Page 71 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
“Oh, no. No, no, no. Our deal was that you make me food and I eat it over at your place. Forty-five minutes, remember?” He swings his door open wider, and the rap music swells out louder into the hall. “Or would you prefer to spend your evenin’ with my good friend Ol’ Dirty Bastard?”
He stares at me with a challenge in his eyes, his smile growing wider in obverse proportion to how mine shrinks.
Without a word, I turn around and march back to my apartment. I leave the door open behind me because he’ll find his way inside whether I want him to or not. The man is insidious, like an infestation of termites.
But he’s not the only one with tricks up his sleeve.
I leave the platter of food on the kitchen table. As soon as I hear Cam’s music cut off, I retreat into my bedroom with the cat and shut the door.
And lock it.
Then I call my mother. She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mom. It’s Joellen.” I always feel the need to remind her who I am, in case she’s forgotten she has two daughters since we last spoke.
“Oh, hi, honey! I was just thinking about you!”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
She laughs. “Nothing’s wrong, silly, I was just thinking I’d call you tonight. How are you?”
From beyond my bedroom door, Cam calls, “You better not be skippin’ dinner, lass!”
I stick my tongue out at the door. “I’m good. Great, actually. I got a raise at work.”
“Oh, honey, that’s wonderful!”
She sounds thrilled, which makes me smile. “Plus, I’m up for a promotion.”
“A promotion, too?”
“For an associate editor position. I already put the application in. I’m just waiting to hear back.”
“That’s fantastic! When will you know?”
Cam knocks on the door. “Is that your mother, lass? Tell her I said hullo!”
I stare at the door with slitted eyes, wishing for whatever the superpower is that lets you shoot lasers from your eyeballs so you can blow people to smithereens through solid objects. “Probably soon, maybe next week? I’ll call you as soon as I know. How’s Dad?”
“Who’s that with you?”
Shoot! Mother hearing strikes again. I turn away and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me so now there are two doors between me and the Incredibly Irritating Man. “Hmm?”
“I heard someone’s voice, honey.”
“It’s the TV. I’ve got the news on.”
“So it’s not Cameron McGregor?”
The hope in her voice makes me want to vomit. “No, Mother, it’s not Cameron McGregor.”
A voice faintly calls, “I can hear you talkin’ about me!”
These people should work for the CIA! I turn the shower on full blast, go into the closet, and crouch down beside my dirty-clothes hamper, feeling like a refugee fleeing from a totalitarian regime. Which really isn’t too far off the mark.
“Listen, I wanted to apologize for that remark I made about him the last time we spoke.”
I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Forget about it, Mom. I was just being sensitive.”
