Page 69 of The Bronze Garza
He nods. “Well…just let me know if you need anything.”
“I won’t. You brought my purse, remember?” I remind him. “I can just order whatever I want. No need to bother you.”
“You won’t be bothering me.” His voice is tight, but his aggravation doesn’t seem to be directed at me. “You’re my—”
“Job. Ah yes, how could I forget?”
He dawdles, sweeping me over, his gaze like melted wax drizzling along my flesh. He goes as if to say something but stops, retrieves his sunglasses and slides them over his eyes again. Then turns and leaves without another word.
This time, I don’t watch him go.
Because, fuck him.
~
Patrick:Can we hang out tonight? I miss you.
Patrick:Say yes and I will come and break you out of that B&B.
I’ve stolen away to the gazebo tucked deep in the rear gardens of the B&B, words flying from my fingers. I’m almost fifty thousand words into the “book”, and it’s more than likely a steaming pile of shit, but I can’t stop writing. I’ve no clue what I’m doing, but there are people in my head who won’t stop talking. Barfing it all out on the pages seems to appease them.
Mostly, though, writing has become therapeutic for me. When I’m writing I’m not thinking about real life. Not thinking abouthim. I get lost in a world where I have utter and complete control, and it’s shockingly fulfilling. Not to mention how time flies when I’m in the zone.
I’d just taken a break to hydrate when Patrick’s texts came in.
I tap my thumb contemplatively against the side of my phone. Do Iwantto hang tonight? No. What I want is to curl up in bed and watch reruns ofThat’s So Ravenso I can feel like a kid again, because being an adult sucks.
I also want my best friend. I want to gab with her, hug her, laugh with her. I want to tell her all abouthimand the things I’m feeling. I want her to slap me on the back of my head and ask me if I’ve lost my marbles.
But she’s been so distant since the accident it hurts. The friend who was always bursting through my door and splashing color on my gray mood with her larger-than-life personality has suddenly become monosyllabic in text messages and “too busy to talk right now” whenever I call.
Me:Not up for it. I’m not feeling too well.
Patrick:This is bullshit.
I’m about to type out a reply when I spothim, winding through the garden.Dammit. How does he even know I’m back here? I went out of the way to hide from everyone, because there was always someone interrupting my writing flow by trying to feed me. I chose this spot after realizing no one except the gardeners ever come this far back. It’s buried deep from all the action and is the quietest, most unobtrusive spot on the entire grounds.
Yet there he is, coming straight toward me. He’s given me a whopping two days before showing his face again. Generous, but still not long enough.
With a resigned sigh, I set my phone aside.
As his boots hit the wooden steps up to the gazebo, I ask, “What did I forget this time?”
A ghost of a smile whispers across his lips, but I know it’ll take a miracle to get a full smile out of him. Today he’s clad in a plain red tee, black ball cap, and black denims. He stops just inside the arched entrance, propping his shoulder against the post.
“Just tell me the truth,” I say. “You miss me.”
His gaze falls to my crossed legs. The weather’s terribly humid so I’m wearing less than usual today. Denim shorts and a halter top.
I like it when he checks me out.
I hate it that he’s too pussy to do more than that.
Dragging his eyes from my legs up to my face, he says, “Need a favor.”
“Huh.” I drum my fingers on my laptop. “What could a lowly plebeian like me do for a powerful king like you, Your Grace?”
“You enjoy being a pain in my ass, don’t you?”
