“Define big deal.”
I huff out a breath and shake my head. “I think you know what I mean, Fight Club.”
A faint smile lifts his lips. “Yeah, I do. Just wanted to keep you talking.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a jerk?”
“Yeah. You. Twice. You didn’t mean it either time. Get back on track, and tell me what I need to hear.”
I thrust my hands into my hair, close my eyes, and count to ten. The man is impossible.
“You can stand there with your hands pressed against your head for as long as you want, but I’ll still be standing right here waiting.”
“I believe that.” I open my eyes, drop my arms to my sides, and stare up at him. “Okay, Aidan. Here’s the deal. I like you. Which I’m sure you already know, by the way, this is just your way of torturing me.”
I pause for a beat, but he doesn’t deny it, so I continue.
“If you fell off my roof and broke your neck, it would seriously fuck me up.”
When he opens his mouth to interrupt me, I hold up a hand. “I’m not finished. You’ll get your turn.”
A low growl of displeasure rumbles through his chest, but I ignore it.
“I’m very attracted to you.” Recalling how wantonly I rode his dick and how hard I came for him, the heat in my cheeks flares hotter. “I think we’ve already established that beyond any doubt. I also feel safe with you. And for some bizarre reason, I instinctively trust you, which doesn’t happen for me with anyone, but especially with men. It took six months of dating before I let my future husband see the inside of my apartment, so this thing we’ve got going on here, despite being brand new, is different. I don’t know anything beyond that, and I hope you won’t press me for more, because I tend to act like a cornered wolf when I get backed up against a wall, and believe me when I tell you that’s not pretty.”
I fall silent. Fierce and unblinking, Aidan stares at me.
I add sheepishly, “I also, um, have never, uh, role played or whatever it was we were doing when you were chasing me around your apartment, and…”
Aidan practically shouts, “And?”
I blurt, “And I loved it. I want to do it again.”
Then I stand there vibrating with embarrassment and wishing I could take it back.
After an interminable period wherein I suffer in silent humiliation, Aidan says, “Okay.”
Disconcerted, I blink. “What do you mean, okay?”
His smile comes on slow and hot. “Just what I said.” He points at the ceiling. “I’m gonna go up on the roof and take care of that tarp now.”
And the bastard turns on his heel and walks out my front door.
He walks out!
I holler after him, “You know what? I was only joking! I made all that up!”
He can’t hear me, but it makes me feel better anyway.
16
Dear Dante,
I debated about whether or not to write you again, seeing as how I think you might be unstable. But you could also just be lonely, and if anyone knows about loneliness, it’s me.
The verse you sent was very poetic.
I’m sorry, but I can’t think of anything else to say about that right now.
What I would like to say is that I hope you’re not dangerous and about to be granted parole, because boy, would I look stupid when the police find my dead body and our correspondence. I can already see the headline:
“World’s Dumbest Woman Ignores All Logic and Writes Letters to Prisoner Who Eventually Kills Her!”
Okay, that’s a lot, but you get my point. We’ve all heard about the prison pen pal romance gone wrong thing. Not that I’m suggesting there’s anything romantic here, mind you! Just that I’ll look really stupid if you break out of prison and kill me.
Especially after writing that last line.
Anyway. I most likely will shred this before it has a chance to be mailed. But on the off chance that I don’t, please consider being truthful about what you did to be sentenced to prison. I suppose I could get my detective friend to tell me because people in his position probably have access to all kinds of sensitive information, but I’d rather hear it from you.
That’s it for now. I doubt you’ll ever read this letter, because I’m ninety percent sure I’ll tear it up, but if I don’t, well…
Take care, I guess?
Sincerely,
Kayla
17
It’s three o’clock in the morning when I finish the letter. I’ve been up since one, pacing around my office, unable to sleep. My mind spins with a dizzying merry-go-round of questions.