Page 257 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Moving my ear closer to the door, it becomes obvious what she’s doing in there.
My grip on the envelope tightens, and it creases, making a light noise that interrupts me from overhearing her pleasure herself.
My heavy breathing does the same, accompanied by a rattle in my chest.
This is why she hasn’t answered Lucky—hasn’t answered me.
My ear moves to the wood, and I become too aware of everything. Of how her raspy moans come faster and louder. Of how the last thing she saw before going into her room was me in the shower. Of my cock, straining against my jeans uncomfortably.
I force myself to take a step back away from the sounds behind that door. And then another, before I reply to the lawyer with a yes.
I need out of this house.
Because I desperately want to storm into Dollie’s room, just to see if she’ll kick me out of it.
Or beg me to stay.
CHAPTER 61
Ambrose—present day
Irelax, if you could call struggling to breathe while eyeing the cobwebs on the ceiling relaxing.
I don’t.
I rest in the living room, light from the kitchen bleeding in.
Yesterday, I’d picked up some routine meds and some that I hope will shift how rough I feel from a local pharmacy. I pop a pain relief pill and hope the pressure in my chest subsides. I pray it’ll work some kind of wonder on my head too, and that hopefully, I’ll be able to lift it from the uncomfortable pillow sometime today.
The last pill didn’t make it happen.
I doubt this one will either.
I’ve been here since last night after I was sent home from work early to avoid the risk of infecting anyone.
God, I was so fucking ill last night, coughing all over the bar and too close to the line of customers.
I’ve felt rough since getting caught in the rain as Dollie and I visited our parents, but things got worse yesterday when I almost collapsed at Colson’s office. Initially, I thought it mighthave been down to what he told me, but news like that doesn’t usually come with a fever.
Lots of people like the idea of inheriting the home they spent their childhood in. But I spent close to a year of mine in a cold, flooded basement, and I want nothing at all to do with that house.
Taking a drink from the water bottle at my side, I wash down the pill and thoughts of that place.
Pills aren’t something I like, but I don’t want to remain bedbound, or in this case, sofa-bound, so I need to try to get well. Maybe I should offer one to Dollie, who crashed in the reading room late last night, surrounded by all her favorite things.
She’s still there now, as far as I know. Occasionally, a clatter or bang seeps from that way, or a cough. She’s just as sick as I am, and that’s why “Boyfriend of the Year” is nowhere to be seen. He should be here caring for her. She’s coughing every few minutes and sniffling every other second.
Struggling to make myself comfortable in my stretched-out position on the sofa, I hunt down my phone when it wedges in my back, before it slips down the gap between the seats.
There’s an email on the screen that I’m only now seeing, sent this morning at 11:45 a.m.
It’s now 5 p.m.
A frown pulls down my eyebrows because it’s from Dollie, who hasn’t used my email since we created it together around fifteen years ago as a way for me to submit my schoolwork.
Dollie.La’[email protected]:
I’m not sure if you’re awake yet, but I’m gonna start lunch soon. I’ll make you something, too. Peace offering?
