“I’m sorry, Santa, should have said that louder for your old ears.” Gazing directly into his eyes, I try to keep a neutral expression as I loudly repeat, “Whatever you say, Santa!”
He pinches my arm playfully, and I shriek with laughter. “Who are you calling Santa? I’m not plump or jolly.”
“Yeah, but you’re an older man with some grey hair who gives me presents, and I’m sitting on your lap, so…” I reason.
“You little brat. Do you want me to keep feeding you?” I nod, opening my mouth for more pasta. The creamy, cheesy vodka sauce is addicting and I’ll literally die if I don’t get another bite. “Then behave yourself.”
“Would you rather I doom-spiral about being a person of interest in a string of gruesome murders based on books I wrote? I can do that instead.” As soon as I finish my sentence, it’s like an icy bucket of water is dumped over my head. Cal’s dick is good enough to make me momentarily forget about the shitstorm that happened earlier today, but it’s not a magic wand—it can’t erase my memory completely.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cal nonchalantly comments, like he’s talking about some mild inconvenience instead of a fucking crime.
“Don’t worry about it?!” I ask, my voice cracking from nerves. “Cal, there’s some sicko out there murdering people like the characters in my books! And the police seem convinced it’s me. I’mbeyondworried! This can ruin my career. I could end up in jail!”
“Bolton, calm down and let it go. They don’t have any hard evidence. You’ll be okay,” he assures me, as if my entire world isn’t falling apart.
How fucking dare he?
This is my livelihood—years spent writing into the void, querying publishers, receiving rejection after rejection until someone finally took a chance on me! Then busting my ass writing two books a year to capitalize on the momentum, never giving myself any time off for fear I’ll ruin everything. I’m not letting some sick fuck ruin my career. I refuse to go back to bartending.
I struggle to get out of his lap, and I don’t do it gracefully, but I eventually do. “Fuck off. Such a simple thing to say when it’s not your empire being threatened. I may not be running a huge, successful company, but I worked damned hard becoming Bolton Blue.”
“Bolton—” Cal tried to interrupt, but I’m too fucking mad to let him get a word in.
“This isn’t a joke, Cal. I bust my ass every day to write my books, and some fucking sick freak is out there killing people and ruining everything I worked for. You have no clue how awful it feels to see your work used in such a way. No one is knocking down all your buildings or selling off all your investments.” Wet, fat tears roll down my heated cheeks. I’m not sure where in my tirade I started crying, but it’s like a dam broke. They blur myvision, making it impossible to look Cal in the eye so I can curse him out properly. My nose is stuffed up, forcing me to mouth-breathe like a Neanderthal. This crash out is going at a hundred miles an hour, much too fast for me to gain control of my emotions or turn back from this self destructive-path.
Cal looks at me as if I grew a second head. Admittedly, I’m a bit of a drama queen, but anyone would be next to Mr. Emotionless-Robot Businessman. The stupid expression on his face is the last straw. The proverbial wall my crash out careens into before going up in flames.
I’ve had enough.
I storm out of the room, all the way to the guest room, then lock myself in. I’m spiraling so hard I feel like I’m going to puke, and Cal can’t even take my feelings seriously.
His words echo in my head again.
“Calm down and let it go.”
Let it go… Let it go?! Just forget two detectives took me to the police station and act like my entire career isn’t hanging in the balance. Who the fuck is he kidding!?!
He knocks on the door, calling my name. I hide under the covers and ignore him.
“Baby, please let me in?”
No, I’m not letting you in, asshole.
The guest room has an en-suite bathroom and hidden snacks in the closet. My phone has my writing app on it. I can last days, no, weeks here.
Eventually, he gets the hint and goes away. My phone vibrates with a text.
I’m sorry I told you to calm down. You’re stressed. Please don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.
I sniffle like a crybaby bitch. What if this is too big to handle and my career is ruined?
Do you want to talk now, or tomorrow morning?
I leave him on read. I’m too upset to deal with this
Ten minutes later, he texts me a final time.
I love you. Good night.
