Page 21 of Heavy
I don’t know this girl and really don’t want to. But the knot in my stomach won’t ease with the thought that I might be wrong.
Before I do something reckless, like wake her up and demand an explanation, I slip silently out of her room, leaving the door slightly open. I head to the garage, secure it, and set the alarm before checking on her one last time. I tell myself I’m probably overthinking. We’ll see how she is in the morning.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my sweats. I didn’t sleep well, but that’s not unusual. Drugs and alcohol don’t give me the slumber I desperately desire. Maybe I should try something stronger, but that wouldn’t be wise with Calista around.
I pull out my cell and see a text from Ken.
KEN
Hey, sorry I didn’t respond last night. Hilt-deep in some sweet ass. There is nothing wrong with the shit I gave you, you are used to that illegal-illegal shit from prison. It’ll take a bit, but it will start hitting again.
If you say so
KEN
Whatever. You fuck that sweet step-pussy of yours yet?
No, and I don’t plan to
KEN
Uh huh, I saw the way you looked at that guy talking to her
I don’t blame you. She’s fucking hot and forbidden fruit is the sweetest
I’ve had enough forbidden
KEN
Never enough, Ro
For me there is such a thing
I’m in the garage, propping the door to the house open so I can hear Calista when she ventures out. It’s nearly noon, and while I expected her to sleep for a while, this feels excessive. Over the past two weeks she’s been up by eight, coffee in hand within the first fifteen minutes, then straight back to work.
Maybe she skipped her shot of espresso and went right to work.
That’s unlikely though. She threatened to stab me if I moved it or broke it, which I found quite cute. Such a violent little thing. Though, it does have me curious if she would worship something else like she does her cup of coffee every morning.
For a moment I actually consider waking her up. My curiosity about what happened last night is stronger than it should be, and I know I need to rein it in.
Just then, I see her in the doorway, hair piled into a thick, messy bun on top of her head. She rubs her eyes, seemingly unaware of my presence as she stumbles into the garage.
“Left the fucking door open… Asshole…” she mutters, and I can feel a nerve in my temple twitch. I know she isn’t directing that at me.
She’s wearing a long nightgown—more like an oversized shirt, really. I wonder if it belongs to someone else.
Thatthought has an irrational pit of anger forming right in my chest and I need to rein it in quickly.
I’m not far from sight, sitting on the couch facing the open garage doors. I turn my head fully over my shoulder, watching as she groggily walks to the coffee machine, preparing her Colombian blend with steamed half-and-half and two teaspoons of sugar.
Why do I know that?
My audible groan makes her shoulders tense as she slowly turns her head in my direction. The caution in her demeanor—like a hare caught in a snare, wary of the fox approaching its meal—brings a grin to my face.
The instant her eyes lock onto mine, she jumps, yelping and slamming her back against the workbench where the coffee machine sits.
“Holyfuck,Ronan!”
