12. Joker
I’ve stepped into it this time. There is no tip-toeing around this issue, and I am knee-deep in the shit. I’m not sure where this anger originated, but this has been brewing for a long time. Queen will not make this easy on me, because it seriously can’t be all because some bitch marked me. She walks away so quickly, and I try to keep up. Queen seems to want this out in private rather than here. Nope, out here is safer. Being alone with her isn’t a good idea when she is this angry. Why do I find it so sexy when she is angry? My tongue wets my dry lips and my brain goes into overdrive as I try to improve this situation. What can I do to get her to squash this between us? I almost lost her all those years ago, and I cannot do that again.
Queen walks with a sway to her movements, and my eyes dart to her ass as I watch her walk. My fist goes to my mouth and I have to bite it because her backside is a work of art. Her ass looks amazing in those pants. Whoever invented yoga pants is in my good graces. The blood that stains them makes it that much hotter. She is like a walking wet dream for me right now and I am having a hard time focusing. Queen just used my knife to kill her childhood abuser, and now she seems even more furious. Shouldn’t his death calm her down? I know I feel better after taking a creep out of this world.
I call after her, trying to get her to slow down so I can reason with her. A voice in my head is screaming at me. There is no reasoning with her! This is part of the reason you’re so obsessed with her! Queens don’t have to play by the rules of peasants. That doesn’t mean I can’t try. I pull her shoulder back, trying to get her to stop and look at me. “Queen, can we just put this to bed?”
My beautiful Queen jerks her shoulder back before she turns around, glaring at me. Her look is vicious, almost like she says, how dare I touch her. Her lips pull back over her teeth as she snarls before raising her pointer finger at me. I honestly think she might stab me if she had a knife. Instead of stabbing me, she jabs her pointer finger at my chest, poking me close to my sternum. She is like a sexy, vengeful goddess, her face splattered with blood. My warrior Queen. “No, we can’t just put it to bed. This conversation is overdue. For fuck’s sake, take a shower first.” She turns around and smashes the elevator button. When the doors to the elevator open, she storms inside.
When I go to follow, she pushes me back out of the elevator before she jams the close door button. “Get the next one, asshole.” Before the doors entirely close, she says, “Ten minutes!”
Son of a bitch!I smack the elevator door button, and a recruit turns the corner holding a coffee with a cookie perched on the top of the to-go lid. He pauses as he sees my face and slowly backs away. “Fucking coward,” I mutter under my breath as I enter the elevators and hit my floor. That guy had better be thankful he wasn’t on my team. However, when I caught my reflection in the elevator mirror, there was no wonder he backed away. Bruises adorn my face from going rounds with Ace. Blood spatter is on my face and clothes. My knuckles have bruises, and I don’t even feel them. I turn my head back and forth to see the mark on my neck. It is a mixture between a bite and a hickie. I cannot believe I didn’t notice and allowed it to happen. My anger rises and I punch the mirror. The glass splinters and I feel no better than I did a second ago. I look at the camera in the elevator before pointing at it. “Fucking bill me!”
My gaze lingers on Queenie’s door before I move to my own. My apartment lacks everything. This place is only used for sleeping and showering. I’ve never used the kitchen for anything besides storing paperwork. I hate the idea of a closed-off office because I need to see the only entry point of this place, but even then, I mostly use a conference room.
As I walk into my bathroom, I smack the light switch before turning on the sunflower shower head and wait until it gets hot. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that things are about to change between her and me. There are only so many times I can clean up my fuck ups with her. Only so many times that I can hide why I keep trying to make up those fuck ups with her. Anyone else would have been dead by now; surely she must see that.
There is one question that keeps playing over and over in my mind. Will I be able to stay here if I lose her friendship? This is my home. I have made enough money to live comfortably. I have the skills to disappear with bug-out bags stashed all over. My paranoid mind won’t settle for any less and the buzzing and nagging in my brain start over.
I can’t lose her. I don’t know how I will pull it off, but she is the only thing between me and insanity. Long ago, I promised myself that if she died, I would get revenge and then follow her into the darkness, letting it swallow me up and hoping we get another chance in the next life. Why am I so obsessed with her? She is the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing I think of when I go to sleep. When I met Queenie, it was like coming into focus. She quieted the noise that lived inside my head. Sitting next to her, breathing the same air as her, is enough.
She deserves a family, love, and support. I could give her love, well, at least my version of love. My fucked up soul would try. When I turn the shower off, I dry myself before wrapping the black towel around my waist. I gaze at my reflection once more in the mirror. Even if she stays here, I don’t believe that she will allow herself that. Can I stay here and watch it?
It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. The list of things that are pissing me off is growing long. First, I will speak with Malcolm about banning all sessions with Broken Siren and Sex Kitten. They talked me into a session together and one of them caused my current problem. I had rules, and one of them wanted to mark me as theirs. It was deliberate. Malcolm would have already received a phone call from me. However, when he answered, he told me he didn’t have time for my bullshit. Whatever is going on at the BowTied is a problem for the future.
I dry off quickly, putting on a gray T-shirt. My wet hair drips as I slip on my black sweatpants. This conversation should be quick. After it’s over, I can come home and stare off into the darkness in bed, begging sleep to come and take me. At least tomorrow I can take my anger out on the mission.
I hope my Queen is in a forgiving mood, but I doubt that is a possibility. Nut up or shut up. That’s the motto I will use in my approach to this conversation. Set things right and get us both in a clear mindset for tomorrow. Tomorrow, there can be no distractions. I would never forgive myself if something happened on the mission because her mind wasn’t right. I grab a bottle of whiskey and take a long pull off of it before lighting up a cigarette to calm my nerves. My kitchen clock tells me I have less than two minutes left. I am prompt. Of all of my faults, that isn’t one of them.
My grip on the bottle tightens and I take another pull of the whiskey, needing it to heat my body. The noise that lives inside my brain is going to have to be drowned out before this talk. I plan on getting a slight buzz in on the two minutes I have left. A drink followed up with a chaser of smoke into my lungs so I could stop the sinking feeling in my stomach between them. With 30 seconds left, I am at the front door and walking over to her door. Here goes nothing.