“As long as you promise never again to begin a question by asking whether or not you can propose a question.”
I want to laugh at my use of Ridge’s comment, but Warren doesn’t even crack a smile. It only makes things much more awkward. I shift on my feet. “What’s your question, Warren?” I say with a sigh.
He folds his arms over his chest and walks toward me. I swallow my nervousness as he leans forward to speak to me, barely a foot away. “Do you just need someone to fuck you?”
Breathe in, breathe out.
Expand, contract.
Beat beat, pause. Beat beat, pause.
“What?” I say, dumbfounded. I’m positive I didn’t hear him right.
He lowers his head a few inches until he’s at eye level with me. “Do you just need someone to fuck you?” he says, with more precise enunciation this time. “Because if that’s all it is, I’ll bend you over the couch right now and fuck you so hard you’ll never think about Ridge again.” He continues to stare at me, cold and heartless.
Think before you react, Sydney.
For several seconds, all I can do is shake my head in disbelief. Why would he say that? Why would he say something so disrespectful to me? This isn’t Warren. I don’t know who this asshole is standing in front of me, but it definitely isn’t Warren.
Before I allow myself time to think, I react. I pull my arm back, then make four punches my lifetime average as my fist meets his cheek.
Shit.
That hurt.
I look up at him, and his hand is covering his cheek. His eyes are wide, and he’s looking at me with more surprise than pain. He takes a step back, and I keep my eyes focused hard on his.
I grab my fist and pull it up to my chest, pissed that I’m going to have another hurt hand. I wait before going to the kitchen to get ice for it, though. I might need to hit him again.
I’m confused by his obvious anger toward me for the past twenty-four hours. My mind rushes through anything I could have said or done to him that would make him feel this much hatred toward me.
He sighs and tilts his head back, pulling his hands through his hair. He gives no explanation for his hateful words, and I try to understand them, but I can’t. I’ve done nothing to him to warrant something that harsh.
Maybe that’s his problem, though. Perhaps the fact that I’ve done nothing to him—or with him—is what’s pissing him off like this.
“Is this jealousy?” I ask. “Is that what’s making you this evil, wretched excuse for a human being? Because I never slept with you?”
He takes a step forward, and I immediately back up until I fall down onto the couch. He bends down, bringing himself to my eye level.
“I don’t want to screw you, Sydney. And I am definitely not jealous.” He pushes himself away from the couch. Away from me.
He’s scaring the living shit out of me, and I want to pack my suitcases and leave tonight and never, ever see any of these people again.
I begin crying into my hands. I hear him sigh heavily, and he drops down onto the couch beside me. I pull my feet up and turn my knees away from him, curling into the far corner of the couch. We sit like this for several minutes, and I want to stand up and run to my room, but I don’t. I feel as if I’d have to ask permission, because I don’t even know if I have a room here anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says, breaking the silence with something other than my crying. “God, I’m sorry. I just . . . I’m trying to understand what the hell you’re doing.”
I wipe my face with my shirt and glance at him. His face is a jumbled mixture of sadness and sorrow, and I don’t understand anything he’s feeling.