which Trevor had yet to fill with whatever it was that people used when they were the kind of people who cooked instead of making sandwiches for every meal, and there was a small clock she’d brought with her from her old place—a crazy plastic crawfish clock Stacey had loved. Then she saw what she’d been subconsciously searching for: the knife rack.
“Here’s the thing,” she said, all reasonable and virtuous as she turned back to Riles, “I agreed to three days. It’s four clicks of crazy past that. I can’t stay here.”
“This is what he does, Batgirl, and you need to get used to it. He can’t afford for you to go apeshit every time he’s a few minutes late. It’s part of the job—if you can’t hack it, you need to do him the favor of getting the fuck out of his life.”
“Annnnnnnnnnnd I’ve officially had enough. You want to keep me here? You’ll have to stomp my ass to do it.”
He scowled at her, grabbing the cordless as she attempted to call for a ride. Clearly, the Neanderthal had believed that talking tough would make her cave. Then he shrugged. “I’m not going to fight you. I, however, did not promise not to tie you up and gag you.”
Bobbie Faye leaned forward on the cracked kitchen island, propping her chin in her hand, trying to plaster an innocent expression on her face. “Tell ya what. I’ll agree not to go anywhere—today—if you win the toss.”
“I’m not tossing a coin with you. The odds are too even.”
“No, I meant a knife toss. You, Mr. Big Bad ‘I was a sniper’ Guy,
can
throw a knife, can’t you?”
“Like I’m going to let you arm yourself.”
“Oh. Sure. Okay.” She shrugged. “Chicken.”
Riles frowned at her again, knowing she was up to something. “So I’m assuming you have some talent throwing knives.”
“I’m not too shabby. And I did promise not to kill you, so what have you got to lose? I haven’t slept much, so surely with your training, you stand a small chance of winning.”
If she’d known he was going to sulk so freaking much, she’d have let Riles get a little closer to winning that seventh round. They went two out of three, then three out of five, then five out of seven, and when she’d beaten him at every single round (they played fifteen), Riles finally had to concede. And Jesus, could the man whine. She was pretty sure, though, that it was the humiliating double-or-nothing round where she bet him the trip out against him having to wear normal jeans and a normal shirt that was irking the hell out of him. She probably
“I believe someone said
hello
and we probably shook hands. Exciting stuff. You should be writing this down.”
When Trevor came home, which had better be in the next five minutes or Riles was toast, she was going to ask him just exactly when he’d lost his mind and thought Riles being anywhere in the state of Louisiana was a good idea, much less driving her crazy in what was supposed to be her own home. Dipping her in a big vat of acid would have made more sense at this point.
“I’m going in to work,” she said, getting up and heading into the kitchen to find her purse, “and you can be all super psycho guy over in a corner somewhere.”
He followed her. “You’re supposed to stay here. You’re on vacation.”
“Only if we spell ‘vacation’ ‘h-e-l-l.’ If I stay here, I’m going to paint that living room again.”
“That’s not going to work, by the way,” he said, nodding toward her keys, indicating her car. “I disabled the battery.”
She stopped, keys hovering midair. “You did what?”
“I disabled your car. You’re staying home.”
She slowly scanned the small kitchen, seeing without really registering the surroundings. A white (of course) curtain hung at the small kitchen window over the (white) sink, a set of (white) empty open shelves on each side, which Trevor had yet to fill with whatever it was that people used when they were the kind of people who cooked instead of making sandwiches for every meal, and there was a small clock she’d brought with her from her old place—a crazy plastic crawfish clock Stacey had loved. Then she saw what she’d been subconsciously searching for: the knife rack.
“Here’s the thing,” she said, all reasonable and virtuous as she turned back to Riles, “I agreed to three days. It’s four clicks of crazy past that. I can’t stay here.”
“This is what he does, Batgirl, and you need to get used to it. He can’t afford for you to go apeshit every time he’s a few minutes late. It’s part of the job—if you can’t hack it, you need to do him the favor of getting the fuck out of his life.”
“Annnnnnnnnnnd I’ve officially had enough. You want to keep me here? You’ll have to stomp my ass to do it.”
He scowled at her, grabbing the cordless as she attempted to call for a ride. Clearly, the Neanderthal had believed that talking tough would make her cave. Then he shrugged. “I’m not going to fight you. I, however, did not promise not to tie you up and gag you.”
Bobbie Faye leaned forward on the cracked kitchen island, propping her chin in her hand, trying to plaster an innocent expression on her face. “Tell ya what. I’ll agree not to go anywhere—today—if you win the toss.”
“I’m not tossing a coin with you. The odds are too even.”
“No, I meant a knife toss. You, Mr. Big Bad ‘I was a sniper’ Guy,
can
throw a knife, can’t you?”
“Like I’m going to let you arm yourself.”
“Oh. Sure. Okay.” She shrugged. “Chicken.”
Riles frowned at her again, knowing she was up to something. “So I’m assuming you have some talent throwing knives.”
“I’m not too shabby. And I did promise not to kill you, so what have you got to lose? I haven’t slept much, so surely with your training, you stand a small chance of winning.”
If she’d known he was going to sulk so freaking much, she’d have let Riles get a little closer to winning that seventh round. They went two out of three, then three out of five, then five out of seven, and when she’d beaten him at every single round (they played fifteen), Riles finally had to concede. And Jesus, could the man whine. She was pretty sure, though, that it was the humiliating double-or-nothing round where she bet him the trip out against him having to wear normal jeans and a normal shirt that was irking the hell out of him. She probably
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