OBSESSION UNMASKED
RUBY
With zero ceremony or presentation, Zane gives me a new phone in the morning.
Just drops the sleek black box on the hotel bed like he’s placing a sacrificial offering at my feet.
“What is this?” I ask warily.
“A phone.”
My droll stare can crash galaxies. “No shit, Sherlock. I mean…why?”
“Yours was… compromised.”
“Compromised how?”
He shrugs, all innocence and demon energy. “I threw it out the window.”
My jaw drops. “ZANE! What the fuck?”
“To be fair, it was mid-argument and I thought it was King’s.” He lifts a brow. “Also, I’ve heard you listening to Coldplay, so don’t act surprised,” he adds darkly as he paces.
My hand flies to my chest. “Who hates Coldplay? I’ll tell you who. Demons and assholes.”
He pauses, brows raised. “Are you done having a Q&A with yourself or shall I give you five more minutes, baby?”
“Go fuck yourself, Zane.”
“Nah,” he says casually, “can’t get past my very big balls to do that. You’ll have to fuck me instead. You’re welcome.”
“Jesus. You are definitely high.” I jab a finger at him. “And do not say you’re high on me?—”
“Again with the self-Q&A.” He tsks. “You spent too long in that coffee shop. My fault. I should’ve come and found you earlier.”
“Do you hear yourself when you speak,” I demand, “or is that massive ego blocking your ability to act like a rational human being?”
He grins. And it’s unfair. Un-fucking-holy.
The kind of grin that knocks my heartbeat sideways and makes my knees wonder if their contract includes collapse clauses. “Should I even ask?” I mutter.
“I’m just pleased you didn’t say ‘normal person.’” He actually air-quotes it. “Hate that phrase.”
“Thatis what you hate?”
He shrugs. “Who gets to decide who’s a normal person and who’s not?”
“Hmm… society? The social contract we all signed as civilized human beings?”
“Don’t recall signing up.” He cocks his head. “Must’ve been one of the days I was attempting to fuck myself. Or stroke my… ego.”
He winks so broadly my whole face betrays me with twitch, a tremble. Then a traitorous snort-laugh that becomes a full laugh spilling out before I can stop it.
He stares, his eyes twinkling, bright silver in the morning sunlight.
Then the laughter fades. Slowly.
Too slowly. Replaced with that belly-flipping look that warns me I am about three seconds away from a very stupid decision.
