11. Win
11
Win
O ne thing I’ve always excelled at is making bad decisions. I’m the king of self-destruction. The cult leader of recklessness. The emperor of terrible ideas. If it’s ill-advised, you better believe I’m signing up.
My specialty is acting on impulse despite the potential disastrous consequences. For example, returning to Remy’s after he begged me to leave him alone.
I’m a bit of a masochist. Sue me.
Shutting off the Rover, I whistle a song I’ve been practicing. It’s a good thing I’m living in the guest house because I sincerely doubt anyone besides V appreciates my insomnia-induced hyper-fixations. One night, I cleaned and tuned my violin until I fell asleep on the floor with my bow in one hand and polishing cloth in the other. Another time, I downloaded the sheet music for over a hundred songs to cover. From 3 a.m. this morning to sunrise, I played until my fingertips bled.
It was worth Mom’s panic attack over bandages in the trash.
The car door slamming shut echoes through the apartment’s parking lot. I’m past the point of bothering with stealth. I've become obsessed with how adorably angry he gets. We used to bicker and tease, but he was rarely aggressive with me.
Angry Remy gets me fucking hot .
I twirl the keys around my finger, strolling up the stairs—
A muttered curse and a clatter of metal.
On the landing, I lean a hip into the railing and take in the scene.
Remy kneels on his welcome mat, a tiny screwdriver clenched between his teeth as he fiddles with color coated wires sticking out of a plastic rectangular box.
“Now, what do we have here?”
The tool falls from his mouth as he whips toward my voice.
And scowls.
“Go away.”
“Nah.”
Rolling his pretty eyes, he shifts onto his haunches. The band of his Calvin’s peeks out of his gym shorts.
As if my dick wasn’t already thickening.
“What will it take for you to fuck off?” he asks, resuming his task. I glance at the discarded packaging beside him on the ground. A security camera doorbell. I commend him for trying, but he’ll be sorely disappointed when he learns it won’t deter me. He twists, giving me more of his back and ass.
I’m content to admire the view.
“Nothing, but I’ll gladly accept bribes.”
Hazel eyes narrow skeptically at me over his shoulder. “Like?”
“One date.”
There’s the anger I’m addicted to.
He growls, “I’m not going out with you.”
“We don’t have to go anywhere. ”
“I fucking hate you.”
The urge to lick that sexy snarl off his lips is almost too much to resist. I crack a grin and shrug. “Worth a shot.”
He huffs and presses the button on the power drill.
It doesn’t start.
He smacks it and tries again.
Nothing.
A strangled sound catches in his throat.
I’m seconds from laughing my ass off.
“I think it’s dead.”
I swear steam pours out of his ears as he glares at me. “No shit, asshole.”
“Did you charge it?”
He scrunches his nose.
I snort, “That’s a no.”
“Shut up, Peanut Gallery,” he snaps, “I wouldn’t even be fucking with this thing if you would just leave me the hell alone,” he rants. I’m failing miserably at hiding how hilarious his tantrum is. He points the tool at me like a gun. “Stop smiling.”
I bite my lip. “Have you ever used a power drill?”
His jaw flexes but he stays silent.
My cheeks ache from grinning.
“Good thing I’m here to teach you.”
He rises to his full height, strangling the drill in one hand like he’s imagining it’s my throat.
“Do I need to spell it out for you? I. Don’t. Want. You. Here.”
He’s such a filthy liar.
“Tell you what, I’ll help you on one condition,” I say, sauntering closer. He tracks me like a cornered snake, ready to strike. Silently, I goad him. Come at me, baby, I can take it.
“Ask me out again and your nuts are getting a date with this,” he warns, aiming the drill at my crotch .
I chuckle and raise my hands in mock surrender. “I’ll install your fancy doorbell if you keep me company while I do it.”
The gears are turning in that beautiful brain of his. He must be desperate. He stares at the dead tool in his hand and mutters, “You’ll be here anyway.” Eyeing me suspiciously, he says, “I don’t trust you not to fuck with it.”
I flatten my palm over my heart. “On my useless existence, I promise not to fuck up your doorbell.”
His deadpan glare is priceless.
“You’re not touching shit, but… you can walk me through it.”
My heart fucking skips.
“Whatever you want.”
He perks up. “What if I want you to leave me alone?”
“Nice try.”
His shoulders slump in defeat. “God, you’re annoying.”
He gathers the mess in a plastic bag, mumbling to himself. As he crosses the threshold into his apartment, I’m overwhelmed by emptiness. I can’t let him go yet. I haven’t had enough of a fix—
But the door has already slammed in my face.