Then the nightmare—the one with Teke hurting me, woke me from my afternoon nap. That familiar sick feeling clung to me like a wet woolen blanket, and the desire to be touched drained from my body. Those moments of desperation to escape drove a frantic rush to pack my bags.
I talked myself out of that impulse because I was certain that Decker and Krew would come after me, and my decision to run could ultimately lead to our deaths.
Nonetheless, I had to get out of this room. And the aromas creeping through the undercut of my door made that decision infinitely easier. I sniffed and my mouth watered as I identified meatballs, tomatoes, and garlic—some of my favorite foods. When I opened the bedroom door, the smell intensified, and my stomach growled.
The robust ambrosia filled the air with the scent of rich ragu as I crept down the stairs. My senses were bombarded with goodness when I took the last few steps to the main floor.
In the open kitchen, Krew stood in front of the stove, lowering a handful of angel hair pasta into a pot.
He turned, grinned, and then twisted back to whatever he was frying in the skillet.
“Is that meatballs?” I asked, slowly approaching him. I focused on the frying pan before looking at his face. Krew was relaxed, like he was in his element.
“I had a taste for Italian.”
“I…” I cleared my throat. “Is there enough for me?” I would understand if he didn’t make enough or didn’t want to share with me, since I had been so horrible to him.
“There’s plenty,” he said, as he turned the meatballs in the pan. “I remembered that meatballs used to be your favorite food. Are they still?”
A lump formed in my throat and a sour taste laced my mouth. Krew was still a genuinely sweet person. Whereas life had turned me into a cynical bitch.
“Yes,” I admitted with hesitation.
“I figured that.” His smile evolved into a smirk and I recognized his underhanded tactic. Krew clearly remembered, whenever my mother made spaghetti and meatballs, I went straight home after school and did my homework in my bedroom until supper time. It was the only time I hadn’t hung out with the guys.
“Trickery.” I mean-mugged him.
Krew’s grin widened as though he knew he’d won this battle of wills. “I had to figure out a way to get you out of that room.”
I shook my head and folded my arms across my chest. “What if it hadn’t worked?”
“I knew you couldn’t resist spaghetti and meatballs.” He raised one meatball with a metal tong, dipped in the bubbling sauce and waved it in my face. “Want a bite?”
“I’d rather bite something else,” I blurted out with no thought of what my words might do to Krew.
Krew’s eyes went liquid as he slowly lowered the meatball. “Like what?” His voice dropped to a husky whisper.
There was lust and want in his depths, and instead of taking those closing steps and kissing his sensuous mouth, I swallowed down my own need and stepped back. I couldn’t afford what my body and heart craved. “A candy bar.”
Candy bar? Really, Regi? Stupid.
Krew returned his attention to the frying pan. “Decker and I are playing Spades after dinner. Want to join in?” he asked, his posture stiff—like if he moved, he’d break in half.
That was it? No questioning on why I put a halt to my blatant flirting and the stupid candy bar? His voice conveyed casual, while his body told a different tale.
“Umm.” I didn’t know what to say. And I was somewhat confused. Either he wanted me to play the card game we used to play together but he knew I’d say no to the offer—or he didn’t want me to play but was too polite to not ask. I didn’t think it was the latter.
I concealed my nervousness with a weary smile; this was my chance to apologize for being such a shrew. “Krew?—”
“That smells great.” Decker strode into the house and his presence totally obliterated the speck of courage I’d scraped together to apologize to Krew.
He went up to Krew and kissed him like they were in some sort of domestic bliss—minus me in the picture. I got it. Messaged conveyed loud and clear, Deck.
A tiny note of jealousy reared up, but it wasn’t because Decker was kissing Krew. It was that I wanted a kiss too. Decker was true to his last words—he didn’t look at me or acknowledge my presence, like I wasn’t even standing there.
My chest hollowed out at his disregard. But I straightened my spine, and bolstered my take-no-shit attitude. Showing Decker any weakness was like giving catnip to a feline. I’d rather starve than expose more of my emotions to this jerk. I’d done enough of that.
“Is it ready? I’m starving,” Decker said, rubbing his flat stomach. My eyes dropped to his hand, then down to his bulge, before I quickly looked away as the memory of my wet dreams filtered in.
