Page 43 of Rough Cowboy
The bedroom door rattles when I slam it shut. I press my back against the wood as anger tears through me. I hold back a massive roar building up my chest and compromise by picking up the closest piece of furniture and throwing it across the room. The rattan plant holder with a dead vine and bucket of dirt hits the dresser. It knocks over the lamp, organizing baskets and whatever else I’ve dropped there the last couple of weeks. The soil explodes on the dresser’s surface and falls over the edge to the floor. It doesn’t ease my anger. I want to pick up the dresser and throw it through the window.
I inhale so hard my nostrils sting. I lace across the room, releasing a piece of my anger with every stomp. I’m mad at my brother. I’m angry at Elsie. But most of all, I’m mad at myself.
One sentence.
One selfish, careless fucking sentence has pitted my two favorite people against me.
Child support and a nanny.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
When my anger starts to subdue, I grab my bag and begin packing. Leaving is best for everyone. Whatever messed up agreement Sammy and Elsie have come to never included me.
I’m keen to get the fuck out tonight. I pack everything but stop when I swing open the bedroom door.
Guilt plagues me. I don’t care what my brother says; I’m not leaving without coming clean with Elsie.
I drop my bag on the floor and rap lightly on her bedroom door. When she doesn’t answer, I make my way to the nursery. It’s pitch black inside, and I don’t turn on the light, aware the door on the left leads to Sammy’s master bedroom. I’m relieved to find Elsie’s door open a crack.
“Els?” I peek inside and find the bedroom empty. “Elsie?” I close the door behind me. I don’t need my brother hulking out during my apology.
I cross the room to the flickering glow coming from what turns out to be the bathroom.
I halt in the doorway. I nearly swallow my tongue at the sight of Elsie lightly moaning in a tub of bubbles. Her head rests on the claw tub’s edge, and her hair spills over her bare shoulders. She squeezes her eyes shut, and that sensual look of ecstasy washes over her face. The water splashes with her arm movements, and I’m damn jealous not to be the one rubbing.
The dim wall scones cast a warm, luxurious ambiance in the room.
I should turn away. Or step out and make my presence known
I don’t.
I can’t.
I force myself to tap on the side of the doorframe lightly.
Water splashes. She curses and grabs the bubbles to cover her up like a blanket. Then she stops, and a glare lands on me.
“What the hell are you doing creeping around in my room?”
“I wasn’t creeping. I knocked. A couple of times, but you were preoccupied.”
Her shoulders straighten. The bubbles bounce above her breasts, not giving me even a glimpse.
“I was preoccupied.” Her sassy attitude is one I’ve missed. “Masturbathing. Rustlin’ the love muscles. Relaxing in the gentleman’s way.” Her way with words brings a smile to my lips.
“Are you laughing at me?”
I shake my head. “Quite the opposite. Please, don’t stop on my part.”
She rolls her eyes. “What do you want? Was your handiwork in the living room not enough of a turn-on to get off in your shower?”
“I wanted to apologize for what happened out there. I didn’t realize you were gonna—”
“Orgasm. It’s called orgasm.” I thought she’d retired this side of her. I sure didn’t know why she would, but the conversations I’ve caught between her and Sammy have been eerily tame and unlike her.
“It’s hard to come up with the right words when you look so beautiful and I’m just envisioning your hand between your legs.”
“It is between my legs.”
