How do I get him into the shower so I can throwthe whole damn couch out of the window?
I grab his sweatshirt and push it over my head, so he doesn’t see the hickey on my arm. “Can we inject it into my veins?” I ask, forcing myself to stand and cross the space to him. “What happens if I snort it? Does it work faster?”
“I heard soaking a tampon with it is the fastest,” he jokes, smirking.
My gaze rises from the floor to meet his and I wince. “Seriously?”
He scoffs. “I think there were rumors of people doing that with vodka a few years back.”
My face furls in disgust as I sink into one of the bar stools and toss my phone on the countertop. “This is why it’s a good thing I’m sober. I’m pretty sure if someone had suggested that to me while I was high, I would have done it.”
“And now?”
“Now, that just sounds like a hospital visit waiting to happen. The pain. The infection…Ugh. I need caffeine for this conversation.”
Another laugh leaves him as he pours coffee into an oversized mug. “What’s up? You sleep that shitily?”
I run my fingers through the roots of my messy hair, the memory of my stalker’s bare hand raking over my stomach lingering at the forefront of my mind. “Something like that,” I say, trying to blink the vision away.
“Really? I thought the couch was pretty comfy.”
“Wasn’t the couch,” I admit. Zeb passes the mug across the counter, along with the caramel creamer. “You ever do something that you barely have memory of?” I ask.
“Like a childhood memory that you’ve blocked?” he asks. “Hours of driving completely zoned out?”
“Like you can’t tell if something was a dream,” I reply.
He presses his palms to the lip of the counter and bends over, stretching his muscled shoulders out. “Did something happen?” he asks when he looks up.
“I… I had a dream that I slept with my stalker.” I don’t look up from my coffee as the lie leaves me. It isn’t that I think he’ll judge me. I think I’m just not ready to admit the truth out loud.
“That’s fucked up,” he says, straightening. “Was it hot?”
I give him a look, and he chuckles before grabbing one of the bananas from the fruit bowl.
“It’s a valid question,” he says.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
He pauses. “Yeah… what? Yeah, that’s valid or yeah, it was hot?”
“It was fucking hot,” I concede, and he laughs hard. “It was really fucking hot—Shut the hell up.” I throw the creamer bottle back at his face, but he catches it without even trying.
“Well, at least you have a decent distraction from that today,” he goes on.
My phone buzzes, and I glance over to see Gemma’s name across the screen.
“Speaking of,” I say, picking it up.
A long exhale leaves me when I read the message, and I almost smile.
GEMMA
Do you need anything from your apartment? Heading over to make sure everything was changed.
“She already changed the locks,” I say.
“She works fast. I like it,” Zeb replies.
