Page 90 of Brutal

She hadn’t.

I’m fuming again by the time I turn the key in the lock, and I storm inside.

Mimosa is sitting on the couch again, wearing a pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt. She looks casual, no effort made at all for my sake.

She’s still sexy as fuck, and that pisses me off even more.

She looks up from her laptop and says, “Bad day at work, huh.”

“Fuck off,” I mutter to her, continuing into the kitchen to see what I have in my liquor cabinet.

I rummage around until I find the whiskey, and I’ve got a glass half-poured before I look across the condo at her again.

She’s typing away on her laptop again, ignoring me.

I want to take it away and throw it against the fucking wall.

How dare she.

She can tell I had a bad day. The least she could do is pretend to care, pretend to pay attention. I’ve been plenty caring about her issues!

Haven’t I?

Fuck, I don’t even know.

I gulp down the whiskey and pour another, trying to calm my nerves. Right now, I want to grab her and shake her — or shove her against the wall and fuck her tight little ass until she screams.

I hadn’t been able to grab Caroline and wring her fucking neck, but I could hurt Mimosa.

I stare at her, thinking of just that.

Mimosa brushes some of her blue hair behind her ears, then closes her laptop. She takes it and stands up, moving toward one of the guest rooms.

“Where are you going?” I demand, my voice rough.

Mimosa stops and looks at me. “I’m fucking off. Like you told me to do.”

I let out an ugly laugh. In this moment, I fucking hate her all over again, just like I did in the beginning.

Hate.

“Not in the right direction, whore,” I snap at her.

Her shoulders tense, and she purses her lips. “Ah. All right.” She sets the laptop down, then pulls her shirt off. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so now she’s standing in front of me in just the shorts.

I stare at her, wishing I could just fuck her, but hating the fact that she thinks I’d just go back to this so fast when I’ve been putting everything into trying.

She doesn’t even seem like she appreciates it at all.

“I thought,” I say raggedly, “that you might give a fuck if I was having a bad day. That you might try to… I don’t know, talk to me. Not ignore me. Not do this shit.” I slam my fist into the wall, cracking the drywall and ignoring it when my knuckles start to bleed. “But then, I guess you don’t really care, do you? How could anyone ever care about me?” I sneer at her. “I know you sure as fuck don’t.”

Mimosa doesn’t look away. “I asked you about your day. You told me to fuck off. That sounded like you wanted to be alone.”

“If you knew the first thing about me, you might’ve learned—” I cut myself off. I sound pathetic. “You know what? Fuck it, and fuck you. Get your shirt on, get your shoes on, take your fucking brand-new clothes and laptop and whatever else gold-digging bitches buy, and get the fuck out of my condo.”

I want to hurt her. So badly, I want to hurt her as much as I’m hurting.

Why am I having to fight not to cry, like I’m some bitch?

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