Page 50 of Don't Make Me Beg
Luka
My head is pounding, and I don’t think there’s enough caffeine in the world to turn my foul mood around.
I’m normally not someone who struggles with sleep, so this insomnia bull shit is a whole new form of torture for me. I don’t think I’ve gotten more than a few hours of sleep a night ever since I invited Scout to stay with me. It’s like my body is keenly aware that she’s right downstairs. Like my dick’s been converted into a fucking antenna, tuned to her exact frequency and alerting me with every shift of her mood.
And no matter how hard I try, I can’t turn it off.
I find myself lying there awake… just thinking about her.
Thinking about how jumpy she’s always been and the way she freaked out the other night when she accidentally spilled her wine at my parents’ house. How panicked she was in that moment, like she was expecting a much harsher reaction. Fuck, something about it doesn’t sit right with me. It has me wondering what else I’m missing…
I know I was out of line when I pulled her to the side and made her pour out her wine in front of me… But I couldn’t help myself. It was obvious that she was spiraling, and it seemed like she just needed someone to take control, to give her a little space to breathe.
So that’s exactly what I did. I took control of the situation… And maybe I pushed her a little further than I should have, but fuck if she didn’t give me the exact response I was craving.
As if I needed any more confirmation of what I was already suspecting about her—that little act of submission, the blind trust on her face, the way she seemed relieved to hand over control. Not out of force but because she wanted to. Jesus. I don’t know how I’m supposed to function around her now.
It’s a cruel joke that my childhood best friend, the woman I’ve been in love with since I was twelve, would not only betray me after I went to prison for her, but also turn out to be the perfect counterpart to my darkest sexual desires. Out of all the women in the world, did I really have to find my match in my fake wife?
It’s a confusing mix of emotions that’s got my head all kinds of fucked up, and I don’t know what to do about it. No wonder I haven’t been sleeping.
Add in a healthy dose of sexual frustration on top of the pressure of pulling off this goddamn festival, and it’s a miracle I’m still functioning at all.
If sainthood was determined solely by self-restraint, I’d have my own feast day by now.
“Luka—what are you doing? You can’t park here.” Scout’s voice crackles through the speakers in my helmet as I ease my bike between two cars squeezed up against the curb.
She’s not wrong; it’s technically not a real parking spot, but I don’t really give a shit. Besides, what’s the point in riding a motorcycle if you don’t take advantage of the perks?
I’m not in the mood to explain myself. I’ve got enough on my plate with tonight’s town meeting. So I kill the engine, shrug off my helmet, and head for the door without a word.
“You’re in an extra-foul mood this evening,” she says behind me, a little breathless like she’s hurrying to catch up.
“Wow, aren’t you perceptive.” I pause at the curb, waiting for a break in traffic. “What was it that tipped you off?”
I know my anger is mostly misdirected. It’s not like she knows what she’s doing to me. If anything, she seems oblivious, which somehow makes it feel so much worse.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the flicker of hurt on her face, and for a second, I think she’s going to let the comment slide. But then she surprises me.
“You know what I think?” she says, not bothering to wait for a response. “I think you’re nervous about this meeting, so you’re taking it out on me.”
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. “Hate to break it to you, but I couldn’t give less of a fuck about this festival, definitely not enough to be nervous.”
“Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean you don’t care what people think. Otherwise, why do anything more than the bare minimum?” She lifts her chin. “You asked me to paint a mural.”
“Because I thought it’d be fun to rub it in everyone’s face. That’s all they ever see when they look at me anyway.” I take a step toward her, close enough that she has to tilt her head to meet my eyes and lower my voice. “Don’t get it twisted, princess. This isn’t noble. My reasons are selfish as hell. I only offered to marry you because I knew I could use it againstyouandyour family.
I step back, the space between us suddenly feeling colder.
“I may be your husband, but I’m not your fucking friend. Try not to forget that.”
I reach for the door, but before I can touch it, it swings open.
“Finally,” Fergus says, poking his head out. He grabs my elbow before I can protest. “We need you to help decide something.”
He leads me to a long table where several posters are laid out side by side. Miss Scarlett and Clyde Collier, the town handyman, stand shoulder to shoulder with their arms crossed over their chests.
“We can’t agree on the lettering style, and since they put you in charge, we need you to choose. Fergus thinks…” Clyde starts, but Fergus holds up a hand and shushes him.
