The one nightI tell Maya not to come to my apartment, she shows up. Of course she fucking does.
My jaw aches from clenching it. I can feel my pulse hammering there, a steady reminder of how close I am to losing my shit. She stands in front of me, calm as ever, and it only makes the heat climb higher. I drag in a breath through my nose, hold it, and let it out slowly, again and again, until the edges of my vision stop narrowing. My hands curl into fists, then open. Don’t say it. Don’t shout it. The words in my throat are hot and sharp, but I force them down. When I finally look at her, I’ve buried the rage deep enough to pass the calm, though it still thrums beneath my skin, waiting.
“I need money,” she says, almost pleading, after just calling my little nemesis Hurricane a fucking whore. Which pisses me off more than it should because it’s not just the insult, it’s the audacity of asking for help right after spitting venom.
Groaning, I reach for the other pillow and cover my ass as I make my way to my bedroom. Maya follows me, but I slam the door in her face so she can’t come in.
“Come on, Soren,please.” She bangs her hand on the door, her voice dipping into that familiar, sugar-coated desperationshe uses when she wants something. The sound grates on my last nerve, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a response right away. Instead, I snag a pair of pants from a drawer, take my time to slide them up my legs, and then open the door.
“Fuck off, Maya. I’m this close”—I pinch my fingers together, a sliver of space between them—“to cutting all ties with you.”
Her expression twists with shock and hurt, the weight of my words hitting her like a slap she never saw coming. Not once have I ever spoken to her that way. I’ve always measured my words, softened my tone, and done everything I could to protect her from the truth. But that’s precisely the problem, isn’t it? All this carefulness has only taught her that she can say whatever she wants without consequence. And if I keep letting it slide, if I keep protecting her, it’ll never stop.
“Leave. You’ve already fucked up my night,” I tell her. “And I have to prepare for tomorrow night.”
“What’s so important about tomorrow?” she asks. “Is itmore importantthan me?” The sad puppy-dog eyes she gives me usually work—they always do.
Not tonight.
I’m mad that Cressida left.
Mad that I didn’t get more than a taste.
Just enough to ruin me for anything else right now.
Fuck.
I want Cressida.
I wonder if it’s too late to chase her down, bring her back, and make her crawl to me like I wanted in the first place.
Jesus, I actually crawled to her.
Who the fuck am I becoming?
And why?
“If you want money, Maya,earn it.Take the other fucking job.” I walk to the door and hold it open, and when she turns to face me, tears are glistening in her eyes.
No fucking way.
Not happening.
“Take the job, Maya,” I tell her again. This time, not as harshly.
“I don’t want to work,” she whines.
“Too bad. You either work or end up on the street. Your choice.” I nod toward the door.
“Please, brother.Please?”
“Leave.” I groan again.
“It’sher. Now that you’re seeingher, you no longer want to support me anymore. Why?”
“Cressida hasnothingto do with this,” I grit. “And you know it.”
“This is unfair.” She storms past me into the hallway, then stabs her finger on the elevator button.
