Chapter Thirty-Two
Jett
I’m not calm.
I’m a fucking explosive cocktail of fury, hunger, and something dangerously close to heartbreak, and I’m riding it all the way to hell on two wheels.
I don’t remember the drive home. I could’ve run over a priest and I wouldn’t notice.
The wind’s howling in my ears but all I hear is her screaming my name.
Benji? Who the fuck is Benji? Who the fuck is okay with her chasing me?
You like when she stalks someone else, Benji? That get you off? I’ll fucking staple her to my chest.
And Rhys. I want to break his calm little neck. He sat there with his smooth therapist voice and acted like it was all normal. “Maybe you should go for it.” Like he doesn’t jack off after every session, picturing her spread on his couch like she needs a psych eval mid-orgasm.
I’m seething as I yank into the driveway.
Mrs. Henderson peers out her window and I flip her off without breaking stride. She can add that to her notes about the feral psycho across the street.
I throw open the front door and stop.
The house smells wrong.
Sweet. Sugary. Floral. Like sex and perfume and sin. Like her.
Delilah P. Darling. The p is for Predator or Perfect Pussy.
I step inside and every hair on my body lifts.
The door closes behind me with a click that sounds like checkmate.
Something’s been moved. The air’s disturbed. It’s not obvious, but my skin knows. My instincts know.
She’s been here.
I stalk toward the kitchen. A beer will help. Inside the fridge there’s a cherry pie.
Sitting in the center like a calling card.
I don’t touch it. I close the fridge and walk out, grabbing nothing, beer forgotten.
She was here. In my house.
I’m moving before the rage can catch up. Bathroom’s first.
Lipstick. On the mirror.
A heart.
A fucking kiss.
I stare at it like I can make it unsay whatever the fuck it’s saying. Pretending I’m not one step away from licking the glass just to feel close to her.
She sprayed herself with my cologne. The air is thick with it. My lungs contract.
I storm to the bedroom.
Her dress is on the bed. Draped over my blanket. A wet dream got naked and made itself comfortable. It’s soft and pastel and smells like her.
There’s a bag on my pillow. Her gift. Her chaos. Something probably dumb and sentimental and diabolical. My brain’s already short-circuiting because her scent is in my sheets. She touched my pillow.
My fists clench. My jaw cracks.
I’m hard and furious and overwhelmed with a possessiveness I didn’t ask for.
My softest shirt’s gone. Drawer’s open like an echo. She rifled through me and took what she wanted.
I stand there breathing like I’ve just run a marathon through rage and boners.
She wore it home.
She’s walking around in my fucking shirt like she’s been knighted in dick-hunting madness and this is her prize.
She got in.
Touched things.
Undressed. In my house. Out of her dress. Into my clothes. Sprayed my cologne. Left her lipstick. Left her mark.
Kissed my mirror imagining I was gonna walk in and see it and know I belonged to her.
And I do.
Fucking hell. I do.
I stalk to the gift bag and snatch it open.
There’s a stuffed chili pepper in the bag. Red. Angry. Smiling like it’s in on the joke.
I hold it up. Stare at it as if it’ll explain itself. Or punch me in the face and make me forget how soft her thighs felt locked around my waist.
It’s spicy, adorable, and squeezable. Just like her.
I should throw it. I want to throw it.
Instead, I set it down. Gently. Like it’s made of glass and secrets.
Because it’s not just like her, it’s like me. It’s us.
There shouldn’t be an us.
I fish through the rest of the bag.
Trinkets. Ribbons. Food. A card. Something that smells like her tits probably brushed against it. There’s a tiny bottle of glitter inside. Why? Who the fuck knows.
Delilah logic.
This wasn’t a prank. It was a fucking declaration.
I yank the card out and the fucking cover stops me cold.
A teddy bear, gutted. Threadbare. Split wide open with its little plush intestines hanging out and one sad-ass hand-stitched patch over the heart like that’s enough to make it okay. She’s saying sorry with a goddamn bloodied Build-A-Bear.
“We came apart a little, but I still want your stuffing.”
What the fuck does that mean?
I don’t breathe as I flip it open.
Inside, she writes: “I told you too much, and I told you too late. I fucked up. But I’m still here. If you open the door again, I’ll be on the floor outside it, covered in shame and French fries.
P.S. The pie regrets everything too.”
I have to sit down.
I don’t. But I have to.
Because I hate her. I love her. I want to shake her. I want to feed her fries while she cries and then rail her into drywall until neither of us remembers what the fuck we were even fighting about.
She meant this. It’s not subtle. She never is.
And the worst part is, it worked.
It fucking worked.
I hate that I want to drag her in by the thighs, slam her into the door, growl mine, and fuck her until she breaks.
I hate that I know she’d fucking love it.
And somewhere out there, she’s wearing my shirt and probably driving barefoot like a menace, singing something deranged, thinking this was a cute idea.
Delilah isn’t a woman.
She’s a goddamn tornado that giggles as it steals your pants and your sanity and makes you thank her for it.
And I’m in love with her.
Fucking Christ.