Page 16 of Keep Me

I stride up to him. “You’re not going to scare me out of my own home.” He brushes his sweaty strands of hair out of his face again, and an idea jumps into my head. “Whatever,” I acquiesce. “Let me get some things out of here first.”

He steps aside, and I shut the door behind me, a satisfied smile playing on my lips as I spot his leather toiletry bag sitting on the counter.

I’m just putting the pasta into the boiling water when a bellowing yell comes from the bathroom. “Cortez!”

I give the noodles a stir, grinning like a madman. I practically skip to the bathroom. I knock once on the door and it flings open, a furious looking Roan on the other side. I lean against the door jamb, a self-satisfied smirk no doubt painting my lips. “Something wrong?”

“My hair is falling out in goddamn chunks,” he rages, fisting his hair and showing me the clump in his palm. His body is practically vibrating. He’s wearing a pair of black joggers, a white towel hung around his neck.

He looks at me expectantly, and I raise my eyebrows. “Was there a question in there?”

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and seethes. The magnolia bloom tattoo on his neck bobs as he swallows down whatever spew of obscenities he wants to throw my way. He pulls out an electric razor from his toiletry bag. He plugs it into the wall, and then turns to face me.

His eyes harden, and my lungs constrict with the full intensity of his gaze bearing down on me. Like the world's strongest magnets, I am incapable of pulling my eyes away from his, even as the razor begins to buzz.

I lower my chin and glare at him as he runs the razor through the patches of hair he has left. The volatile look on his face turns to a detached, stoic mask as he continues to shave his head, never once breaking eye contact. Suddenly he’s the picture of cold, unbothered indifference.

With each pass of the blade, it feels like he is inching closer and closer to getting the upper hand. Once he’s done, he brushes his hand over the short buzz covering his scalp. I want to sulk when he looks just as handsome without hair. It gives him a harder and crueler edge. It fits him perfectly.

My smug grin falls, and he gives me a small sneer and lifted brow as if to say, that’s all you got? No, it’s not, pendejo.

I don’t want him to see me falter. I push off the jamb and look at the mess of hair on the bathroom floor. “There’s a vacuum in the hall closet,” I say before walking away.

I finish cooking our spaghetti dinner while Roan reads a book on the couch. His presence has me constantly on edge. Every time I turn my back, I half expect him to appear behind me, forcing me down onto whatever surface I’m in front of. I’d rather he left me with my pants down and anger righteous than the confusing way he tenderly pulled them up. He was careful not to touch my bare skin, his fingers only hovering a moment longer than necessary over my hips at the end.

The fact that he felt he needed to coddle me after humiliates me even more. I’d rather his disdain than pity. My chest burns hot with embarrassment as I slice a serrano pepper down the middle with plastic gloves on. I score the inside of the pepper and scrape the seeds off into a mortar before tucking it into my pocket. I keep a subtle eye on Roan making sure he isn’t paying attention to me.

I go straight to the bathroom and take the pepper out. The door opens into the bathroom, so I can rub the pepper—the scores bringing out the spicy oils—over the knob without being seen. I close the door and sit on the toilet idly for a minute before flushing an empty bowl. I do the same to the inside knob and then peel off my gloves, throwing them in the wastebasket and tossing a few scrunched up balls of tissue paper over top.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” I say gruffly, trying to keep any tiny hint of excitement from my voice. I hate him, so I need to sound like I hate him. He’s been chugging water since he finished working out, so I’m not surprised when gets up to go to the bathroom after my announcement. I was hoping he would.

While he’s in there, it gives me enough time to pound the serrano seeds into a wet paste. I serve myself and then stir the pulverized seeds into the rest of the spaghetti and red sauce. Dinner’s served, bitch.

“Food’s on the stove,” I say as he comes back, already seated at my small dining table that separates the kitchen from the living room area.

He huffs something under his breath that sounds like thanks. Once he’s seated, he squirms in his seat, a pinch between his brows showing his discomfort. His one hand on the table tenses into a tight fist and the other adjusts himself in his pants. I keep my eyes on my plate so I don’t give away anything on my face.

He dives into his food almost angrily, probably to distract from the burning in his pants. After he shovels a few bites, he inhales sharply and chugs a bunch of water. I watch him try to discreetly search the noodles with his fork, inspecting the chunks of onion and tomatoes in the sauce. He won’t find what he’s looking for. That’s why I ground up the seeds—I didn’t want him to be able to pick them out.

“Not hungry?” I ask as he drains his water cup, his plate barely picked at.

He fidgets in his seat again, and his jaw pulses. “So what did you put in my shampoo?” I don’t miss the fact he’s ignoring my question.

I fold my forearms on the table and take in his shaved head and the pained look on his face he’s desperately trying to hide. “Nair.”

“Clever,” he drawls dryly, unimpressed. He tries to go back to his food unfazed, but he takes breaks every few bites to swallow air.

He looks at me suspiciously as I pointedly eat a forkful while meeting his glare. He watches me chew and swallow, a look of confusion peeking through his angry facade. The small smile I give him makes him finally snap.

He shoves the plate away from him and throws his napkin on the table as he stands. “Okay, what the hell did you put in this?”

“Ay, pobrecito.” I look at him like he’s a misbehaving child, flicking my chin at his chair and waiting patiently for him to sit back down. He begrudgingly does with a sigh. “The same thing that’s making your dick feel like it’s on fire.” His eyes narrow bitterly. “Serrano pepper.”

He bares his teeth, and his eyes fill with the promise of violence as he growls, “You’re a fucking menace.”

I laugh, standing and picking up the steak knife as I do. I circle the table as I say, “Finally something we agree on.”

I plant my palm on the table next to his hand, fingers spread and knuckles whitening as he grips the table. I lean in close enough to smell the freshness of his shower and feel the anger radiate from him like heat. “And the next time you threaten to rape me, it won’t be serrano in your food.” I punctuate my last words by stabbing the knife into the table between his fingers, intentionally missing them by millimeters. “It will be fucking cyanide.”

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