“Aw, fuck,” I cry out as I land flat on top of her, knocking the wind out of her.
Pain shoots up my ankle. She remains lifeless beneath me, and the scissors land inches from me on the floor. On a grunt, I reach for them and bring the tip toward the air mattress, just as she wraps her arms around my shoulders, holding me back.
“No, don’t.”
“It’s . . . happening,” I call out just as I make one last attempt. I lift and stab the air mattress, popping it with one big burst of air.
Relieved, I roll to the side and catch my breath as she tends to the air mattress.
“I can’t believe you did that.” She attempts to stop the air from escaping by covering the hole with her hands, but it’s pointless. “What did this mattress ever do to you other than provide you comfort?”
I wince as pain shoots up my leg. Fuck . . . that’s not good.
I crawl past the deflating air mattress and use the wall to help me stand. When I put even slight pressure on my foot, pain radiates through my leg, causing me to crumple back to the floor.
“You realize I’m just going to sleep on the couch now, right?” I feel her eyes fall on me. “Did you hear me? Couch? Wait . . . are you in pain?” She crawls toward me. “Are you crying?”
“No,” I grunt out.
“Oh God, wait . . . you are in pain. Is it your back? Should I get you ice? A brace? Tiger balm? Do they even still make that? What can I do?” She presses her hand to my back. “It feels hot. Does that mean you snapped something inside it? I think I read that once, that hot muscles indicate an injured muscle. Is that right? Did you injure the back?”
“My . . . my ankle,” I say.
“What?” she nearly yells. “Your ankle? Are you serious? I swear to God, if you’re not serious, I’m going to murder—”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The shrill sound blasts through the apartment, nearly curdling our ears.
“Jesus, what’s . . .” She pops her head up like a prairie dog and sniffs the air. “Is something burning?”
“Burning?” I ask, totally out of it.
“Yeah, it smells like . . . oh no, is it the sloppy joes?” she yells as the fire alarm sounds off in the apartment.
“Fuck. It is.” I go to stand again, but she pushes me back on the floor, landing me on my back.
“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean for that to be aggressive, but don’t get up.” She points at me. “Stay right there. I’ll get the sloppy joes.”
“I can—”
She plants her foot right on top of my chest, and in a demon voice, she says, “Get up and I will bring that pan over here and use your nut sac as a trivet. Got it?”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fine.” I am just as terrified by Blakely’s demon voice as I am of Penny’s. Who taught who? Because surely, they weren’t raised with that voice, right?
She takes off, and from where I lie on her bedroom floor, I hear her open the sliding glass doors to the balcony as well as a few other windows.
“Shit, this is torched,” she says from the kitchen, causing me to shut my eyes in disappointment.
Yup, you idiot, good job. Not only did you burn dinner but you pissed her off. And you hurt your foot, right when we’re on a goddamn winning roll. Pretty sure this is not what Penny and the boys envisioned for me tonight. But fuck, I didn’t want her sleeping on a stupid air mattress. Is that too much to ask?
After a few seconds, she comes back into her bedroom, bringing the stench of burnt onions with her. Hands on her hips, she says, “I’m well aware the odor surrounding me is unpleasant so if you tell me right now you’re faking this injury, I will lose it on you.”
I shake my head. “I’m not faking it.”
“Okay, so you’re telling me you hurt your ankle?”
“Yes.”
