Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Hugo
Cosmo is one lucky bastard.
Not because he’s living with me now. Pell couldn’t line up a family, so I took him. I’m better than nothing.
No, it’s that the lucky bastard is curled against my ribs in bed, snoring like he hasn’t got a care in the world.
New leash, squeaky toys, freeze-dried organic food that costs more than mine. Meeting Cosmo’s needs is easy.
“Thanks for not being scared of me after what I did to your owner,” I whisper, rubbing my thumb in a tiny circle on the bridge of his freckled snout. “No one will ever shout at you again.”
I, on the other hand, may never sleep again. Not when Rue’s hating me from the other side of the wall after a few days with her sister. I force myself to remember all those horrible yet true things she said about me.
With one last scritch to Cosmo’s head, I turn back to my laptop, where I’ve been working on my apology to her since I gave up trying to fall asleep around midnight.
So far, I have the abstract written.
I’m sorry the cameras made you feel violated. I’m sorry they reminded you of your ex-boyfriend, who deserved whatever you did to him and more.
I swear I never saw you naked or watched you in a sexual situation. I swear I’m the only person who ever saw footage of you. I swear I never meant to hurt you.
I did it for you. I love you. I can explain.
Please.
Fuck.
I toss the laptop aside with a groan. I need to flesh out my executive summary with point-by-point evidence, but all I can think about is her ex.
Greg fucking Whitfield’s lucky he’s dead.
If he weren’t, I’d have brought suffering down on him like I’ve never allowed myself to do to the worst rapists, abusers, and murderers.
I haven’t even seen the videos; it’s enough knowing they were taken without her knowledge and shared without her permissi—
“Hey!”
I jump at Rue’s muffled shout, which she accompanied with the slam of her palm against our shared wall. It has Cosmo blinking awake and hopping to the floor.
“Yeah, you. I can hear you moving around,” she yells. “Just so you know, I’m planning to masturbate.”
I groan and slam my hands over my ears.
“That’s right, neighbor. I’ll even crank ye olde vibrator up to high for your listening pleasure.”
The mechanical buzz from next door kicks in immediately, and I stuff my fist in my mouth as I fall face-first onto my comforter. My oblivious dog, meanwhile, yawns as he settles into his new orthopedic bed in the corner.
“Godddddd, it feels good already.” Rue’s throaty voice drops even more when she says, “Enjoy it, pervert.”
Of course I will. I’ve already turned onto my back so I can slide my hand down my bare chest and under my flannel sleep pants to grip my dick. I bet I could come in six strokes, especially given Rue’s loud gasps through the wall.
Then I remember the rest of it. What she said to me. What I said to her. Her reaction to the cameras.
“Fuck!” I shout, flattening myself against the mattress once again in the hopes of smothering my erection.
I’m better than the Greg Whitfields of the world.
Grabbing my laptop, I close the apology file and fumble to turn on music, any music, the loudest music I can think of, so I can drown out the buzzing next door.
And that’s how I end up pointedly not stroking my aching cock to the greatest hits of John Philip Sousa for the longest eight minutes of my life.