Page 58 of Voice to Raise
That was a legitimate question because, when Spencer’d crept out to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, Moses had clearly decided he’d had enough of being ignored. Somehow, three of us had fit on that queen-sized bed.
Darn cat.
Super cute. Tragic backstory. Pain in the ass.
What if you invited him to move in here?
My mind rebelled. Not so much at the idea of being with Spencer all that time—no, I didn’t mind that at all. I just couldn’t figure out how his cat would cope. Would he be lost all the time? Would he be able to find the litter box? Would he scratch my mother’s draperies?
Would you care?
Ridiculous. One day and night of amazing sex wasnotenough to base a relationship on. Hell, before I went to his office yesterday, he’d still been mad at me. For the city-hall thing. For the Lion’s Gate Bridge thing.
I have to get back into his good graces.
Or was I there already? Did a good fucking wipe away all the bad shit I’d done? I just didn’t know.
We’d exchanged hand jobs in the shower this morning. Since the rain was still coming down, he’d opted to drive his electric car to work, and I’d driven myself home. I’d spent most of the day trying to work out a song in my mind, and then we’d had rehearsal.
You can’t show him the song until it’s perfect.
No, I couldn’t. So I’d have to work harder to make everything the very best that I could. Perhaps by the time I finished, I might know where I stood with him.
Before I could do something as shmoopy as shooting off a text to him telling him that I missed him, I powered down my phone and went to sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
Spencer
Just because he hasn’t called in four days, doesn’t mean it’s over and you’ll never hear from him again. Because, honestly, have you called him? Thanked him for fucking you repeatedly and being willing to share a small bed with both you and your damn cat?
Short answer?
No.
Saturday morning, I sat in my office and stewed. Today was the end of the month, and I had a last few things to resolve before I sent all the paperwork off to our accountant. The task could’ve waited until Monday, but I didn’t have anything else to do. Didn’t have anywhere else to be.
Moses certainly wasn’t going to miss me.
Malik had been radio silent.
I hadn’t contacted him, though. So that niggled.
My cell phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Malik.
We’d exchanged numbers, and I tried to tamp down my excitement at seeing his name. I tapped on the message.
—What if we rent a plane with a message at the back shaming politicians who support Big Oil? —
What the hell?—No. Too expensive. Naming and shaming don’t always work. —
I waited.
—What if we do a sit-in protest at the provincial legislature? —
—No. And get arrested? Just no. —
