Page 13 of A Dance With Devils
Finished.
The sound of Brandon’s bike comes bellowing into the yard an hour later, just as I’m starting to finish wiping the kitchen down after the rest of the place has been done. Whatever this has been this evening, the vision of something that hot in this house has at least given me the wherewithal to clean properly for once. It won’t last. Within two days it’ll be just as it was an hour ago, but for now I chuck the rag into the dish bowl and head into the lounge to relax.
I grab at my book again and collapse into the old armchair, knees hooked over the side and head resting on the wing. There’s no point in mothering either of them when they get in about being out so late on a school night, regardless of what they’ve been up to with whoever Malachi is. They’ll both go straight up without acknowledging me and then in the morning they’ll tell me Whit dealt with him and we can move on from strange fucking nights.
My eyes close before I hear the engine cutting, a sigh falling from my lips. Strange nights. Guess it’s a turnaround from normality. Something unusual to counter the below average that we shouldn’t have to fucking live.
“Show me the tattoos.”
My eyes fly open, legs scrambling to get me upright, and I find the very same man I’ve just sent to the cooler standing in my lounge again. “Fuck.”
“What about fucking?” he asks.
What the hell is he doing back here?
I stare at him standing there under the door divide, both his hands hanging on the top of the frame and his body firm beneath it. “What?”
“I was going for tattoos first, but fucking is acceptable.”
“I …”
“Yes?”
“But Whit-“
“Is an old friend. Your brothers are enjoying the cooler for a while.”
“Wh ... why?”
“I don’t enjoy interruptions. Tattoos or fucking?”
My hands grip the tie around my waist, damn sure they’re not going anywhere near opening the robe up for him. For either reason. “Get out.”
“But the lights are on, as requested.”
My mouth is flailing, eyes wide, chest heaving. I’m alone with him. No way past him out the door and little to no chance of beating him in any form of fight. I glance around, perhaps searching for some potential solution that is not fucking obvious at all.
“Scared, Ally cat? Looks good on you,” he says, lowering the hood on his black jacket. “I like scared.”
I don’t know what to say to that, and him revealing that face again isn’t useful to logical thinking. My feet back up, both of them trying to send a signal to my brain that this is not, in any way, okay, but then … fuck that. I stop my retreat and narrow my stare, trying to remember what he was like earlier clearly enough to play whatever game he’s trying for this time. A game, that’s what he said. Everything’s a game. Dismissive. That’s how I should play this. Uninterested.
Perhaps I’ve got a hope of evasion if he gets bored with trying.
“I’m bored,” I mutter, heading into the kitchen. “And tired.”
Every part of my brain to muscle reflex fights with each other to make the move away from him seem seamless, indifferent. It isn’t. It’s fraught with potential hazards and concerns, forcing me to make each step relaxed and calm. A drink. Several. Maybe if he’s trashed he’ll be more escapable. Where is the Scotch? If there’s one thing I can do, it’s outdrink most men.
“Do you want a drink?” I call, searching the pantry.
“No. Not tonight.”
Fuck.
Well, I do.
“What do you want then?”
“You know that,” he murmurs.
