I’m extra-glad I stocked up on bags of ice earlier today. Unless Scarlett decided to fuck with me and get rid of all of them…in which case, Tyler might need to make a trip to the gas station.
“Straight for the tub, or…?”
I shake my head and move toward my room. Tyler reaches forward and shoves my door open, and light floods into the hall, which is weird because it wasn’t on when I left.
“Who are you?” Tyler blurts out.
I focus, and my blood drains away from my face.
Scarlett is crouched by my desk with the box of cash open on it and loose bills scattered across the floor. There are even some in her grasp.
Caught red-handed.
Thefuck?
My mouth opens and closes, but I don’t know what question to go with first.What the hell are you doing?Or,Who the fuck do you think you are?Snooping. Stealing. Invading my privacy.
The rage that flutters through me is spurred on by my shitty night, by my pain, and I shake off Tyler to lunge across the room. I haul her up by her hair and shove her against the desk. The old cigar box–an antique I got from my grandfather before he passed years ago–slides. I reach around her and slam the lid.
I use her hair to tilt her head back, forcing her gaze to meet mine. Her green eyes are so wide I can make out the edges of her contact lenses.
“Cross,” Tyler calls. “Dude.”
I ignore him and lean over Scarlett. She grasps my wrist, but she’s trembling. Her nails dig into my skin, and it’s the least pain I’ve felt all night. But her fear is intoxicating, and I want more.
And, at the same time, I want absolutely nothing to do with her.
“Get out,” I say softly. I loosen my grip, and her silky hair slides through my fingers.
She inches away, seeming to test if I’m serious, then bolts. Tyler scoots aside to let her pass, and her door slams a moment later.
I brace myself on the desk and let out a long, slow exhale.
“What the fuck?” Tyler closes my door softly and approaches. “I’ve never seen you act like that. And what the hell is all this cash?” He crouches down and gathers the fallen bills, dropping the pile to the desk beside my hand.
“Savings,” I bite out. “Certainly none of her business.”
“Try a bank next time, man,” Tyler says. “Jesus.”
“Yeah.” I force a laugh and straighten. My body aches, but there’s an underlying shame at having a witness to my outburst. “You can go. I’m gonna use carrying the ice upstairs as punishment.”
“Just like your Sisyphus,” he agrees. “I’m not gonna argue with you. Think about a bank…or at the very least, a safe.”
I wave him off. “Night, man.”
He leaves, and I sit heavily on the edge of my bed. I take a few deep, slow breaths.
Tonight was an epic shitshow. Mentally, I warred with my desire tocrushmy opponent, and I had to stem my anger every time I let him hit me. Not to mention, I had to make it look like I wasn’tlettingit happen.
I don’t know where this anger comes from, but fighting has become the perfect outlet. Better than lacrosse–although I can’t deny I enjoy the camaraderie that comes with a team sport–and, hell, it’s better than sex.
At least, the sort of sex I’ve been having in recent months.
Unbidden, the image of a naked Scarlett flashes in front of me.
No, no, and no.
The distraction I need is awaiting me. I hobble downstairs and load a bag of ice on each shoulder then slowly make my way back up. I set them in the bathroom and retrace my path. When I’ve got all four bags stacked together, I start the water in the tub, turn it to cold, and dump in the ice.
