Page 25 of Stitch
When I turned on the light in the kitchen, there was a sound at my window, and I turned to see a face peering in. My scream could have woken the dead.
Fourteen
Ifucked up. I’dpromised Lissa, when I asked for Camille’s number, that I wouldn’t fucking hurt her, and yet I’d messed up already. Should I just tell her why I’m being so fucking distant, and pathetic? Would she even understand?
I discovered something that didn’t surprise me though. Ice still hated being woken up at crazy times of the night. He’d wrenched his door open looking ready to kill me, but after my quiet explanation, he’d nodded, disappeared, and returned with a piece of paper; her address. He’d found it as part of his background check that he did before she started working for Lissa.
Getting to her place was the next challenge. Technically it was walking distance, but I didn’t want to get there sweaty as fuck, and I also couldn’t get on my damn bike, because of my affliction. In the end, I’d grabbed a prospect, and demanded a lift. As a prospect, he didn’t question me, or why I wasn’t riding wherever I was going, just did as I asked.
I made him leave me there, and wasn’t that a dumbfuck move? She’d invited me and I’d rejected her, without even meaning to, and hurt her. The chances of her even letting me in were… well, fewer than the number of fucking balls I had left.
I sat down on her doorstep, and leaned back against the planter sitting there. I was the biggest asshole in the world, and now here I was, stranded on some girl’s fucking porch, because I was suddenly too much of a pussy to even knock on the damn door.
Idon’t know how long I fucking sat there, cursing myself, my condition, my lack of balls, metaphorically, and literally, and talked myself out of knocking on the door a dozen times.
I’d almost fallen asleep in that hunched position, when a noise behind the door caught my attention, and as I glanced up, a light flicked on in the room to the right of the door. Getting up and peering in her window was a mistake though, because she screamed the place down, and I backed up fast, tripping over another one of those damn planters.
So when that gorgeous woman opened her door, and stared out at me, I was on my ass on the ground, with half a plant draped over me.
She opened her mouth to say something, but instead what came out was a giggle. I felt my lips twitch, and shoved the plant aside, struggling to my feet. I was gonna have a bruise the size of my ass on my ass, and it hurt like a bitch.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.” She laughed some more after saying that, and fuck me, she was even more stunning.
“I’m sorry too.” I stepped up to the front porch, but didn’t move onto the step in case she didn’t want me there.
“For scaring the crap out of me, or breaking my poor acer tree?” I glanced at the plant that had attacked me in defence of the woman I’d terrified.
“It put up a good fight.”
She giggled again. I smoothed my hair back, and wriggled, because something was tickling my back.
“I’m sorry for hurting you, Camille. I was, I mean, I am uh, dealing with some shit right now, and it means I’m not a good person to get interested in.”
She stared up and down the street then back at me.
“It’s almost four in the morning, and you... did you walk here? How the hell did you get my address?”
I reached back and adjusted my cut, because something was inside my clothes, and it was irritating me. I pulled at my shirt next, and a handful of dry dirt dropped out of it. I heard another of those sweet giggles from Camille, and fuck me, I wanted her to make that sound constantly.
“Why don’t you come in for a minute, as long as you’re not going to trail mud everywhere.”
I shook my clothes thoroughly and checked my boots, and then followed her in. The placewas nice. Small, and tidy, with lots of colourful touches around, like a throw over the small sofa, and pictures on the walls that were more like abstract art.
“Nice place.”
She shrugged, and headed for the kitchen, so I followed her.
“Oh… do I need to take off my boots?”
She looked at me, as she reached into a cupboard.
“Depends. Are you staying more than a few minutes?”
Isn’t that the question… “Am I? I’d like to stay and chat a while, but, hell, you need your sleep.”
“Are you saying I look tired?”
I ran my hand through my hair, feeling like a complete prick. Didn’t I used to be able to talk to women?
