Page 98 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
He rises from the bed and goes into the bathroom, his step light, his posture untroubled. I hear the water go on; he’s started the shower for me. He’s so eager to get me out, he can’t even wait long enough for my shower to get hot!
I shake with humiliation, pain, and a deep, aching sense of betrayal. Worst of all is the knowledge that I’ve done this to myself. He was completely up front with me; he told me we’d have a week, and now that week, plus a few extra days, is over. I knew this was coming all along.
What did I expect, a marriage proposal?
Blinking back tears, I take a swallow of the coffee. It’s strong and black, just how I like it.
Son of a bitch.
I finish the coffee, take my shower, dress and blow-dry my hair, all while fighting tears and failing miserably to try to convince myself this isn’t the end of the world.
Only it really feels like it is.
When I emerge from the bathroom, A.J. is in the kitchenette, washing my coffee cup in the sink. He rinses it, dries it, and puts it away in the cupboard. Watching that drives a stake through my bleeding, shredded heart. In his mind, I’m already gone.
Ignoring the tears that are now sliding down my cheeks, I cross to the sofa and reach for my suitcase, which is propped up beside it, but then I freeze with my hand on the handle when A.J. calls out, “So what do you think for dinner tonight? Are you sick of my pancakes? Because I was thinking of getting fancy and trying to make an omelet.”
It takes what feels like four hours for me to straighten and turn to look at him. “Dinner?”
He’s still at the sink, tidying up, with his back to me. His hair is loose around his shoulders. He’s wearing ancient, holey jeans and nothing else. The sight of his strong, bare feet against the floor makes me want to weep, they’re so beautiful.
“Yeah. You should be home around what, six? Seven?”
I can’t think. My mouth refuses to form words.
He turns to look at me. When he sees my face, he blinks in shock. “Angel! What’s wrong?”
And I totally lose it. I go completely, utterly nuts.
I shout, “Are you kidding me? Are you just screwing with me right now? First you’re throwing me out and then you want to know what I want for dinner?”
A.J. looks left, then right, like he’s wondering who this crazy person is and if there’s anyone else nearby who can help him handle her. “Who said I was throwing you out?”
My hands are balled to fists. I can feel how red my face is. My chest heaves up and down, and all I can do is stare at him, shaking. Through gritted teeth, I say, “Our week is up.”
Understanding dawns over his face. “Oh angel. Jesus.”
He drops the dish towel he’s holding and strides over to me. In several long, swift strides, he’s in front of me. He gathers me into his arms and hugs me, hard. “You’re not going anywhere without me, except work. And even there I’ll be lurking in corners, watching, making sure nothing happens to you.”
In a move I thought only happened in romance novels, my knees go weak. Now I shake even harder, clinging to his waist so I don’t slide bonelessly to the floor. “W-what happened to one week? What happened to our deal?”
He takes my face in his hands. “What happened is that I told you all the worst shit I’ve ever done, and you told me you belonged to me. You told me you loved me. Love,” he corrects himself, “present tense. I’m not letting you go, Chloe. You belong to me, and I won’t spend another day without you. I can’t live without you, don’t you see? Without you I might as well be dead.”
I burst into sobs and start to ugly cry so hard A.J. laughs.
“It’s not funny, you jerk!”
He kisses me all over my wet, red face, holding me tight, murmuring how much he loves me, how much he needs me, how he’ll never, ever let me go.
Mondays are officially my new favorite day of the week.
That day at work goes by in a dream. I’m surprised how well Trina and the staff handled everything in my absence; no fires had to be put out, no major mistakes were made. I make an appointment to have the stitches removed from my cheek, and another with the plastic surgeon my father recommended to see what can be done about any residual scarring.
I’m so happy I almost don’t care about the scarring. I’m so happy I feel like the sun is shining out of the top of my head.
Grace, however, is not happy.
“So you spent about a week and a half playing house with the drummer, and now you’re back at work avoiding all my questions like it’s your mother you’re talking to, and not your very best friend. Well, your other very best friend. Not acceptable, Chloe!”
