Chapter 9 #2
Penny: Are you calling me raw nipples as a nickname, new guy?
Posey: Oh dear God. It’s angered.
Posey: I mean she! She’s angered.
Silas: Well, there go my balls again.
Pacey: I can’t breathe, this is hilarious.
OC: NO! I didn’t call you raw nipples. I meant the topic of raw nipples.
Penny: Does a woman’s postpartum body offend you, new guy?
Posey: For the love of God, apologize and stop talking.
OC: Please forgive me. I will not say anything else. Just . . . don’t kill me.
Penny: That’s better. Now, Halsey. I’m telling you, make the dinner. She’s going to love it. Perry never cooked for her. This is the perfect way to ease yourself into her good graces. And sloppy joes is one of her favorite meals. Follow the instructions, and nothing will go wrong. Now DO IT!
Posey: Listen to her.
Silas: Please . . . please, Holmes, just do it.
OC: Penny is the best, everything she says is correct and awesome, and she’s so smart.
Pacey: LOLOLOLOL
Penny: Good boys . . . very good boys.
I place the pan from the drawer on the stove.
You can do this. You can cook. It can’t be that hard. The instructions are so simple a child could make it. Nothing can go wrong.
I turn on the burner, then pull the ground beef out of my grocery bag and set it on the counter along with my other ingredients, ketchup being one of them. Who fucking knew?
Not sure where Blakely is, but I don’t bother looking for her while I open up the pre-chopped onions. It was a solid find for me because to hell if I was going to have Blakely find me in the kitchen crying while chopping.
I toss some oil in the pan, then throw the onions in the pan as well, taking a step back because fuck those things smell. I study the pan. See? Easy.
“Are you cooking?” Blakely asks, walking in from the balcony.
I had no clue she was out there but hope she really likes the furniture. I had her in mind with every piece I purchased. The table so she could work out there. The loungers so she could relax. And the loveseat so that maybe one day, we can sit in it together with an open fire.
“Yeah. Sloppy joes. I’m going to have extra if you want some.”
“I love sloppy joes. Do you want me to help?”
“Nah, I’m good,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I say as I grab a wooden spoon, pretending I know what I’m doing as I stir the onions around. “I have stuff to make a salad to go with it. Do you like salad?”
She smirks. “Yes, I love salad.”
Of course she likes salad, you idiot. What kind of question is that?
I’m losing my confidence.
Between Penny scaring the literal crap out of me, the pressure of not fucking up my chances, and the insane conversation I had with Blakely earlier about the bed, I’m flustered.
“By the way, I moved your bed.”
I pause stirring and look over at her. “What?”
“I found these things that helped me slide the bed through the apartment. The hardest part was getting the mattress on them, but once I did, it was smooth sailing from there. And moving the air mattress was a piece of cake.”
“I told you I didn’t want the bed.”
I toss the ground beef into the pan, unsure if my timing is right, but hell, it’ll all cook down together.
“Your lower back says differently.” When my eyes narrow, she says, “Uh yeah, I looked up your injuries to prove a point. See, told you not to mess with me. The bed is yours. I’ll be snuggling up on the comfort of air tonight.”
“Blakely . . .”
“What?” She smiles proudly at me.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Oh yeah, what are you going to do about it? Switch them back?”
“Yes,” I say. And without even thinking about it, I charge toward my room to switch the beds right then and there.
Blakely chases after me. “Don’t you dare!” she calls out, and when I reach the room, she charges past me and flops on the bed, arms and legs splayed out as if that will stop me from moving the bed.
“You realize I can lift you and the mattress together.”
“You wouldn’t dare shimmy me off this bed.”
“You don’t think I will?”
She shakes her head. “No, you’re too kind.”
“Watch me,” I say as I grab the comforter in one hand and give it a quick tug, dragging her with it.
“Nooooo,” she cries out as I wrap her up in the blanket and deposit her to the side. I quickly tear the sheets off and toss them her way, adding to her entanglement. “Stop that this very moment,” she calls out.
Ignoring her, I lift the mattress and put it on its side, then I drag the heavy-ass thing toward the doorway, only for her to throw her body onto it, sending the mattress into the wall and right out of my hands.
“You are not taking this anywhere.” She grips it like a spider, her expression determined.
I lift the mattress on its side again and wiggle it until she falls off to the floor.
I regret it for a second, hoping I didn’t hurt her, but when I see she’s okay, I tug it again.
I get it halfway out my bedroom door this time before she climbs on top of it.
Only she doesn’t cling to the side. Instead, she straddles the top, grips it with her thighs, and holds on to the top of the doorframe.
“Try me, Holmes.”
“Let go of the door.”
“Never,” she hisses.
“Blakely, I’m not letting you sleep on the air mattress.”
“Well, guess who is not in charge of me? You. That’s who.
So I suggest you put this mattress back on your bed and walk away.
I have all freaking night and I will not give up, and the minute you leave this apartment, and you’re skating your little heart around that ice, I will be moving this mattress back to your room.
I’m relentless and stubborn and refuse to let you win this match.
” A smile passes over her lips. “End of discussion.”
I don’t know what it is—her sass, that smirk, or the reverberation of the words I used on her this morning—but it creates a sense of revenge inside me, bringing me to the stubborn motherfucker I’ve been known to be. Over my dead fucking body will she be sleeping on an air mattress.
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine?” she asks, thinking she’s won.
I move back into my room while she hops down from the mattress. I feel her eyes watching me walk into my attached bathroom. I reach into one of the drawers, grab a pair of scissors, and walk past her, headed right for her room.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I remain silent, walking past Sherman, who now has a picture of a cat set up next to him. What the hell is that about?
I’ll ask questions later. I have a mission to accomplish at the moment.
“Halsey, why are there scissors in your hand?” She runs up to me, tugging on my hand, but I keep moving forward. “I asked you why you have scissors in your hand.” She tries to stop me from moving forward, but she’s no match, and I walk right into her bedroom.
“Halsey Holmes, you put those scissors down this instant.”
I step up to the air mattress, cock back my hand, and lean forward to jab just as she throws her body in front of me.
My hand stops just in time. “Jesus, Blakely, what the hell are you doing? I could have stabbed you.”
“You’re not popping this air mattress.”
“Yes, I am.” I move around her, but she moves with me, throwing her arms out and protecting the stupid thing.
Trying to outsmart her, I leap over her and cock my arm back again, only to be stopped by her climbing on my back and knocking the scissors out of my hand.
Because the air mattress is unsteady, and I’m surprised by her attack, I falter in my balance. I step to the side, missing the mattress completely, and fall to the floor, rolling my ankle in the process.
“Aw, fuck,” I cry out as I land flat on top of her, knocking the wind out of her.
Pain shoots up my ankle. She remains lifeless beneath me, and the scissors land inches from me on the floor. On a grunt, I reach for them and bring the tip toward the air mattress, just as she wraps her arms around my shoulders, holding me back.
“No, don’t.”
“It’s . . . happening,” I call out just as I make one last attempt. I lift and stab the air mattress, popping it with one big burst of air.
Relieved, I roll to the side and catch my breath as she tends to the air mattress.
“I can’t believe you did that.” She attempts to stop the air from escaping by covering the hole with her hands, but it’s pointless. “What did this mattress ever do to you other than provide you comfort?”
I wince as pain shoots up my leg. Fuck . . . that’s not good.
I crawl past the deflating air mattress and use the wall to help me stand. When I put even slight pressure on my foot, pain radiates through my leg, causing me to crumple back to the floor.
“You realize I’m just going to sleep on the couch now, right?” I feel her eyes fall on me. “Did you hear me? Couch? Wait . . . are you in pain?” She crawls toward me. “Are you crying?”
“No,” I grunt out.
“Oh God, wait . . . you are in pain. Is it your back? Should I get you ice? A brace? Tiger balm? Do they even still make that? What can I do?” She presses her hand to my back.
“It feels hot. Does that mean you snapped something inside it? I think I read that once, that hot muscles indicate an injured muscle. Is that right? Did you injure the back?”
“My . . . my ankle,” I say.
“What?” she nearly yells. “Your ankle? Are you serious? I swear to God, if you’re not serious, I’m going to murder—”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The shrill sound blasts through the apartment, nearly curdling our ears.
“Jesus, what’s . . .” She pops her head up like a prairie dog and sniffs the air. “Is something burning?”
“Burning?” I ask, totally out of it.
“Yeah, it smells like . . . oh no, is it the sloppy joes?” she yells as the fire alarm sounds off in the apartment.
“Fuck. It is.” I go to stand again, but she pushes me back on the floor, landing me on my back.
“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean for that to be aggressive, but don’t get up.” She points at me. “Stay right there. I’ll get the sloppy joes.”
“I can—”