Page 55 of Burn

It’s been nearly a week since I brought her home from the hospital. The coughing fits have mostly stopped. What hasn’t subsided, is her fucking attitude. That seems to amplify by the goddamn minute, and I’m starting to question my sanity. Despite my protests, she resumed work on Monday, taking up residence at my new kitchen table and hammering at her keyboard through most of the day, breaking only to feign an upbeat attitude while on conference calls. I’m not sure how anyone does this type of job. Grass grows with more excitement.

When she’s not working, she shuts herself away in the bedroom, speaking in a hushed tone on the phone. I’ve been giving her space, but if she slams one more door, I might take her over my knee and spank her for it. The space is also slowly driving me out of my mind. The whole apartment smells like her. That warm vanilla and sugar scent is everywhere, and yesterday, I went back to work, the guys commented on the scent that clung to my clothes.

She’s on a call in the kitchen while I scroll my phone on the couch when I hear her say, “Yeah, I’ll be back in the office on Monday. I need to get out of this fucking apartment.” I stand and stalk over to the fridge to grab a beer. Instead of sitting back down, I lean against the counter and glare at her. I see her eyes shift, glancing my way and back to her laptop. She lets out a long exhale and sounds exasperated when she adds, “Well, I better go. There’s a fucking storm cloud hovering over me.”

She clicks a button on the keypad, reaches out, and slams the laptop closed. Setting down my beer, I grip the edge of the counter. It bites into my palms and groans under my grip, catching her attention. Her eyes flick to mine, and she stares through thick lashes, the muscle in her jaw ticks.

Fucking slam one more thing.

Picking my beer back up, I drain it. She watches me intently, and her gaze drops to my throat as I swallow. Pink flushes her cheeks. It’s the only sign that she’s not entirely filled with disgust — the rest of her oozes with distaste. Without breaking eye contact, she rises from her chair and moves, walking past me, craning her neck to keep me in her line of sight until she enters the bathroom and slams. The. Fucking. Door. Red edges my vision as rage courses through my veins, and in a quick move, the can in my hand is crushed, but it does nothing to ease what’s happening in my mind.

She’s also taken up a habit of locking herself in the bathroom for hours on end, so when the door opens a moment later and she storms toward the bedroom, I seize the opportunity. She’s tall, with long legs that go on forever, but I’m taller, and I eat up the distance between us in a couple of steps. She hears me coming, my feet connect with the floor like a sledgehammer, and she spins, pushing her back into the wall next to the bedroom. The flush in her cheeks has deepened from pink to crimson, and I can see her pulse in the artery that runs down the length of her neck.

My hands land on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in, and I don’t miss the way her hips rock ever so slightly. Her eyes drift over my face, dropping down my chest. When I speak, her eyes dart back to mine. “Is there a reason,” I growl, “that you’ve made it your full-time job to turn me into your goddamn enemy this week?”

Her eyes narrow, and her body goes still. Her voice is silky and sweet when she replies. “You’re always here. I can’t have a moment of peace. A moment of solitude. You’re like my fucking shadow.”

This girl.

“I fucking live here, Lex,” my volume kicks up a level. “Or have you forgotten that?”

She ducks down, trying to step under my arms, but I reach out and grab her, pushing her back against the wall, my hand pulled to her neck to keep her in place. Like there’s a fucking magnet I can’t seem to avoid.

“This is what I mean!” Yelling. She’s yelling. “I didn’t ask for a fucking babysitter. I am a fucking adult, Adrian!”

I lean into her, so close that I can smell the faintest hint of the tea she drank an hour ago. “Then fucking act like one.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but the sound of her phone ringing pulls both of our attention away from each other. She twists, pushing me away, and storms to the table. Over her shoulder, I can see the photo on the screen, that blonde friend of hers. She turns and walks past me into the bedroom and slams the door.

God damn.

On Wednesday, I’d dragged her, essentially kicking and screaming, out of the apartment and to the arena for try-outs. She’d sat in the stands, arms folded over her chest, a scowl on her face the whole time. It took everything in me not to punch Ronan in the face when he looked at me and said, “Uh oh. Trouble in paradise already?”

My first day back at work yesterday couldn’t have come soon enough. I needed space. She needed space. I’d woken up this morning, sure I would return home to a fresh start. Three minutes after walking in the door, she’d slammed the cupboardso hard that her fucking cat nearly hit the ceiling before dashing into the bedroom. Fucking thing still hasn’t come back out. And the outfits. Jesus Christ. When she’s not working, she parades around in practically nothing.

The door to the bedroom creaks open. She’s holding her phone between her shoulder and ear, and I watch her smile drop as we make eye contact.

“What’s the address here?” she asks.

“Why?”

She sighs, so much fucking attitude. “Adrian, I have friends. People who want to see me and ensure you’re not holding me captive. What is your fucking address?”

I’ve experienced a lot of shit in my life. I spent 10 months in a fucking prison with guards who believed my life worthless. I played competitive sports with coaches who believed tough love was the best way. I’ve never experienced such a disrespectful tone as I am right now. I walk back to the fridge, grab another beer, and empty it. If she expects me to tolerate this shit, I’m going to need to be at least a little fuzzy around the edges.

“Adrian!” she snaps, and I spin to glare at her. Her eyes go wide, and her tone is softer when she says, “Please.”

“1618 Oak Park Boulevard.” She nods, and before she can close the door, I add, “I don’t want people in my place.”

She groans, “Ugh. Fine, whatever, Adrian.”

This time, she quietly clicks the door closed. I grab another beer and walk back to the couch, sinking into it and leaning my head back. I crack the tab, and as I take a sip, I realize my teeth ache from how hard I’ve been clenching them. I rub my hand across the sore muscles in my jaw and take slow sips of the icy beer.

Twenty minutes later, my phone rings. She’s still locked in the bedroom, and her murmured voice quieted a few minutes after her address request. Shifting, I pull my phone from my pocket and see ‘Front Desk’ on the screen. I swipe to answer and turn on speakerphone. Scotty’s voice is higher than usual. He’s clearly excited.

“Liberty! Hey man. You’ve got a visitor down here wanting to come up.” I let out a low groan. She just can’t listen. She’s not just pressing my buttons; she’s decimating the whole fucking control panel. “Liberty?” Scotty says, sounding a little confused.

“Who’s here, Scotty?” There’s no question about how I feel about this situation.

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