22. Grant
Grant
Wash my lucky shirt? Not a chance.
Two days later and it’s still folded on top of my dresser.
I like looking at it. I like sleeping in the same room with it.
I don’t sleep with it, because I’m not a complete pervert, but I’ll admit to taking a sniff or two.
Maybe three. The scent is subtle but unmistakable, filling the space between thought and feeling.
Annabelle. A blend of soap and skin, softness and sunshine.
The hem is twisted where she bunched up the shirt to make it shorter. I don’t try to smooth it.
I’ll wash it sometime between now and our next family dinner. But at this moment, I’m keeping it as-is. I’ll call it my birthday present.
A soft thump hits my front door. Then another. If someone’s knocking, they aren’t trying very hard. I look through the burglar hole to see Annabelle standing in the hall.
I sweep the door open. “You can borrow one egg, neighbor. But not two. Not in this economy.”
Annabelle is gripping her phone so hard her knuckles have gone white.
The screen is spiderwebbed with cracks that weren’t there yesterday.
Her lower lip is caught between her teeth like she’s punishing it, and she stares at me with blazing focus.
Whatever has brought her here has scraped her raw.
She holds up the rage room coupon I gave her all those weeks ago. “Is this still valid?”
“Um…” I take a step back. “The Break is closed tonight.”
“So open it.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I have a coupon and I want to break things.” She shoves her phone in her hoodie pocket and brings out a thick, cream-colored envelope. “Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
“It’s a wedding invitation. I’m going to burn it.”
“Not indoors.”
“Dammit.” Angry tears pool at the edges of her eyes.
I open the door wider. “Come in for a minute. What’s going on?”
“I don’t need to come in. I need to go downstairs.” She grabs my sleeve and tries to pull me into the hall. “You need to unlock your stupid rage room for me and I need to smash all the things because I can’t smash his stupid face.”
“Whose face?”
“Magnus Wright. That’s the sewer-dweller I used to date. He’s marrying my mean-girl frenemy who—come to find out—he’d been screwing behind my back. I guess they’re screwing openly now, because she’s pregnant.”
“Oh, shit.” I hover in the doorway, my hands twitching at my sides like they’re waiting for instructions I don’t have. “Do you maybe want to call June or Lia?”
Annabelle shakes her head furiously. “For years, I didn’t get anything but a pity fuck and Magnus is giving Jacqueline a wedding ring and a whole complete baby!”
“Don’t babies usually come whole and complete?”
“Shut up.”
“I’m sorry.” I press a hand to my lips. “For you. For this situation. This is…a lot.”
“Don’t. Don’t. Stop, stop, stop.” Annabelle gestures too big for the space, palm slicing the air once, then clenching into a fist she presses against her thigh.
“Stop that right now. We’re not doing that.
We’re not going to be sad. I’m not going to be sad.
I’m going to stay extremely, completely, totally pissed off. ”
“Works for me,” I say. Her intensity is slightly scary. And also intriguing.
She straightens and swipes her thumb hard across the dark, cracked phone screen. “Can we go now? Can I break stuff?”
“Have you been drinking? I can’t let you use the rage room if you’ve been—”
“Listen, asshole. I haven’t been drinking. I don’t need to phone a friend. I’m a woman who’s been wronged. And—” She holds her thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “I’m this close to doing something that will get me a prison sentence. So are you going to let me use the rage room or not?”
“I am. Definitely.” I hold the door open with my foot as I grab my keys. “I kind of like this for your villain origin story.”
I take her downstairs and make her sign the liability waiver.
We run through the safety information which I’m not sure she hears, but I’ll be here to help if she completely melts down.
I don’t have time to do an elaborate setup so I bring out three sets of wedding china and place the boxes in the middle of the room.
I’m sure she’ll be exhausted before she gets through half of them, but if she wants to fling every single piece at the wall, I’m here for it.
The first dish shatters before the door fully closes. I hustle up to the booth and throw on my ear protectors.
Last month, a women’s studies professor from Northern Michigan University brought her class in for extra credit. They came with their own playlist featuring Lizzo, Sia, and Mortimer Nyx. I turn it on and make it loud.
Annabelle hurls a teacup. It explodes against the wall in a clean, white starburst. A plate follows, then another. She reaches into the box and starts sorting, then seems to catch herself. She lets a champagne flute slip from her fingers and it disappears into fragments at her feet.
She’s yelling something I can’t quite make out. I turn down the music and pull one side of the ear protectors away.
“It’s not me!” she shouts every time another dish hits the wall. She says it over and over, sometimes mixing it up to say, “It was never me!” I crank the music and let her go.
Three songs in and she’s a glorious dervish of pure emotion.
Her rage and grief have combined into an unnamed force as she screams and swears and throws.
Fierce satisfaction settles in my chest as I watch her claim her anger and turn it into noise.
Part of me wishes I was down there with her, to catch the sparks that spill over, to feel her fire brush against me, maybe even dare her to aim it my way.
And then, the turn.
I see it a lot, and it stabs me in the heart every time. It’s the moment my rage room customer has purged whatever demon brought them to my door, and pain has turned to glee.
Annabelle barks out a laugh as porcelain shards skitter across the floor. She whoops when a saucer hits just right, the sound ricocheting off the concrete. She twirls around the room, dancing with herself. She grabs a chipped plate in each hand and lets them fly.
She turns my way and lifts her head, and for the first time since she knocked on my door, there’s light in her face. I like seeing her take up space. I like watching her choose what breaks and when. I like seeing the anger leave her hands instead of settle in her bones.
I did that. My business. My rage room. I brought her to The Break and gave her this experience. This is why I do what I do.
I’m sorry she had to learn the hard way that love isn’t real, but at least she finally learned.
The playlist ends. The last dish is in smithereens. Annabelle is spent. This has been an evening like no other. I don’t even mind the cleanup ahead of me. I’ll get out the big broom and have it done in no time.
“Let me help you with that,” Annabelle says after she strips off the safety gear. Her eyes are bright, her skin glowing, and a satisfied smile tugs at her lips. No way am I going to bring down her high by making her do chores.
“It’s included in the fee.” I continue to sweep.
“I didn’t pay for this.”
She did, though. We had a fair exchange, because watching that rage room session was worth any price. “You had a coupon,” I say. “We’re good.”
“Yeah.” Annabelle wraps her arms around her body and watches me work.
I’ve made it to the corner of the room. “And you’re good.”
“I am. Thank you. Can I…” She’s biting her lip again, but this time, she doesn’t seem anxious. She’s scanning my body, her eyes traveling from my face to my feet and back again.
I stop sweeping. “What?”
“Can I give you a hug? I just…I want one.”
“Hugs are free.” I lean the broom handle against the wall and open my arms.
She throws herself against me and squeezes me tight.
Her head is on my chest, right at my heart, and I wonder if she can hear it hammering.
She’s warm from her rage session and she melts into me.
Her hair should smell of the sweaty helmet, but it doesn’t.
It’s still that damned peaches and coconut scent, and under it, a dangerous pheromone that I can’t name but I can feel, because it sends all the blood in my body right to my cock.
I pull away before my arousal becomes too evident. I put my hands on her shoulders and bend a bit to look into her eyes. “Not mad anymore?”
“I’m feeling something,” she says. Her cheeks are pink and she’s blinking too much. “But it’s not anger.”
“Appreciation?” My voice sounds strangled. I should stop touching her. I should let go of her shoulders and pick up my broom. I should finish sweeping up the broken pieces of someone else’s life, turn off the lights, and go home.
I don’t move.
Annabelle stares into my eyes. “Appreciation is one word. The other word is lust.”
My hands fly off her shoulders as if she’s a hot stove. I grab the broom and swipe frantically at the floor. “That’s the adrenaline talking.”
“It’s not, though.”
“Take a walk, it will cool.”
“What if I don’t want it to cool?”
“You just had a big emotional setback and—”
The rest of my sentence is lost in a plate shard hitting the wall. “Dammit, Grant!”
“Hey! Stop.”
She threw it at the far wall, not at me, but still. Safety. She’s got another shard in her hand, ready to go. I rush to her and grab her wrist. “Unless you’re going to gear up for another round, drop the dishes.”
“Don’t do this to me. Not again.” Her eyes blaze hotter. “I want you. You want me. We’ve been flirting like mad for weeks. We already know we’re great at kissing. I bet we’re great in bed, too.”
We’re both breathing heavily, standing chest to chest, staring each other down, wondering who will blink first. I’m still holding her wrist, but her hand is empty. Did I imagine a broken plate in it? What else did I imagine?
I didn’t imagine what’s happening between us, that’s for sure.
This is as real as it gets. My little head is doing most of the thinking, but somehow, I rub two brain cells together and start on my script.
“Annabelle, I think you’re amazing and I think we’d be amazing together.
I want nothing more than to rock your world.
But you need to know what I’m offering.”
“I hope you’re offering sex.”
“I’m offering clear expectations.”
“Got it.” She pats my chest with her free hand. “I can have your body, but not your heart, because you don’t have one.”
“I was going to talk about healthy consent, but I think we covered it.” My fingers on her wrist are moving in little circles. She’s soft under my touch. Warm. Lovely.
“Do I need to sign another waiver?” she asks.
“I’m wondering if I need to sign one.”
She’s pressed against me, her face tilted up for a kiss. Her hand is at my back, untucking my shirt. There’s so much unspent energy in the room, we’re on the verge of ripping off each other’s clothes right here.
“Now,” she says. “Since we’re setting expectations, I expect orgasms. Plural.”
I almost laugh. “Orgasms, plural, is the lowest bar. You can get orgasms from a battery-operated toy. I want to make you moan and writhe and call my name. I want you to feel like every nerve ending is made of starlight. I want you to come on my face and come on my dick and not stop until you feel like you’re floating in a cloud.
I don’t want you satisfied. I want you undone. Are you okay with this?”
There’s a pause that lasts only a second, maybe half a heartbeat, but seems to stretch for hours. Then she smiles and positions my hands under her ass so I can lift her. I do.
She brings her lips to my ear. Her whispered wish is as loud as a shout.
“Undo me, Grant.”