Page 40 of Bitter Arrangement

I guess I should call itourhouse.

I’m still getting used to the idea of living there. I’ve added a few little touches here and there to try to make it my own, but it still feels weirdly barren and cold.

Alexan doesn’t help. When he’s not angrily staring at his computer screen, he’s stomping around, complaining about my mess, which is, like, a single used glass left on a counter or a pair of pants left on the floor.

The guy’s a neat freak, par excellence.

But the worst part is the night. He reads nearly naked, his ripped body like a beacon for every single impulsive, horny, intrusive thought I have, and it takes a lot of willpower not to cross any lines. Meanwhile, he loves staring at my tits, especially my pierced nipple.

I keep picturing his mouth sucking on it hard. He could probably make me come just tonguing my piercing.

Except that’s not even the bad part.

No, the terrible thing is he keeps asking me questions about myself.

It’s infuriating. I keep thinking he’ll finally let me sleep in peace until I hear his voice in the darkness. It’s always about me: my taste in movies, TV, music, that sort of thing. He asks about friends from high school, about what I would’ve majored in if I had gone to college, all that stuff, and never once does he talk about himself.

It’s always about me.

And I hate him for it.

Because nobody’s ever shown any interest in me like that before. Not night after night for nearly a week now. We end up talking for hours sometimes, and I don’t even realize how much time has passed until I look at the clock. When he’s not being an overbearing asshole, time seems to slip away like water through my hands when we’re lying in bed together.

It’s beyond frustrating.

Life is easier when he’s nothing but an ice-cold bastard. But the way he seems deeply interested in everything I say makes me think there’s more going on underneath the surface than I realized.

“I know a guy with a stash just like yours.”

I jump and nearly hit my head on the wall. Brenden’s behind me, grinning slightly as he cranes his neck to look in my safe.

“Could you not?” I slam the door shut. “Where’d you come from, anyway?”

“You’re not hard to sneak up on. Where do you think you learned it, anyway?”

He’s got a point. I’m more than a little distracted these days.

“Who’s the guy?” I ask, coming out of the closet.

He sits on the edge of my bed—myformerbed, I mean—and grimaces slightly. He’s been favoring one side ever since he got home. When I ask about where the bruises came from and why his knee seems all messed up, he refuses to talk about it. He’s skinnier than he’s ever been, and there are bags under his eyes.

“His name’s Roger Delaney. I’m pretty sure that’s not real, but it’s what he went by. The guy had this weird little collection of fetishes?—”

“Fetishes?” My eyebrows raise.

“Not like that.” Brenden shakes his head at me. “Fetishes, as in objects believed to have supernatural powers.”

“I had no clue that had another definition.”

“It’s an old magic thing. But anyway, he treated his little collection like they were holy relics or something.”

“What did he take?”

“Wedding rings. Seriously, wedding rings, from men and women. Anyone he could get his hands on, he’d take their ring and add it to his collection. He told me one night when he was wasted as hell that the rings gave him some of their previous owner’s strength. Batshit crazy but a great burglar.”

“You think my collection’s crazy too?”

He shakes his head. “I think it’s a liability, but it’s important to you. I’m just curious why you haven’t moved it into your new house yet.”

---