Page 24 of Red Flag Bull

When he walks back in, he seems much calmer. He looks at my untouched sandwich and closes his eyes, as his jaw tenses. His shoulders rise with the size of his breath, and then he lets it out long and slow and loud, like he’s doing an anger-management-style exercise. “I apologize for yelling. I’m feeling some things, and I need more time to process them, but I’ll moderate how I express myself going forward.”

I tilt my head and look him up and down. Has he learned how to talk like this in therapy or something? “You have a right to be angry at me, Jason. I deserve it.”

“Do you, Amanda?” he snarls. “Why? What did you do when you left without a fucking word? What have you been doing for the last twenty fucking years that stopped you from getting in touch and saying, Hey Jason. About that time in the woods, when you got down on your knee, and I said yes… What I actually meant was, fuck no, I can’t think of anything worse than being with you forever, which is why I ran and hid so well, you couldn’t find me.”

He’s breathing so hard, I pick up the sandwich and start eating, because I’m unsure of how to respond, and it’s the only thing I know he wanted me to do.

He stares at me. “Stop it. Stop doing whatever you think is going to please me or make me fuck you, Amanda. This isn’t fucking foreplay.”

My throat strains around a chunk of sandwich I should have chewed better. “Should I leave?”

He drags a hand over his short bristles and slumps against the doorframe. “And go where, Amanda?”

I glance around his nice kitchen. “Anywhere else.”

“So I have to lie awake all night, worrying about you being attacked in the street?” he asks. “I’m mad at you, but I’m trying really hard to keep you from danger. You’re sleeping here tonight. And have a fucking shower before you turn in. You smell like stale city-garden dirt and pussy.”

He leaves, and stomps up and down the stairs a few times, but he doesn’t come back.

I finish my sandwich and have another two glasses of water before doing my dishes and going in search of his bathroom.

I find one down the hall, with fresh towels laid out and one of his old black T-shirts folded neatly next to them. It smells clean, and yet still like him.

As soon as I step under the hot water, my aching, swollen breasts start to spray the milk I should have expressed earlier. The relief is incredible, and I sag against the tiled wall with a grateful moan.

The bathroom door flies open, and I scream and quickly cover my ass, while I face the wall.

“Don’t you fucking moan like that in my house, Amanda. There will be no coming under this roof without my permission,” he roars. “Do you fucking hear me?”

“Yes,” I whisper — too quietly.

“Answer me, damn it. Do you think you deserve to come in my presence?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Then don’t fucking do it.” He grabs his leather jacket from the hook on the door and slams the door as he leaves.

I press my forehead to the tiles. I’ll need to lock the door when I use my breast pump. It’s a good thing I grabbed the hand pump and not the loud electric one.

The shower feels amazing, but I wash quickly and sit in a towel while I express, so I don’t mess the shirt he gave me. Once I’ve drained both breasts, rinsed my breast pump, and stowed it back inside my backpack along with one-and-a-half bottles of milk I can’t even give to Lucinda’s baby, I pull on Jason’s soft T-shirt and gather my dirty clothes.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and go on the hunt for Jason’s laundry room through his dim house, because he’s made sure to turn off all the lights downstairs, and he doesn’t do anything without a reason. I assume he wants his place to appear unwelcoming, but I’m used to being unwelcome, so it doesn’t stop me from navigating the dark and using his washing machine.

Maybe I could deliver the milk to ’Cinda? Go over there super early in the morning and sneak to her door? She doesn’t actually live too far away — we rode past her street on the way here. I could walk. Could I put the bottles in the fridge tonight, and then take them over and leave them on her doorstep?

I can’t believe I was living this close to Jason King’s house and didn’t even know it. Not that he’s home very often, if Google’s right about how many countries he visits on business.

There’s a light on upstairs, and I can hear him moving around up there, so I head to the kitchen and put the breastmilk in his fridge, pushing the bottles behind the only thing big enough to hide them — a case of beer.

“Still hungry?” he growls.

I spin around, clutching my chest. “Just being nosy. Would you please stop sneaking up on me?”

“No. I don’t trust you, so I’ll keep an eye on you however I please.” He yanks the fridge door open and looks inside before turning to me. “Were you going to drink my beer? Do I need to remove the temptation?”

I shake my head. “No. I won’t drink it. I promise.”

He scoffs. “Because your promises mean so much?”

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