Page 95 of Arrogant Puck

“Maybe we should stop then.”

I stand, leaving the room while my heart hammers against my chest. Shame and guilt rips through me as I close the bedroom door.

I walk into the living room, trying to catch my breath. I run my hands through my hair, trying to understand what is happening to me.

Because I want Slater more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, but I keep hesitating.

And it’s clear to me that the trauma I experienced is heavier than I thought.

Chapter 34

She leaves the room, and I’m fucking livid.

The anger hits like a switch being flipped, white-hot and instant.

The dresser needs to still be built.God fucking damn it.

I grab the screwdriver and slam it into the next screw, the metal biting deep into the wood. Another screw. Another violent twist. The dresser shakes under my hands as I force the pieces together with brutal force.

What the hell was that? She was kissing me back, her body pressed against mine, making those sounds that drive me insane. And then what—she just decides she’s done? Like I’m some kind of sick fuck begging for something I don’t deserve?

She can’t even fucking talk to me?

After I’ve been trying so hard to stick to the god damn plan.

I point the screwdriver up at the ceiling, pointing at my dead brother up there, who I thought sent me a fucking sign through the radio. I, sure as hell, have lost my mind.

I drive in the last screw so hard the wood splits slightly around the edges. My hands are shaking from the kind of rage that makes you want to put your fist through a wall.

I leave her bedroom without looking back, deliberately avoiding the living room. I can’t see her right now. Can’t trust the look in my eyes or what words might crawl out of my mouth.

In my room, I pace. Five steps to the window. Turn. Five steps to the door. The walls feel like they’re closing in, like the air is getting thinner. My chest is tight, my breathing shallow.

Is this who I am? The guy who buys furniture and makes lunch and gets nothing in return? Is being the nice guy just another way to be fucking used?

It’s not like she has to fuck me to thank me, but luring me in, and then cutting the line is brutal.

I stop pacing and stare at myself in the mirror above my dresser. Same face. Same body that women throw themselves at. But somehow not good enough for her.

The thought makes something ugly twist in my stomach.

She let me have a taste already, or am I remembering that wrong? I had my tongue deep in that pretty fucking pussy, made her orgasm not only once. She fell asleep on my shoulder last night like she belonged there. This morning, she was laughing, making videos, acting like we were something real. And now she’s running again the second things get sexual.

I grab my phone and call Henderson before I do something stupid.

“Yo, what’s up?”

I murmur, “What are you doing?”

“Playing Fortnite with Davis. Why?” he asks, and I can hear the commotion in the background.

“I’m coming over.”

I hang up. Grab my keys. I need to get out of this house before I march into that living room and demand she explain what the hell her problem is. And I know she won’t appreciate me demanding anything from her.

When I walk out, she’s on the couch, looking small and lost. She glances up when she hears me, and there’s something in her eyes that might be regret or fear or guilt. I don’t look directly at her.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

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