Page 17 of Drunk Dialing My Enemy

“You’ve always been so good with things like this,” I say. “I should have known you’d make a career of it.”

“When you grow up shopping second hand, you learn how to make old things new,” she explains.

“I still have the shirt you made me.”

Her warm brown eyes widen.

“No you don’t!”

“Of course. I could never get rid of it.”

“There’s no way that it fits you anymore. I made that when you were like, twelve.”

“It definitely does not fit anymore,” I confirm. “But it’s sentimental. I could never get rid of anything from you, firecracker.”

“It was so bad!” she says. “I had just gotten my sewing machine and had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even hem it.”

“It’s a style,” I reply with a grin. “Like…cutoff. Grunge.”

Katie is smiling at me in that “you’re my hero” way again and I lose all train of thought. That crooked little t-shirt that Katie made me still hangs in my closet, brought from place to place as I’ve moved through stages in my life, a little piece of my firecracker with me everywhere I am.

I follow Katie into the little apartment. I know that she rented this place from Mrs. Hayes along with the store’s space beneath it. Unlike the store, I didn’t insist on touring the apartment before I bought the building. Although I would have had a right to do so, she was already angry enough that I was buying the building before she could.

She doesn’t understand that if I didn’t buy it when I did, another investor would have. And they would have raised the rent, kicked her out, and torn the whole damn building down only to rebuild a shopping strip in its place.

I know because I was there. The negotiations were cut throat. I got this place by the skin of my teeth and with the rent I charge, I’m not making a profit. Hell, I’m barely breaking even.

But I’d do anything to keep my firecracker happy. Seeing that smile on her lips is the fuel that keeps me going, my motivation to push through.

“I’ve made dinner,” Katie states the obvious, as if the delicious smells filling the little space wouldn’t tip me off. She glances nervously over her shoulder. “Fried chicken and potato wedges. Hope you’re hungry.”

“Starved.”

I follow her into the kitchen like a hunter stalking prey. I really am starved but one look at Katie’s ass and my mind is filled with thoughts of a different physical need.

I’m going to make this woman my wife.

She’s going to be Mrs. Baker and I’m going to knock her up as many times as I fucking can, as many as she’ll let me. She wants a husband and a house full of kids? I’ll make it happen.

Whatever she wants as long as I get a lifetime of worshipping her and her beautiful body in exchange.

“Sit down,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder and guiding me to a tiny table by the window.

Once again she’s made a rundown little space feel cozy. The kitchen linoleum is peeling and yellowed, a relic from the 1980s if not older. The ceiling is sagging in the corner, and after just a few seconds of sitting beside the window I can tell that it has a leak, letting in the drafty evening air.

“Darlin, I can’t have you living here.”

I blurt it out when she sits down, unable to stop myself.

She raises a brow and I know exactly what she didn’t like about what I just said. So before she can argue, I continue.

“Not like this,” I say, gesturing to the state of disrepair. “It’s not safe.”

“Like my bridge wasn’t safe,” she murmurs. She takes a bite of chicken, closing her eyes. “Let’s not talk anymore about the property tonight, okay? Dig in before it gets cold.”

I watch her eat another bite, mesmerized by it all, before taking a bite of my own.

“Damn, Katie,” I say. “This is the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.”

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