Page 26 of Wicked Little Game
He drove straight to a small airport after he left the house, but just when I want to investigate further, I’m hit with a headache right from hell. It’s not really surprising. I guess the human body doesn’t enjoy thriving off of sugar and alcohol.
I close my laptop again and decide to take another nap. Just a short one. The lasagna takes a while to finish either way and in this state, I’m good for nothing. I sincerely hope that a nap will help, because I don’t want to ask Ruby for painkillers.
Forty minutes later, I’m woken up by the beeping of the fire alarm, a heft of smoke in the living room, and the smell of something burning.
“Not again,” I groan as I take big strides towards the kitchen to get rid of any evidence before Ruby wakes up and sees it.
11
RUBY
“Fuck, you’re so tight, darling,” James growls, holding my hips in a vice-like grip, pounding into me from beneath. My legs tremble and I hide my face in the crook of his neck, already so close to —
The fire alarm rips me out of my dream, and I want to kill someone. A morning show is playing on my TV, which means that it’s too goddamn early to be up. Being awake at this hour is irritating in itself, but if I have to listen to the shrillbeep, beep, beep,for another two minutes, I’ll start throwing things.
“James,” I shout downstairs and the response is something that sounds like he’s handling dishes in a panic. “Turn that fucking alarm off!”
James is hot and I really want him, especially after last night, but there are boundaries. And waking me up like this crosses one of them.
I throw my blanket to the side, get out of my bed, and stomp over to the bathroom. I’m so wet that I almost feel it dripping down my thighs as I stand, my pajama pants sticking to my pussy that’s begging for attention.
For James, to be honest, but I fear that this will take a bit more time.
I get out of my pajamas before hopping into the shower and use the few minutes to calm down. After I put on fresh clothes, I head downstairs to confront James.
My usual approach would be loud and mean, but I still want something from him, and I doubt that yelling would help me reach my goal. Apart from that, I made it some kind of New Year's resolution to work on being more calm and forgiving. So why not start with that right now? In May.
Better late than never, I think as I walk down the stairs.
I cough as I walk through a cloud of smoke. Yes, definitely time to have a kitchen intervention.
“James,” I sigh as I climb onto one of the bar stools. My feet dangle from the chair and I can’t stand that I feel like a five-year-old when I sit on them.
“If you hate this job so much, you can just quit. I mean, I would be sad, yes, but there’s no reason to burn the house down.”
He walks over to the open patio doors, trying to get more smoke out by waving a dish towel. He glares at me from over there while I pull the black, undefinable block on the kitchen counter closer to me. It looks faintly like lasagna. Maybe he took a flight to Italy while I was asleep and brought back a souvenir straight from Pompeii.
“It’s the kitchen,” he says as the smoke slowly clears. “No matter what I do, everything starts to burn sooner or later.”
The confusion in his eyes is heartwarming. It makes me forget I came down here to lecture him.
I fought my own war with the fancy kitchen appliances my father insisted on buying when he built this house. He couldn’t cook a thing, even if his life depended on it, but somehow, it was important to him to buy the most expensive,top-notch stuff for a kitchen that no one used most of the time.
After I burned through a concerning amount of food, I had it figured out. I feel sorry for James because I know exactly how he must feel right now. Nothing like a crying breakdown in the middle of the kitchen because you were excited for your dinner, only to see that it turned into a block of coal because you weren’t looking for a minute.
“I can cook us dinner tonight,” I offer. “But you have to eat with me.”
He hesitates, probably trying to figure out if a proper meal is worth the hassle.
“You like lasagna?” I ask, unable to keep myself from delivering that, admittedly, low blow, especially not when the burnt monstrosity on the counter forces me to bring it up.
He sighs while picking the thing up.
“Lasagna is fine,” he says as his attempt lands in the trash. Along with the pan, because the thing looks worse than the frying pan I cleaned a few days ago.
Eating dinner with James could be an excellent opportunity to get closer to him, and apart from that, food is the way to a man’s heart. Or so I heard. It’s the way to mine, that much is clear. And if James is happy with his dinner, I have another thing he wants from me, which is kind of manipulative when I put it like that.
“You think you’ll survive until 7?” I ask with a yawn as I jump down from the bar stool. He nods and I give him a thumbs up as I walk back upstairs to get another hour or two of sleep in. And to maybe finish my dream, because I feel like I’m in danger of jumping on James if I don’t release a bit of that tension.
