"Your terms?"
My smirk tics up a notch.
Now to have a little fun with him.
11
Penelope
Someone must have moved me during the night because when I wake, I find myself sprawled as always on Calamity's bed.
My fingers grope automatically toward his side of the bed, disappointed when I find it empty.
"Stupid," I mutter.
He doesn't stay with me most mornings. He's gone before dawn and doesn't return until sundown. I'm not sure who he's off terrorizing at the moment, but I should probably just be grateful that it's not me. Instead, I'm blinking back traitorous tears.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, determined to get out of here. The last attempt to help the working girls around here went disastrously, but if I keep my head down, maybe this time it'll be different. Some girls I spoke to were interested in getting a GED. I must be sneaky to educate them right under the pimps' noses, but I'm confident I can do it. And it has the bonus of keeping me busy and out of the clubhouse frequently. If I can somehow get Kylie off my back and replace her with a more tolerant overseer, then I'm golden.
My foot knocks something semi-solid, and I freeze. What the hell was that? I peek down cautiously, half-expecting a horse's head or something equally awful. Instead, I find one of those reusable grocery bags at my feet, with fabric spilling out the top. Brow furrowing in confusion, I hoist it onto my lap. A familiar pair of dark wash jeans lay on top, and when I rifle through the rest, I find my blouse beneath it, and my club jacket folded at the very bottom.
My clothes. He gave me back my clothes. I have to blink hard and struggle against the tears that haze my vision. This feels like a gesture. I'm not sure if it's a hand of friendship or Calamity flipping me the middle finger, but whatever the intended message, I'm still fucking grateful. My eyes rove the bed again, and I spy a scrap of paper on the pillow, blocky male script squeezing the margins so it's almost hard to read. It's weighed down at one corner by a dark oval stone. My worry stone. I pluck up both and squeeze them tight in my hands.
Freak storms are coming, and the weather may dip below zero. Don't freeze your damn fine ass off trying to be contrary, Penelope. We'll talk tonight.
-C
We'll talk tonight. Well, that sounds ominous. No conversation that starts with those words ever ends well. I recall prefacing my last three breakups with those words. My lips purse, and I roll my eyes at the thrill of nervousness that runs through me at the thought. It's not a breakup. There's nothing between Calamity and me to break. We don't have a relationship. We've just been aggressively hate-fucking each other in some form or another for a month.
But he left me a note, and he returned my clothes. It's these sorts of mixed signals that really fuck with my head. I like my monsters to be monstrous. I don't like the uncertainty I'm feeling when he's around. Like I only have half of the story.
I wiggle into my jeans, finding them looser than they'd been last month. I chalk it up to nerves because it isn't as though he's been starving me. The food around here is phenomenal when I have the guts to actually eat with the rest of the MC. The blouse goes on next, and I hesitate when I reach my jacket. Strolling around with it on is probably asking for trouble. So, for the first time since getting it as a young woman, I don't put the jacket on over my ensemble. I raid Calamity's closet instead, finding an overlarge hoodie at the back he doesn't seem to wear much. It nearly swallows me whole, and I find the faint scent of him that clings to it oddly comforting.
The worry stone and the note disappear into my pocket, and then I exit, startling Kylie, who's been waiting for me outside. She's wearing more clothes than I've ever seen on her, which means this storm is serious business. Most of the hookers don't wear more than crop tops and lycra skirts, rain or shine. She's compromised by wearing a tube top beneath a jacket and sheer tights under a knee-length skirt. So it's probably not just me he's trying to protect.
She assesses the hoodie through narrowed eyes. "That's the boss's hoodie."
"And?" I snap. "What's one jacket between fuckbuddies?"
Kylie snorts. "Don't get too big for your panties there. You're a whore, Spade, just like the rest of us. He'll get tired of you, eventually."
We'll talk tonight.Those words dance through my head and evoke an uneasy stomach roll. She's more right than she knows. He's gotten what he wanted. What happens to the castoff Spade when he's through toying with her? Will he shoot me? Why shouldn't he? He's tried to shoot everyone else in my family.
Outwardly, I just grin. "Let's get going. Time's a-wastin’."
Kylie shoots a nervous glance out at the darkening sky. The clock says it's only eight, but already the sky is the deep purple-blue of a bruise, and heavy clouds roil outside the window.
"We're going to get caught in this," she mutters, about as eager to go out as I am to stay in.
"Not if we're quick. Come on. Let's go."
I dart out of the foyer and into the frigid morning air before she can protest. She makes a small sound of outrage as she follows me down the slope, her four-inch heels more of an impediment to her than my sensible sneakers. I almost tell her to stay put, but I know she won't. She's my assigned guard, and without Malick here to take her place, she will get a beating or worse if she lets me out of her sight.
I adjust my pace to accommodate her. No sense in pissing her off prematurely. I will do that when I sneak off in the library.
When we get there, I slip away from her as quickly as I can, hinting to a male patron of the place that she's been checking him out but is too shy to approach. I figure that ought to keep her busy for at least a few minutes. This search may turn up a big fat nothing, but it's worth a shot. Anything is better than sitting around the clubhouse, speculating who this Trinity person is or was to cause such explosive reactions in him.
The computers are just a step above the boxy old models I grew up on. They're still obsolete and slow, and I tap my fingers noisily, waiting for them to boot up and connect to the internet. It's five minutes before I'm logged in and pull up Google. Dragging in a deep breath through my nose, I type. I'm not sure this is information I want to know. But it's too late to stop now.
