Page 43 of The Games We Play
I can’t help myself and laugh.
I kiss her forehead, then her lips softly. “Good night, Iris.”
“Night, Spark. Oh ... and next time, just knock.”
14
IRIS
The following morning, I wake up and for a moment forget about the accident, before the pain suddenly pulses through my body. Gingerly, I move to the edge of the bed and put my feet on the floor. I’m not one who works out regularly, despite Kasey’s constant attempts to get me to try things with her. But on the few times I have, I’ve ached like this.
I pull on and secure my dressing gown around my waist and head downstairs. On the counter is piece of paper. A note from Spark with a telephone number.
Put my number in your phone, then use it. I want to know how you’re feeling. Got some stuff to deal with for the club. Back for the weekend. Spark.
His number is listed below. There’s something utterly reassuring about being with someone who tells me what to do. There’s no guessing what he wants. If he’d just left his number, I would have dithered all day about whether to use it or not. Instead, he’s clear. He’s expecting me to call. So, now, I don’t need to worry about it.
I left my phone upstairs on my side table, so I’m slowly heading towards the stairs when there is a loud knock at the door. Grinning, I gingerly rush to open it but am surprised to see my landlord. He has a black eye that looks sore and tender.
“I’m sorry for not getting back to you sooner,” he says. “But I wondered if I could come in today and do some work on the place.”
“Aren’t you supposed to give me notice?”
He looks as confused as I am. Then he checks the driveway. “Your boyfriend was ... quite insistent that I come take care of some things today.”
Boyfriend?
Oh, shit. Spark hurt him. My heart bounces.
It’s quite the dichotomy to realize that everything Spark does is to look after me, and yet he doesn’t think twice about hurting someone to make it happen. And worse, I feel zero guilt. I’ve messaged the landlord so many times over the past year to let him know when things have broken. Like how the wind caught the garage door in the last winter storm and blew it off its hinges. And how the fridge leaks from somewhere, and I have to keep a tray under it.
“He’s just worried about me living with some of these fixable problems I messaged you about months ago.”
“Well, I’m here now,” he replies, and I gesture to him to come in and do what he needs to.
While he brings in his supplies, I get dressed in the bathroom, where there is a lock on the door. Once I’m done, I head downstairs with my phone and make a cup of coffee. My landlord, along with the help of two other people, has removed the back door and is in the middle of pulling the frame off. There is a new door propped up against the fence. It looks solid.
I didn’t mention needing a new door.
I program Spark’s number into my phone and message him.
So I guess I have you to thank for the new back door.
It takes a moment, and then I see dots as he types.It was a terrible door. Anyone could have broken in.
I laugh. Of course he was worried about how easy it was to get into my house.Anyone like you?
Little chick, I can still break into the new one.
I thought we agreed you were going to knock.
Meh. How are you feeling?
Better than I probably should be. I guess the bath worked.
Just the bath?
I pause. I’m not good at flirtatious games. I want to tell him how much I miss his hands on me. I want to tell him that I wish I’d woken up next to him this morning while he touched me again like he did yesterday.
