Page 36 of Play Me
“I could put it out here somewhere,” I say. “Or in your room.”
“Put that down.”
I ignore the chill in his voice. “Okay. Where?”
He slams the refrigerator door closed.
I avert my eyes from his and lay the picture back inside the box, then I carefully get to my feet.
My defense mechanisms kick in, shooting adrenaline into my veins. I’m hyperaware of his proximity, the sound of his movements in the kitchen, and the rapidness of my breath. I’m not sure what I’ve done to piss him off, only that I have.
“If you don’t want me going through your things?—”
“This isn’t about that, Astrid.”
“That’s what it seems like, Gray.”
He holds my gaze from across the room. His scrutiny makes me squirm, mainly because we’re in his personal space and not a neutral one, which changes the dynamics. But I won’t be walked over just because he asked me to be here.
“Leave,” he says flatly.
“What the hell did I do?—”
“Leave.” His icy tone chills me to the bone. “Please.”
What is happening?
He wasn’t exactly welcoming when I arrived, but he most certainly wasn’t like this. But this isn’t the first time he’s flip-flopped on me. He did it yesterday, too.
Maybe this is his pattern. He’s lukewarm, then ice-cold.Is that why Renn didn’t trust him to navigate the team on his own?He’s unpredictable. Hard to deal with. Insubordinate. How Renn believes he’s a “nice guy” is beyond me. He usually reads people so much better than this.
My throat squeezes, but I swallow through it.
“We need to get a couple of things straight,” I say, facing him and crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re not going to waste my time or play games with my head, by literally turning around and being a complete dickhead out of nowhere.”
He runs a hand down his face and groans.
“I don’t know what set you off in the locker room yesterday, or if it was your call or the picture today, but neither of them has anything to do with me,” I say, my voice rising. “I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you.”
His dismissive tone is flat and clipped. He’s shelving what I’m saying without ever hearing it.Like I’m heartless.
I stand taller, ripping my bag off the sofa, then I pin him to his spot with a dirty look. I hold tight to my anger. If it starts to slip, a vulnerable ache will take its spot in my chest, and my bruises will start to show. And I don’t show those to anyone.
“Believe it or not, I’m not a heartless bitch,” I say, spitting the words at him.
“Astrid …”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “Or maybe I am.”
If he says anything else, I don’t know what I’ll do. Explode? Cry? God, I’m not going to let him see me cry.
“Astrid—”
I yank the door open and close it between us before he has the chance to say something more.
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