26. Maren
Maren
I 'm halfway through painting my second coat of Bloodlust Red on my left big toe when I hear the doorknob clicking open. I don't look up. I just keep carefully dragging the tiny brush across my nail, pretending I don't feel the immediate shift in the air when he walks in.
“Well, isn't this cute and domestic-like?” Riggs' voice fills my apartment, amused and irritatingly confident. “You could've just waited for me, you know. I give excellent pedicures.”
I don't break my concentration. “I'm sure your hockey bros would love to hear about that hidden talent.”
He drops his gym bag by the door and moves closer, towering over me. His hair is still damp from the post-game shower, and he smells like that stupidly expensive cologne I pretend to hate.
“Or better yet,” he continues, dropping onto the couch beside me, close enough that I can feel his body heat, “you could've just sat in the front row and given me something prettier to look at than Coach's constipated face.”
I cap the nail polish and finally look at him. “Front row? Please. I have standards.”
“Standards that apparently include sneaking into my games and hiding in the nosebleeds.” His smile is infuriating, like he's won something. “Cute selfie, by the way.”
“I was in the neighborhood.” I fan my hand at my feet, avoiding his eyes. “And stop acting like I came to see you specifically. Maybe I just appreciate the violence.”
Riggs laughs, his head falling back against the couch. “Right. That's why you texted me play-by-play commentary.”
“Constructive criticism.” I reach for the bottle again, unscrewing it with deliberate slowness. “Someone needs to keep your ego in check.”
He watches me paint my pinky toe, his eyes tracking every movement. The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we're not saying. Like how I sat in a hockey arena for three hours just to see him. Like how he came straight here after the game instead of celebrating with his team.
“Your form is terrible,” he finally says, snatching the nail polish from my hand. Before I can protest, he's sliding to the floor, positioning himself between my legs.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” I try to pull my foot away, but his hand wraps around my ankle, firm but gentle.
“Being useful.” He dips the tiny brush into the bottle. “Since you clearly need the help.”
I should kick him in the face. I should tell him to get out. Instead, I let him hold my foot in his calloused hands as he carefully applies the polish to my remaining toes. His touch is delicate, his focus on each brushstroke being just right.
“I saw that cheap shot in the second period,” I say, watching his face. “The one the ref missed.”
His jaw tightens slightly before one of his hands lands on my thigh, exactly where the bruise is hidden underneath my t-shirt. He doesn't press, just rests his palm there like he's claiming territory. “Three days of silence, and now this. What changed?”
I want to tell him to fuck off, to remove his hand from my leg and my foot, to stop looking at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. Instead, I shrug. “Nothing changed. I'm still pissed.”
“About the tracking thing?”
“Among other things.”
He looks up at me, his eyes darkening as he screws the cap back on the polish bottle. His hand is still on my thigh, thumb now making small circles.
“I'm not sorry,” he says, voice dropping low. “And I would do it again.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you would.”
“You don't get it, do you?” He sets the polish aside and rises to his knees, bringing his face closer to mine. “You're not just some girl I'm fucking, Maren. You're my goddamn obsession.”
“Poor you,” I deadpan, but my heart is hammering in my chest.
“I know you can take care of yourself. Christ, I've seen what you can do.” His hand slides up my thigh, leaving heat in its wake. “But you shouldn't have to do it alone. You deserve someone watching your back.”
I scoff. “I don't need a bodyguard.”
“No,” he agrees, “what you need is someone to help you get rid of the bodies you like to pile up.”
The air between us freezes. My eyes narrow to slits. “What did you just say?”
“Twelve now.” His expression doesn't change.
“Are you keeping track?” I lean forward, my face inches from his. “Do you have a little dossier on me, Riggsy? A cute little scrapbook with newspaper clippings and red string connecting all the dots?”
His smile is slow, predatory. “Would it turn you on if I did?”
“You're disgusting,” I say, but there's no bite to it. Something dark and thrilling coils in my stomach at his words.
“You like me disgusting.”
“I don't like you at all.”
His hand moves higher, fingers skimming the hem of my shorts. “Liar.”
I slap his hand away, but my heart isn't in it. “Do you have a point, or did you just come here to annoy me?”
“Maybe I missed you.” His eyes hold mine, and for a second, I almost believe him.
Before I can respond, his stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing growl. The tension breaks, and I can't help but laugh.
“Hungry much?” I raise an eyebrow.
He grins, unashamed. “Burned a lot of calories tonight. Some of us have actual jobs.”
“Hockey isn't a job. It's glorified ice dancing with sticks.”
“Says the girl who watched the whole game.” He stands up, stretching. “Got anything to eat that isn't expired or poisoned?”
“Check the fridge. There might be one of your nasty protein shakes left.”
As soon as he disappears into the kitchen, I grab my phone and quickly pull up my delivery app. I tap through my recent orders, selecting the Mexican place he likes and double-ordering his usual. I hit submit just as I hear the refrigerator door close.
Riggs returns, protein shake in hand, and drops back onto the couch. He cracks the top and chugs half of it in one go, his throat working as he swallows.
“God, that's vile,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is the new Snapped on tonight?”
I can't help the laugh that escapes me. Of course he'd want to watch a show about women who murder their husbands.
“What?” he asks, defensive. “It's educational.”
“For who? The victims?”
“For me.” He grins. “Gotta know what warning signs to look out for.”
I grab the remote and pull up my recordings. “Lucky for you, I recorded it.”
“You're a keeper, nightmare.”
I settle into the couch cushions as the show's dramatic intro plays. Riggs slides down next to me, his arm casually stretching across the back of the couch behind my shoulders. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
“Twenty bucks says she used antifreeze,” he says as the narrator describes the mysterious death of a wealthy businessman.
“Amateur move,” I scoff. “Too traceable.”
“Speaking from experience?” His eyes slide to mine, playful but searching.
“Wouldn't you know with your fancy little handy-dandy notebook?”
We fall into silence, occasionally trading theories about the murder method or commenting on the victim's obvious character flaws. Riggs' stomach growls again, louder this time, but he ignores it, too engrossed in the show to complain.
About thirty minutes in, there's a sharp knock at my door. Riggs' head whips around, his entire body tensing like a guard dog on alert.
“Who the fuck is coming here this late?” he mutters, already pushing himself off the couch. He moves toward the door with a predatory grace, checking the peephole before turning back to glare at me. “You expecting someone?”
I just smile sweetly and shrug, enjoying the irritation flickering across his face.
“Because it sure as hell ain't me,” he continues, hand resting on the doorknob. “And I'm the only one who should be here this late.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Says who?”
He opens the door with more force than necessary, blocking my view with his broad shoulders. I can hear a muffled exchange before Riggs takes something from the delivery guy and practically slams the door shut.
He turns around, holding two plastic bags that smell like heaven, his expression caught between confusion and annoyance.
“What the hell is this?” He lifts the bags slightly.
I press pause on the remote. “Food. For your loud, angry stomach.” I gesture toward the coffee table. “Now shut the fuck up and eat.”
Riggs sets the bags down but remains standing, looking at me with that stubborn set to his jaw that I've come to recognize all too well.
“I could have ordered the food,” he says, reaching for his back pocket where I know he keeps his wallet. “I should have ordered.”
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. “Please spare me some manly, masculine bullshit about you needing to be the one to pay for food.”
He pulls out his wallet anyway, flipping it open. “At least let me?—”
“Don't even try to give me money,” I cut him off, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I'll gut you and stick it in your intestines.”
His eyes darken at the threat, but his lips curl into a slow smile. “Always so violent.” He tucks his wallet away and finally sits back down, closer this time. “I like it.”
Riggs tears open the first container, the smell filling my apartment.
“Your usual,” he says, sliding it toward me.
“I'm not hungry,” I lie, even as my stomach tightens at the aroma.
He snorts, spearing a piece of meat with his fork. “You're always hungry. You just forget to eat.”
“I don't need a babysitter.”
“No, you need a chef.” He lifts the fork to my mouth, his eyes challenging. “Open.”
“I'm not a fucking child.”
“Then stop acting like one.” The fork hovers, waiting. “Eat something, Maren.”
I stare him down, but my resolve crumbles when my stomach betrays me with a growl. I part my lips just enough for him to slide the fork in, the spicy sweetness exploding on my tongue.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, satisfaction heavy in his voice.
I swallow and flip him off. “Don't push it.”
He smirks, loading up another forkful. We settle into a rhythm—him alternating between feeding himself and me as the show continues. The woman on screen is sobbing through her police interrogation, claiming she had nothing to do with her husband's mysterious illness.
“Bullshit,” Riggs and I say in perfect unison, then exchange surprised glances.
“She's overplaying it,” I say, accepting another bite from him. “Real grief doesn't look like that.”
“No,” he agrees, his eyes never leaving my face. “Real grief is quieter. More...hollow.”
Something shifts in the air between us, something I don't want to examine too closely. I turn back to the TV, letting the narrator's voice wash over me. The food settles warm in my stomach, and the tension I've been carrying for days begins to ebb.
“Told you she used antifreeze,” Riggs says when they reveal the toxicology report.
“Such a fucking amateur,” I mutter, my eyelids suddenly heavy.
I don't realize I'm leaning to the side until my head connects with Riggs' shoulder. He shifts slightly, his arm coming down from the back of the couch to curl around my shoulders, tucking me against him.
“You can sleep,” Riggs murmurs, his thumb making lazy circles on my upper arm. “I'm not going anywhere.”
“Wasn't asking you to stay,” I mumble, even as I nestle closer to his warmth.
His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. “Didn’t ask me to leave either.”
I make a noncommittal sound, too tired to argue. My eyes close completely, the television's glow painting the insides of my eyelids red. I feel myself drifting, slipping toward unconsciousness.
“You don't have to run from me,” he whispers against my hair, so softly I almost think I've imagined it.
“What makes you think I'm running?” My voice is thick with fatigue.
His arm tightens infinitesimally around me. “Three days of silence. The way you look at me when you think I don't notice. Like you're trying to decide if I'm worth the risk.”
I don't answer. I can't. Because the truth is, the answer terrifies me.