Chapter Seven
Appa
I rub my eyes and yawn, instinctively reaching for my phone on my nightstand.
I turn ‘Do Not Disturb’ off, and as always, my notifications are swarmed with overnight comments, likes, emails, and reminders.
I press the back of my head further into my warm pillow and open up my social media app.
I’m bombarded with many, many notifications, all of which are tagging me in a video.
My sleepy eyes squint at the unnerving number of mentions.
I tap one, and it takes me to Rook’s newest video.
He never posts that late.
I can’t stop my jaw from dropping when the video starts with him shirtless, as always, but also likely pants-less based on how low on his body I can see with nothing exposed.
My breath hitches as his large hands drift down his torso, reaching lower out of frame.
His arm muscles ripple as he grabs himself.
I sit up in bed, and I can feel my curly mane sticking up in every direction.
The video transitions to show him standing to the side, ripping a damn condom open with his obscured teeth. Just to toss it over his shoulder.
Why was I tagged?
I expand the caption… Daddy?
What are you? Forty?
And he could be. The caption is stupid, something about only raw and always clean, and I roll my eyes at it.
Sounds a little pick-me for Rook’s usual style, but whatever.
My still sleepy eyes scan over the hashtags…
cream pie. With an apple emoji right after.
I gasp out loud as my throat tightens. He went there and publicly blasted me to anyone paying attention to our cryptic comment exchange a month ago.
He knew what he was doing with that hashtag, and my blood boils, heating my ears and face.
Don’t drag my name down with yours, motherfucker.
But let’s get messy then. He doesn’t know just how scrappy I am. I clench my hand under the sheet. Being the only girl with three older brothers gave me thicker skin than he could ever imagine, and I suddenly know exactly what I’m going to do today.
“I’ve been craving something sweet and salty, so let’s make cookies with a little twist,” I tell my camera.
Growing up, Mama baked cookies weekly, usually at the request of my dad and older brothers.
It’s one of the few things I can make in the kitchen after being forced to help her for years, usually while being told I was doing something wrong.
Her kitchen always smelled sweet, but her stern judgment was not.
I have to wipe the dust off my heavy stand mixer—off camera, of course—and cream sugar and butter together. I slowly add the eggs and a splash of vanilla, and I breathe in as the fragrant extract fills the air. All of my body products are vanilla-scented because I find it intoxicating.
My caramel-colored mixture thickens into real cookie dough after adding the dry ingredients and chocolate.
It’s so simple, and my neighbors will be thrilled about cookies when I pass them out later.
Editing this video will be more difficult, but I never post cooking or baking content.
It’s a refreshing change, but my friend will probably tell me she could have replicated the recipe with bananas or some other healthy alternative.
Tell me you live in LA without telling me.
“You know, the baked thing is great, but the raw dough is the best part,” I say and lick the grainy dough off the silicone spatula with my tongue on camera. It’s suggestive for my normal vibe, but most of my followers won’t notice or care.
Rook will, though, and I hope he’s weak in the knees.
To be honest, I’m eager to post this. I ignore my bouncing knee and splice it together quickly into a one-minute video while the aromatic cookies bake. I upload it with the caption: ‘Spoiler—they taste better before baking.’ I know Rook will hear my spoken line in the video loud and clear.
The video gets a lot of reactions throughout the day, but none from Rook.
I shouldn’t be disappointed like I am, and a tightness forms in my ribs when my notifications come up free of Rook.
Some commenters, who are deeply invested in our on-and-offline entanglement, connect the dots to the ‘raw dough’ reference, and a few viewers tag Rook.
While I’m answering emails after dinner, my phone resting on my desk pings with a notification that Rook commented. I’ve been waiting all day for this, but my fingers still tremble as I pick up my phone to view the comment. This could either be a red herring… or the hinge point of everything.
@Rook: Daddy knows you like it raw.
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
He must have been missing me while I stayed quiet, but what’s the next move?
Are we going to go back and forth on social media forever?
He’s broken in once without a trace, so he could do it again…
maybe he has. My stomach drops. He could be in my house for all I know.
But that doesn’t freak me out like it should.
I’ve fantasized about Rook taking me in the middle of the night—rough, unexpected, but I always thought he had a real life outside of social media. Like a girlfriend or wife. But the night he visited me squashed any of those theories because he wouldn’t have if he were committed to someone else.
I sit back in my desk chair, making it creak. I have no business getting involved with someone like him—that I know. It’s like I have an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other, pulling me in opposite directions.
It’s too late now.
He could come into my house at any time, and there’s nothing I could do to stop him.
And then the power cuts out a little too perfectly timed.
My computer screen turns black in front of my eyes, and I can see my reflection in the glass screen.
Like last time, the usual buzzing of appliances and the whoosh of a fan go silent.
I rush to my feet to look out the window behind my desk to see if my neighbors have power.
I see lights on in their homes, so it’s just me again. I can feel my hair stand up on my skin.
He’s here, but what do I do?
I’m not ready to face him. I fully expected him to post a subtle response, not show up at my house right away! It repeats in my mind that I couldn’t stop him.
I slip into the hallway, lightly trailing my fingers down the smooth wall as I walk toward the stairs.
The dark is so heavy that I can only make out doorways and the landing where the stairs meet the floor.
I look over the railing and see him making his way up the stairs.
A breath punches out of my lungs, and I turn away.
I bury my face in my hands and hunch my back slightly.
Please be Rook…not the other guy.
I sense him coming up behind me, brushing his front side against my back. “I was overdue for this.” His breath is hot against my ear, but his whisper is enough to confirm his identity.
He reaches around me and grabs my forearms from behind, forcing my arms to part, and holds them to my sides. I don’t know what to say or do, but my exhale is ragged as it leaves my lips. He trails his fingertips down my arm but abruptly clamps his other hand in between my legs over my joggers.
“Is this what you want?”
I shake my head. “No, not yet.” He drops his hands at once and takes a step back. “Tomorrow night…come find me.” I can hardly believe those words left my mouth. I’ve dreamed of this moment for years, and I’m not only turning him away but telling him what to do.
You can take the girl out of the South…
He steps closer again. “You don’t get to dictate that.”
“But I just did. Come back tomorrow,” I snap.
It’s bold and sassy of me, but truthfully, I just want to shave and be ready. I’m not cute or sexy right now in my old joggers hanging loosely off my hips and an oversize tee, and my hair is half tied up in a messy knot with curls gathered around my shoulders.
He tangles his fingers in my hair, tugging my curls. Now, I’m afraid of what he might do. My pulse changes as desire blurs into fear for my safety, but he’s not going to kill me, which I know with absolute confidence.
“I’m not letting you get away with speaking to me like that in the future,” he quietly snarks, but I just lift my chin and smirk to myself.
Because that means he’s letting me get away with it this time.
“Or what?” I ask. Part of me wonders what he’d do if I pushed him, and I just might have to find out, depending on how tomorrow goes.
He yanks my hair hard enough to tilt my head backward toward him.
An instant sting ripples throughout my scalp, and he releases his grip on my hair.
“Ow,” I quietly squeak, reaching up to massage my scalp.
“I’ll put you in your place.”
I never thought I was a tease and more passive, but Rook’s pulled the reckless, fearless side of me out. “Mm, promise?”
“You’re not normal, Apple Montgomery.”
“Neither are you,” I murmur. “And don’t fuck with my panel. My dad gets notified when it glitches, jackass,” I snap, my voice cutting sharply. I hear him exhale a huff behind me. “I’ll leave my lights out tomorrow night. Now, get the hell out before I change my mind and turn you in.”
I suck in a breath and brace for impact, but when I turn to glance over my shoulder, he’s vanished again as quickly and silently as the first time.
I stand up tall, not worried about checking closets to make sure the house is clear.
I know I am. And he’s putty in my hands.
Which leaves me with an edge I never expected.
Manipulation.