Page 52 of Secrets (The Sins Trilogy 2)
Chapter Nineteen
Iris
“I don’t need Bobbi today,” I tell Tony as we’re finishing up our breakfast the next day. “I’m going to stay home.”
“But what if you decide you need to go out? I don’t want you to be stuck all day,” he says.
“I won’t feel stuck.”
“I disagree. The second you can’t do something, you want it more.” He kisses me, lingering. “Like now.”
My cheeks warm. “Look who’s talking.”
“Obviously. I’m addicted to your body. It makes going to work hard.”
I laugh. “Stop with your bad sexy talk and go. See you for lunch?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I hand him a travel mug full of coffee, and he walks out. Just as the door’s about to close, Bobbi slips through it.
Her attitude hasn’t improved one bit. She looks just like yesterday: a flat expression, a sleeveless black top, worn black jeans and the boots. The muscles in her arms flex as she pours herself a coffee, and she takes a seat near the Steinway.
Sigh.I don’t know why Tony thinks I should be able to ask her to do anything. She’s going to bite my head off if I tell her I want to go out. She has that “don’t fuck with me” face.
Trying to pretend it’s just like every other normal day, I start practicing. But it’s hard to focus because she’s like a disapproving storm cloud. I swear I can hear a rumble from the couch where she’s sitting and drinking her coffee.
After playing arpeggios and scales in D minor to warm up, I grit my teeth and start on “Mazeppa.” But after half an hour, I realize it isn’t going to work.
Morning, when I’m practicing, is my calm, happy time. When Tony’s home on weekends, he works and occasionally listens to me with a smile on his face.
But Bobbi’s shooting daggers in my direction on purpose to ruin not just my practice, but my morning. And even though I haven’t hit a wrong note or played off tempo, she’s the worst audience ever, sighing every five seconds or so like I’m paining her with my practice. Her reactions are throwing me off. Enough.
I walk over to the couch and stand with my hands on my hips. She looks up with a slow smile. It’s the smile you give an animal that just fell into a trap.
My heart jumps to my throat, but I hold my ground. This is my home, not hers.
“Why are you glaring at me?” I demand, keeping my voice firm. I’ll be damned if I sound scared of her, even though she’s physically intimidating.
“Glaring? I was looking at you.”
Her reasonable tone stokes my annoyance. “With a scowl!”
“So?”
“But why?”
“Does that matter? I’m here to catch bullets, not listen to Bach or whoever.”
I inhale sharply at the matter-of-fact way she speaks. I can’t decide if she’s just screwing with me or serious about the bullets. Probably just joking. Who the hell’s mad enough to shoot at me? Well, maybe her, since she isn’t even trying to hide how much she dislikes me. “You don’t have to like me, but you could be a bit more pleasant while doing your job.”
“Could. But it’s a job I don’t want.”
Oddly enough, the comment hurts. I didn’t want her here either, so I shouldn’t be unhappy to hear it. But somehow this feels…personal. And vaguely insulting. Like she thinks I’m beneath her. “Why not?”
She leans back, stretching her arms along the back of the couch. “You really want to know?”
Not really. “Yes.”
