Chapter 7 Hold That #3
“And crack a window,” I add to piss her off. “The smoke in here might kill someone.”
She takes the bait so easily.
“Fuck you and suffocate slowly.” Shoulder checking me, she struts off to her room.
I don’t even flinch.
Hard to care when I’m busy enjoying the bounce of her arse under that moomoo.
Priorities.
“I’m sorry about that,” Za mutters as she runs to open the window herself. “She gets worked up easily.”
“I can tell.” I scoff, leaning on the counter like I wasn’t enjoying every bit of it. It’s weird, but part of me feels like Frankie enjoys it too.
“Well, you aren’t making it any better antagonising her like that.” Za’s voice dips into that disappointed auntie tone. I don’t even know who she expects more from but since I’m the bigger, more mature person, I’ll take responsibility for what is clearly Frankie’s shortcomings.
“I’m sorry. I’ll stop picking fights with her.”
“Good.” She nods. “You two don’t have to be friends, but at least respect each other.”
Ugh.
“Fine.”
She leaves down the hall, still mad.
I blow out a breath, roll my shoulders, and turn back to the half-built table sitting in the middle of the room Frankie left me with.
Fine then. Back to work.
I work on the table for a bit. The cheap wood creaking every time I shift my weight and the drill Solace lent me keeps coughing like it smokes more than Frankie does. Still somehow, it comes together.
Of course it does. It’s me.
“Wow. I’m surprised it’s standing.”
I jump so hard I nearly drop the screwdriver.
“Christ!” I snap, whipping around. “When did you get here?”
Frankie only lifts a shoulder. She’s changed out of her Moomoo—thank God—and into a fitted tee that hugs her waist and a pair of midwash jeans that ride low on her hips. Her locs are piled up messily but somehow perfectly, like she didn’t try but also absolutely did.
“I ordered the pizzas,” she says casually, walking past me with a sway that she knew makes me look. “Should be here soon.”
“Oh.” I cross my arms. “Getting dressed up for your pizza date, huh?”
She doesn’t even look over her shoulder. “Shut up. It’s not like that.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
We both collapsed onto the couch, an unspoken truce settling between us as we stared at the reconstructed table.
“About earlier,” I start carefully.
“Don’t worry,” she interrupts before I can build momentum. “I already filed that under effects of second-hand smoke in my memory.”
“Thank God.” I lean back. “I don’t need you thinking less of me.”
“If that’s even possible,” she murmurs.
“Seriously? After I built you this perfect coffee table?”
She meets my stare head-on, eyes glinting. Then she swings her foot out and kicks the leg. Hard. The table wobbles dramatically, doing the absolute most.
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
“Aww, don’t be like that.” She grins wickedly. “At least it doesn’t fall.”
“Of course it doesn’t fall.”
I throw my feet up onto it, testing my own handiwork. The table shivers under the weight but stays upright, my sheer willpower holding it together.
“Ha! See?”
When I glance back at her, she’s actually pouting. Full-on lips pushed out, brows creased, thumbs-down like a sulking cartoon character. I don’t know why it throws me off, but it does and my chest tightens, and for a split second she looks… soft. Maybe because it’s cute, which is unacceptable.
I kinda like when Jelly’s upset and she makes that pissed off face.
“You sure that thing’s stable?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Climb on and see.”
The punch to my arm is instantaneous.
“Oi! No fat jokes!” she snaps. “It’s beneath even you.”
“Ow! What the fuck is your problem?”
“What’s yours?”
“Nothing! I—you hit me!”
“You insulted me. Again!”
“I wasn’t being funny or slick,” my arm feels like it’ll fall off. “It’s just a figure of speech.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Well. I couldn’t tell.”
“Trust me.” I rub my arm, glaring at her. “If I wanted to get under your skin, I could.”
And it would be too easy.
“Am I gonna get an apology for this?” I ask.
“I would,” she starts coughing. “But the second hand smoke, it’s getting to me.”
My eye twitch at the mockery but I keep it cool. “Don’t even worry about it, Jelly.”
Her whole body jerks like I shocked her with a taser. “I swear to God—”
The doorbell cuts through the moment with perfect timing.
Time stops. No one breathes.
Her little pizza fling is at the door.
We lock eyes, an understanding of challenge flashing between us, before we both explode off the couch.
She moves fast, but I move faster.
I get to the entryway first, but she refuses to admit defeat. Frankie drops low, crawling across the floor like some determined little gremlin, grabbing at my already bruised arm and yanking with wild desperation.
“Move!” she mutters.
“Not a chance.”
“Someone just get the door!” Za calls out from somewhere in the flat.
I manage to hook an arm around her and pin her to the wall beside the door, one hand coming up instinctively to cover her mouth. Her breath warms my palm, and I can feel her heartbeat.
She glares up at me, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling quickly as she tries to wriggle free.
Not a chance.
With my free hand, I grab the handle and yank the door open.
“Yo!” The delivery guy—tallish, skinny, wearing a branded jacket says, practically vibrating. “I got three pies for—You’re—wait—are you Jabari McKingsley?”
I blink.
Fuck I’m famous, how could I forget that?
“…Yeah.”
Bro actually clutches his chest.
“No way. Nah. Wallahi, no way. I watch Gombe highlights all the time, fam. Man said transfer and popped up in my postcode? Crazy. Crazy!”
I just lost a lot of respect for Francine’s character, not gonna lie.
Behind my hand, she groans. Loud.
And he hears it.
“Uh—was that… Frankie?” he asks, leaning sideways like he’s trying to peek past me.
I widen my stance, blocking the whole doorway, pinning her tighter against the wall with my arm.
“Nope!”
He squints. “You sure? I know her breathing, you know.”
Frankie tries to shout, but it comes out muffled and homicidal under my palm.
“Really now?” My blood’s boiling lowkey. like a proper simmer. “Where do you know her from?”
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “We mess around a bit from time to time.”
I blink once.
Twice.
Mess around.
From time to time.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “We kinda fell out when she made a group chat and sent me and a few other lads goodnight texts.”
For a solid second I forget to breathe.
He’s lying.
He better be lying.
Because my idea of who Frankie is can not take this new information.
Texting multiple guys at once?
And getting caught?
Who did she turn into while I was away?
I smile. A slow, sharp, wolfish thing.
“Hm,” I say, fist tightening on her mouth a bit. “Yeah. Sounds like her.”
Frankie kicks my shin.
I barely react. “Group chat though? And you were… one of the lads?”
He nods, proud of it. “Yeah, man.”
I give him a look so polite it borders disrespectful. “Right. Cool. Thanks for clarifying.”
Behind my hand, Frankie is vibrating with rage, huffing out loud.
“You sure she’s not in there? I’d really like to talk to her.”
“No, she’s not.”
“But I heard—”
I clear my throat. “Nah, that was me. Allergies.”
He looks at me like I’m lying—which, granted, I am—but he also clearly doesn’t want to challenge me.
“You lot got… three pizzas?” he asks, still half-searching for Frankie.
“Yep.” I reach for the bags, keeping my body angled so he can’t see her at all. “We’re having a chill night. I’m… you know…” I gesture vaguely toward Frankie’s trapped form, “…busy.”
His whole face drops. “Oh.”
I nod slowly, letting the implication marinate.
“Ohhh.”
I tilt my head. “Yeah.”
He bites his lip, wounded. “So you and Frankie… like… you’re a thing?”
Behind my hand, she stiffens so hard I feel it through my forearm.
I look down at her and grin.
“Yeah, bro,” I say, dropping my voice low. “We’re… seeing where it goes.”
Frankie freezes.
Delivery Guy’s soul leaves his body.
She’s gonna kill me. Well, this is pay back for that punch. And other things.
“Oh,” he says again, voice cracking. “Yeah. Cool. Cool cool. Nah that’s—yeah. Sick.”
I take the pizzas. “Appreciate you, man.”
He nods miserably. “Tell Frankie I said—actually nah. Don’t worry. Enjoy your… evening.”
He trudges back down the hall like someone kicked over his dollhouse.
I close the door with my foot.
Slowly… slowly… I take my hand off Frankie’s mouth.
She inhales sharply, jaw flexing, eyes burning actual holes through my skull.
I smile.
“You’re welcome,” I say, bracing for the explosion.
For the shouting, the swinging and the full Frankie meltdown.
But she doesn’t yell.
No.
She straightens, smooth and controlled, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then looks me dead in my eyes.
Dead. In. My. Eyes.
Slowly, she gives me a thumbs down.
And then.
“Booooo.”