13. Penelope
Tate keeps looking over at me like he’s expecting me to lurch for his jugular. It’s a little funny. Okay, it’s a lot funny. But I have to admit, I had a really nice time with Ares, Eloise, and as much as I’m loath to admit it, even Tate. It was a great meal, with a lot of fun. And the first-date butterflies even graced me with their presence as I stared across the table at my handsome, hockey-playing date.
And those margaritas were... chef’s kiss.
“Okay, I give up. Did aliens kidnap you and this is your cry for help?”
I stop, my key halfway to my door. “Is what a cry for help?” I turn to an exasperated Tate.
He gestures his hand at me. “We had a great night together.”
“We did.”
“Where’s the She Devil? Is my dorm room trashed? Did you put laxative in my drink while I was in the bathroom? Did you swap out the mushrooms in those tacos for magic mushrooms? I’m going crazy here, Pitstop, what did you do?”
I smirk at him. “I’d love to keep you guessing all night, Satan, but maybe I didn’t do anything. Maybe I just felt like having a good time.”
His brows twitch, and if I’m not mistaken, the fear in his eyes gets stronger, not less. “Kiss me goodnight, Tate. I can go back to hating you tomorrow.”
He barely hesitates. And when his lips meet mine, he walks me back into the doorframe, his hands skimming up my sides, my arms, and into my hair. He always kisses with such passion, such emotion that it takes my breath away. And when he tries to kiss me again, I draw my line in the sand by pressing my palm onto his still sparkling face.
“Goodnight, Satan.”
He groans then sucks air in through the gap his lost tooth has left in his mouth as he shakes his head. I’m pretty sure that hardness growing against my leg is the reason. “Goodnight, Pitstop.”
The resignation that our truce is going to end tomorrow is etched on his face. My dude is so fucking dramatic.
I go inside before I make another stupid decision to revisit his dick, and close the door gently this time. It’s probably the first time since I moved into this place that I haven’t slammed the door and made the walls shake.
In my room, my heart still races, and the urge to open the door and go to him creeps into every cell in my body. So I strip off and take a shower. When I step out into the steamy bathroom, I spy a bowl of white powder on the counter. I didn’t put it there earlier, and my roommate has been gone for three days.
What the hell is it?
Wrapping a towel around myself, I let my hair hang limp over my shoulders and dip my finger into the suspicious white stuff. It doesn’t smell of anything. I put it to my lips and against all my better judgment, I let my tongue slip out and taste it. I don’t know what drugs taste like but I don’t think it’s drugs. It’s not sweet, so it’s not powdered sugar. Cornstarch? Flour?
Why is there a bowl of flour on my bathroom counter?
I try to push it aside, but it doesn’t move.
Oh my god. Did that asshole next door do this to fuck with me? How? He was out when I was out. Has this been here waiting for me all day? Did he have someone else sneak in and do it while he was eyeballing my sweet potato bravas? While he was eyeballing me across the table with his flirty glances, and delicious laughter?
I curl both hands around the bowl, plant my feet, and grit my teeth. This fucker’s paying for damages if I have to get maintenance in to remove this. With a hard jerk, I put all my strength into releasing the bowl. It comes away from the counter with more ease than I expected, but the flour covers me in a mist-plume of hazy, white cloud.
Staring at myself in the mirror doesn’t help. The urge to pull his head from his body with my bare hands and put it on a stake grows stronger with every breath.
It’s like he knew the floury substance combined with the water on my body would go gloopy. It’s gross. He’s such a child.
No screaming, no yelling, no slamming doors. Tonight taught me that while he enjoys the sparring, the verbal engagement, the banter, the silence creeps him out way more. So I’m going to let him stew and wonder. Have I found the bowl yet? Have I tried to move it? Did I cover myself in flour? Did I pause and think perhaps that using acetone or something on the adhesive might be a good way to release it?
I didn’t. And now I’m cursing myself for not giving half a thought to being strategic about the stupid bowl.
Turning back to the shower, I sigh. Hard. Then I count to ten. Three times. Because once isn’t enough to get past the urge to scream.
I passed over on the whole sending him animal shit in a box thing I found on the internet, but it might be time to revisit that idea as soon as I scrape this gloop off myself and count to ten. Again.