Page 88 of Slay Ride

Removing the pan’s lid is like removing a woman’s undergarments. The moment that shield is torn away, I’m met with vulnerability. Soft, smooth . . . and cold vulnerability.

Cold.

It’s odd that I’ve never really thought about the temperature before, but perhaps that plays a part in my fascination. Or maybe I’m only now realizing it and that’s why it’s turning me off.

“Fuck.” I look down at the turkey and frown.

This is mything! I love fucking food. Until I fucked Cat, I almost enjoyed fucking food more than fucking women.

Cat. . .

Is she the reason I’m struggling to rip this bird from the pan and spirit it away to my room for some lovemaking? Because I definitely want to. I just . . . It feels like cheating. It feels like fucking this turkey would betray whatever I have with Cat.

“It’s a fucking turkey,” I mutter. “Get a grip.”

But goddamn it, I can’t. No matter how badly I want to destroy this supple mound of bird flesh, something doesn’t feel right about it. Never having been one to care if something felt wrong or right, I’m not sure what to do with this.

Something clangs in the kitchen, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I hurry to replace the top on the turkey before I’m discovered. I’ll deal with my hesitation later.

As I step out of the walk-in, a smile springs onto my face when I spot the fluff of blonde hair wiggling just on the otherside of the prep table. It’s Cat, and she’s digging around on the bottom shelf for something.

“Need any help?” I ask.

If I’d strapped a live wire to her asshole, I don’t think she would have jumped higher. With a squeal, she plants her hand over her heart, then breathes a sigh of relief when she realizes it’s me.

“Oh, thank God,” she says, then dips down once more. “I was worried I’d have to keep playing make believe. Help me out, would you? I need a bowl.”

I step over to the drying rack and pluck one from inside. “Like this?”

She looks over and nods, then rises to accept the bowl.

I hold it just out of reach, high above her head. “What do you need it for? Didn’t you and the rest of the hens eat already?”

“I couldn’t eat. They kept . . .” She drops down from her tiptoes and lowers her hand. “I just couldn’t eat.”

I slide the bowl into her fingers. It’s only fun to tease her when she’s annoyed, not when she’s downtrodden. And something isn’t quite right. Now that I’m closer, I can see the red, puffy skin around her eyes. She tried to cover it with makeup, but the color peeks through. The cloak of confidence she wraps so tightly around her shoulders has fallen a bit, too.

“Let’s find something together,” I say. “I haven’t eaten either. I had to fill Maverick in on everything that happened in case he’s questioned, and then I figured it would be better to stay out of sight.”

Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I lead her to a massive fridge.

“That was smart,” she says as she steps inside. “Now I just have to figure out how to break up with Maverick and end this charade.”

“End it?”

“Yes, once and for all.”

Panic blooms in my gut, and fear throws a right hook into my lower intestines. I grip the metal shelf and wait for the pain to pass. If she wants to end it, does she meaneverything, or just the Maverick portion? Does she just want to cool it for now . . . or forever?

Fuck, is this how women feel? All the questions and uncertainty . . . No wonder they seem so unhinged most of the time. Shit, I’d be unhinged too.

I’m coming unhinged as we speak.

“Not us, of course,” she adds as she picks up a can of beans and spins it around to check the label.

“Oh?”

“Well, I mean, we’ll have to stop while we’re here if I plan to dump?—”

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