“I’m not telling your housekeeper anything. However, you should instruct your guests not to eat what isn’t theirs. I paid almost six dollars for it,” I stated, showing him the empty package.
He watched me as I returned to the kitchen island, where I had laid out the rest of the ingredients for my sandwich.
I guess it’s just cheese and tomatoes then.
“Did you put your name on the turkey?”
I raised a brow at him. “Did I have to?”
He shrugged and, with the audacity I didn’t expect, said, “Yes. That’s not your personal fridge.”
“Sorry?”
What the hell?
Not my personal fridge…“I live here. All these other people don’t. Why would I have to put my name on the food I buy?”
“Because you don’t live in this house alone,” he said, his words slurring slightly and his annoyance clear. “This is still my house and my fridge.”
“Youate it?”
He shrugged.
For a forty-three-year-old, he sure acted like a college douche sometimes.
“Didn’t think it was that important to you.”
“It was!” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “And so was that can of Pepsi I bought last week, and the chicken breast too!”
He chuckled and shook his head, like my frustration was ridiculous. He didn’t take me seriously, and he didn’t care.
Not that I ever expected him to, but if he was going to let me stay in his house, I expected at least a little respect.
“God, you’re an asshole,” I muttered, looking away because meeting his eyes hurt more than I wanted to admit.
I didn’t rely on him, but I relied on his house, and if he ever kicked me out, I had nowhere else to go.
“Brave of you to call me an asshole when your life is literally in my hands.” He stood on the other side of the island, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his broad chest. “Don’t you think you at least owe me a thank you once in a while? For not kicking you out and all?”
Now, that’s just wrong.
I let out a short, humorless laugh and crossed my arms too, standing my ground so I wouldn’t seem small. “To be honest, I’ve questioned why you haven’t kicked me out yet, but I came to the conclusion that nothing would change for you anyway.”
“Why?”
I shrugged, uncrossing my arms to start assembling my turkey-less sandwich. “Because,” I said with a sigh, “I don’t think it makes much of a difference. Whether I’m here or not, you don’t really care.”
He didn’t reply, just let my words sink in. When I looked up, he was watching me, his eyes narrowed with an expression I’d never seen before. Pity, maybe? No, that would mean he cared. And Callan didn’t care.
I followed him with my eyes as he walked over to one of the cupboards I couldn’t reach and grabbed a small red vase. No, that wasn’t a vase. That was a penis-shaped mug. A very large penis-shaped mug, with two enormous balls at the bottom.
I scrunched my nose as he reached inside the mug and pulled out a stack of dollars, which he then tossed onto the counter in front of me. “Go grab something to eat out. Sorry for eating your turkey.”
I looked at the money, roughly two hundred dollars, and reached for the bills with an amused but confused expression. “Who the hell needs this much money to get food for one day?”
Callan shrugged, serious now, but he didn’t answer my question. “Just take it. And if you ever need more, just grab it from my cock.”
He meant the mug.
