Page 107 of Chicago Sin
“So, I never agreed to just having a permanent roommate,” I say.
He’s acting casual, uncaring. It seems like a legitimate statement.
He picks up the remote and mutes the television then unfolds his large body to stand. His relaxed position on the couch was deceptive. Now he’s suddenly imposing, both in size and his don’t-fuck-with-me demeanor.
He walks toward me, a frown on his face.
I have to work to hold my ground and not shrink from his intensity.
“You want me to find another place to go?”
My stomach bottoms out. This is the ironic behavior of relationships—where you push away when you actually want more. I set the bowl of food on the table. Thrust my chin forward and shrug.
He gets closer, towering over me, but not touching. I want him to touch me—to handle me in that rough, insistent way he has, but doesn’t. “Yes or no?” His tone is total authority, demanding my answer.
I swallow and shake my head, turning away.
He catches my arm and pulls me back. “What’s this about?”
“Nothing,” I snap, annoyed now.
“Tell me.”
Maybe I don’t want to be handled because I’d definitely prefer to turn away from him now. My neck and chest flush with heat. I shake my head again and look away. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
Armando has a way of saying bullshit that hits like a punch. It’s an assault on my senses, and I feel it everywhere. When I flinch, he pulls me even tighter, right up against his body. “Don’t say you don’t know when you do. Why are you pissed at me?”
I blink back the tears. Damn them! Damn him! Damn me. I’m so ridiculous!
He circles one arm around my back and brushes my curls back from my face with his free hand. “What’d I do?” he asks it softer, now.
“I’m sorry,” I gulp then berate myself for apologizing. “I’m being stupid. Let’s drop it.”
He doesn’t move, just stares down at me. “We’re not dropping it. Just say it.”
I shrug, defeated. It’s so freaking embarrassing, but I admit it. “You could communicate a little more. You know—call to let me know you’re coming here instead of the shop?”
Yep, I sound clingy. His expression turns vacant, and he releases me and steps back, just as I expected.
“I told you—I’m being stupid. You’re not my boyfriend.” I throw my arms in the air. “I don’t know what the hell you are, but you’re not that.” I pick up my bowl of food again and walk around Armando, who’s just standing there like a stone statue. I flop down on the sofa and turn the volume back up.
Armando doesn’t move. I see nothing on the TV screen, even though my gaze steadily fixes on it. All I can do is force myself to swallow down the emotion in my throat. He’s going to leave now, and that’s fine. That’s what needs to happen. Because the sooner I get him out of here, the sooner I can stop caring.
He walks to the door but stops and stands there, facing it. When he turns back, I dart a glance at him. “I can’t be your boyfriend, Hannah.” He sounds ancient. Exhausted.
I cringe. I don’t want to hear this. I definitely don’t want to hear this.
“I got nothing to offer. I’m fucking empty and dead and apparently one inch from having someone blow off my head.”
“I know,” I rush to agree, wanting to end this conversation. “Can we forget it?”
“I’m an asshole for staying here. I know I’m a dick for taking from you when I have nothing to give.” He gives me a long, unfathomable look. “But I don’t want to leave.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
My stomach’s up in my throat, and I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to say.
He shrugs. “You want me to go, I’ll go. That’s all you gotta say. Your choice.”
