Crash, Cry, Whatever
Griff
Ryder pointed at the thing in my hand. "What the hell is that?"
I felt like beating him with it. "I'm guessing it's your idea of a joke."
"An orange thermos?" He frowned. "If it's a joke, I'm not getting it."
The hell he wasn't. A half hour ago, I'd gone back to the boathouse, only to find it gone. Demolished. Hauled off like it had never existed.
And sitting right there on the cracked foundation, in all its blinding orange glory, was this.
I lifted the thermos higher. "Bullshit. You think it's funny?"
"What, the thermos?" He gave it half a glance. "I guess it's a little funny. I mean…orange is funnier than black."
"Lemme guess…you stuffed it full of cranberries." My tone grew sarcastic. "So fucking funny."
"Dude," he said. "If you open that thing and find cranberries, I'll eat my hat."
My grip tightened on the thermos. "You're not wearing a hat."
"Fine. I'll eat your hat." He gestured vaguely toward my head. "So, you're what? In disguise or something?"
Looking to avoid attention, I'd been wearing a baseball cap low over my face. I'd spent most of the day in Mackinaw City, dealing with detectives, both public and private – along with a college kid in need of a job.
Sure, I'd had to hit an ATM to make a few things happen, but the way I saw it, this was separate from the bet. And if anyone thought differently, Ryder included, they could kiss my ass.
I'd returned from the mainland to find my apartment gone, a thermos in its place, and Ryder holed up in the same suite as before.
In reply to his question about the disguise, I ripped off my hat and flung it to the far wall.
Ryder scoffed, "That'll show me."
Fucker. Deliberately, calmly, I set down the thermos on the nearest side table and said in a tight voice, "You tore down my home and replaced it with a thermos."
He lifted a finger – and not the usual one. "First of all, it wasn't your home. It was a dump. You know this. I know this." He lifted a second finger. "Second of all, that thermos? I never saw it before in my life."
"Fuck the thermos," I said. "I had eight days left."
"Yeah, I know." He grinned. "But you'll be staying here instead." He said it like he was doing me some kind of favor.
I frowned. "What do you mean here?"
"In the suite. I'm heading out." He pointed toward the far corner, where a familiar black duffel was plopped on the carpet like a smoking turd. "I packed your stuff. So…you're welcome."
"I'm not thanking you."
"Yeah, well you should," he grumbled. "I got there maybe five minutes before the wrecking crew."
"So?"
"So if I hadn't gone out there, your duffel would be on a barge to fuck-knows-where along with your stuff."
I gave him a hard look. "My 'stuff' is in Chicago."
"Yeah, and a fat lot of good it'll do you here ." He gave me a penetrating look. "Assuming you're planning to stay."
"I've got eight days," I said for the second time in five minutes.
He looked unimpressed. "Yeah, I heard you the first time."
"But you're still not getting it." My fingers clenched. "I didn't ask for the place to be torn down."
"Why not?" he scoffed. "You're thinking she'll come back? Knock on your door? Kiss and make up? All that other crap?" He shook his head. "Yeah, well…these Michigan girls, that's not the way they roll."
"Who are you talking about?" My eyes narrowed. "And don't say just Maisie, because you said 'girls' as in plural."
"Maisie and whoever," he said. "I'm just saying, they're not exactly predictable.
" He stalked to the closet, yanked open the door, and dragged out a suitcase.
Then, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a keycard, and flung it onto the same table as the thermos.
"The place is yours 'til next Saturday. Crash, cry, whatever. I'm outta here."
And with that, he turned and strode to the suite's main door. He yanked it open, walked out, and let the door swing shut behind him, leaving me standing there on my own, wondering what the hell had just happened.
As far as the rest of it, the guy had it all wrong. I wasn't waiting for Maisie to knock on my door.
I wasn't the waiting type.
If I wanted something, I went after it.
I didn't sit there and sulk. And I didn't run like a pussy.
And if I used this place at all, it wouldn't be for crying.
I was still staring after him when a hard knock at that same door jolted me out of my thoughts. Curious, I moved forward and yanked it open.
It was Ryder. Silently, he stalked forward and made a beeline for the thermos. He grabbed it with one hand and stalked out the way he came.
I called out after him. "So that was yours?"
His only reply was a raised finger, this time the usual one.
Under my breath, I muttered, "Yeah? Well, same to you."