Chapter Ten #2
“What was that?” Mom is asking when I return. I’m drenched in a nervous sweat, like a horse pushed to frothing.
“Andres’s roommates are coming home!” My smile is horror-movie unhinged. “We should wrap up and get out of here. I’ll call you later!”
“Oh, okay. I love—”
I hang up and drop to my knees, both hands clutching the edge of the table, my head hanging as I catch my breath.
“I think we went out of order,” Heather says lightly. “I rolled nineteen, so I should’ve gone before Logan.”
“I didn’t even get to roll, so that’s not fair,” says Freddie.
“Thank you,” I whisper, eyes closed. I’m burning with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to answer, and I—I panicked.”
My bedroom door swings open. “What the hell is going on?”
I turn, heart lodging in my throat. Jamie’s cheeks are red, his jaw tight. He’s wearing his work uniform, but the shirt is untucked and he’s holding his belt in one hand, wrapped around his knuckles. His fist clenches around it, the faux leather squeaking.
He clearly did not enjoy being manhandled.
“My mom called. It was an accident. I was just—I was in the kitchen.”
Andres comes to my rescue, jumping from his seat. “Hey, buddy!”
“Hi, Jamie,” Heather says, her voice low and flirtatious.
Jamie’s gaze stays on me, but his shoulders relax slightly. When he finally looks at the others, the tension has melted from his face.
Or maybe he’s just employed a mask so expertly that I didn’t see the moment it fell into place.
Jamie accepts greetings and hand claps from the DnD group with the casualness of someone who regularly functions in their orbit.
I stay kneeling on the floor, hoping he’ll pass right over me. But his hand hasn’t relaxed around his belt, and even though he isn’t looking at me, I feel his attention like a locked-on missile target.
Warning signals are going off in my brain, and I try to stand and quietly run for it. I make it one step from the table before Jamie’s gaze shifts to me, and it’s like a pin straight through my middle. I’m a bug under glass.
He tilts his head subtly in the direction of his room, a clear order. I know what my next move should be: obediently follow him like a dog who’s been caught eating garbage and is about to be punished.
Maybe that’s what the belt is for.
My stomach gives a jolt of what I hope is disgust. (It’s not.)
No, no, no.
I need to retreat. Clearly I am not well. It must be my new, whacked-out sleep schedule.
I try to take another step in the direction of my room, hoping to just get myself behind the safety of the door. But as soon as my foot touches down on carpet, Jamie says, “Blair.”
He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even raise his voice. In fact, he may have whispered, but even from across the apartment, it has the force of a missile strike.
“Can you come here, please?” he says, innocent as a schoolboy.
Heather oohs, which gets the rest of the table going.
“Oh, don’t make her ‘ew’ him again,” Andres says. “I don’t think he’s emotionally recovered yet.”
“I didn’t need to recover,” Jamie says blandly, shooting a middle finger in Heather’s direction.
She pretends to bite it, which feels weirdly sexual.
I get the feeling of being caught between two people who are inevitably going to hook up.
I’ve been third-wheeled enough in my life to recognize sexual tension.
I wish she’d lob one more flirtatious joke in his direction, and then maybe he’ll forget all about me.
But as I draw closer to Jamie, Heather is pulled back into the game, and any hope of rescue goes with her.
When I reach him, Jamie steps into his bedroom, clearly intending for me to follow, but I remember the invisible boundary he keeps referencing, and that’s really working in my favor right now. I wait in the hall.
“Come here,” Jamie says, pointing at the floor.
“But you said I’m not allowed in your room—hey!” He grabs my wrist and pulls me over the threshold, shutting the door behind us.
The oohs start again in earnest.
I flush, crossing my arms. “First of all—”
He cuts me off. “Why do you have to involve my friends in this chaos situation you’ve created?” As he speaks, he unwinds the belt from his hand and tosses it onto his bed, which I do not look at.
“It’s not like I wanted to! I answered on accident, and I happened to be in the kitchen. What, am I supposed to stay in my room like a prisoner? I need to eat too, Jamie!”
“And I need you to focus. You’re days behind on the work I’ve sent you.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’m working on it, but I’ve got a lot going on—”
“Is that going to be your forever excuse this summer? Because you said you’d make time when we made this deal.”
“I am making time! What do you want to do, bind me to my desk every night?” I jerk my chin at the belt on his bed. “Make sure I’m not leaving on any unsanctioned breaks?”
He follows my gaze to the belt and turns back to me slowly, one brow arched.
I’ll admit, the belt has made me lose my mind a little.
“Okay,” Jamie says, drawing the word out. “That might be a little weird.”
“You think? I mean, it’s one way to make sure I’m clocking enough hours for you. Should I start calling you ‘sir,’ too? Maybe saluting you when I enter a room? You tell me—you’re the cadet.”
He tips his head back with a groan, putting his whole throat on display. Brave, in this hostile climate we’ve created. “You’re such a pain in the ass, I swear to god.”
“You’re the one who called me in here. Demanded, in fact.” I put on a sweet smile as he drops his chin again, his gaze flat.
Jamie might be an anger management graduate with an arsenal of coping mechanisms, but I’m a champion button-pusher. One might call me a professional. Sawyer certainly would.
“But I’m happy to go if you’re done with me. Sir.”
A muscle in Jamie’s jaw ticks.
“Is it okay with you if I pass through the living room? Or should I go out the window and around to the front door so I don’t accidentally interact with anyone on my way to clock in at my desk?”
Whatever effect I’m having, this undoes it. Jamie’s expression smooths, and he leans back on his heels, tucking his hands in his pockets. Now he looks completely at ease.
“Yeah, that sounds good. Out the window.”
“Wait, what?”
“We’re on the first floor; that’s easy enough.”
“I was obviously kidding.” I move to open his door, but Jamie darts forward, bracing his hand against it. “Not funny. Move.”
He jerks his chin across the room, turning to lean against the door. “Window.”
“So you want round two right now? Last I checked, I won that.”
“In what possible way did you win?”
“I was on top.”
Jamie’s brow furrows, head tilting like a dog who’s just heard a particularly interesting sound.
I flush. “Don’t be gross.”
“You said it,” he replies, reaching behind him to pull the door open. He waves me out, and I go willingly, too frazzled to spend another second in his presence. I stalk wordlessly past the DnD crew and retreat to my room, shutting the door firmly behind me and flipping the lock for good measure.
Later, once the DnD group has gone and my stomach begins to really scream for food, I creep from my room and find a blue sticky note on my door with a message in Jamie’s small, neat handwriting: Threw away the old pasta you left on the counter.
Please keep the kitchen clean. It’s followed by a smiley face and signed: —J.
That. Taunting. Bastard.