Barney, our doorman, stops me to comment on Sunday’s football game, and I’m equal parts grateful and irritated. I know Beth and I would probably both benefit from some space after this confusing-as-fuck night—especially with all the time we’ve been spending together—but right now, the more alone time I have with my thoughts, the more agitated I become.
By the time I enter the stairwell to the echo of small feet padding passive-aggressively above me, my blood is practically begging for a nicotine fix. Beth has always hated smoking, and though she didn’t actually ask me to, I’ve cut down substantially since she moved in. I don’t even think it was a conscious choice. But right now, I fucking need one—bad—before I get up to that apartment. I light up a cigarette right in the fucking stairwell, just as another door slams two stories overhead to announce Beth reaching our floor. Well, good. I’ll feel at least marginally better once she’s back in my apartment, safely tucked away from the Falcos and Brodys and even the Steven-fucking-Bogarts of the world.
I close my eyes and suck in a long drag, letting the tobacco fill my lungs, waiting for its magic to circulate through my system. I need to calm the fuck down and get my head straight, and fast.
It’s no use, though. I can’t stop picturing Falco’s infuriating, smug smirk when he realized Beth had kept me in the dark. But he’s got another fucking thing coming if he thinks I’m going to let him set her up for more pain in this lifetime. Or the fucking next, for that matter. I backed down once before, and that was the only damned shot with her he’s going to get.
Because fuck that motherfucker. And even more aggravating—I can’t figure out what the hell Beth was thinking having coffee with him yet again. To what fucking end?
And what the double fuck is she doing lying to me about it?
My gut clenches with those feelings from four years ago—from when they first met, and I understood even then that he could be things to her I never would. Just the thought had sent me instantly reeling, consuming me with emotions I didn’t understand…
Jealousy of someone I didn’t even fucking like. Possessiveness over someone I had no business even thinking about in a way that—according to Cap—would be akin to fucking incest, despite not actually being related. Regret for something that was never even mine—that could never have been mine.
But Falco wasn’t her brother’s oldest friend. He didn’t have my reputation or my reckless streak. No, what he had was a chance with Beth.
And he used it to fucking hurt her.
I shove my hand through my hair and slam my foot into the doorjamb. I just can’t fucking believe her right now! And she has the balls to stomp away from me as if I’m the fucking bad guy? For what? Hitting her asshat ex? What the hell did either of them expect me to do after he said that shit to her? And then she went to his side like she fucking owed him something!
I haven’t had much occasion for indignation in my life, but right now it’s making me grind my teeth into fucking dust. Because the reality is Beth could get hurt again. She could get hurt worse. Look at what happened to Liz! Beth could get…fuck.
My brain gets caught on that last thought, and I can’t get past it no matter how hard I try. It rages through me until my blood boils over, the buzz of alcohol feeding the flames like gasoline as they fire me back into motion. I crush what’s left of my cigarette under my shoe, and march up the rest of the steps and down our hallway. I’m already reaching for the door with my keys when I realize it’s fucking ajar, and the sight of it incenses me even more.
Could she possibly be any more cavalier with her goddamned safety?
It’s after one in the motherfucking morning! Who the hell leaves their front door open in the middle of the night like an invitation for trouble? Especially someone who, on top of everything else, just spent the entire fucking night drinking. She once told me she thought I was trouble. She has no idea what trouble even is.
I barge through the door, all out of patience and ready to tell her off, but the apartment is dark, the only light glowing from the crack beneath the bedroom door. Beth’s presence would be impossible to miss, though, what with the sound of her tramping around the room, violently yanking and slamming drawers like she wants the whole damned building to feel her wrath.
Well, at least that’s one feeling that is definitely fucking mutual.
I throw the bedroom door open with more force than I intend, and Beth jumps at the reverberating bang as it smacks against the wall. But she catches herself without even glancing my way, continuing about her business like I don’t even fucking exist.
My outrage dissipates as I take her in. Her long blond hair is haphazardly piled on top of her head, and she’s already changed into a T-shirt and yoga pants. My eyes get stuck on her ass for several seconds before I even process the fact that she’s shoving her shit into her duffel bag.
She yanks open another drawer—the one I’d cleared for her bras and underwear—and panic rolls through me. It doesn’t mix well with the indignation. Or the booze.
Somehow I manage to force enough patience to keep from unloading my every grievance on her at once, and I just stand here glowering, biting back every word I couldn’t wait to get out just moments ago—those words now lodged uncomfortably in my throat, held hostage by that fucking duffel. And suddenly I resent that, too. The fact that Beth has the nerve to vilify me for looking out for her. For taking her out to do something she fucking loves. But more than anything, I resent that I fucking care. That the sight of her packing her things affects me. Not just my feelings—my motherfucking feelings—but my actions, too.
It gives her a kind of control—power. It’s not a dynamic I’m used to with women, and it’s left me a little lost and a lot confused. And even more pissed the fuck off. It’s enough to demolish even my pretense of patience, my composure shattering in one fell swoop, and I spring into action, thrusting myself in front of her in challenge.
“’The fuck are you doing?” I demand.
Beth’s jaw locks, but she just sidesteps around me.
“Beth,” I warn.
She snatches handfuls of panties from her drawer—my drawer—with enough hostility that I worry for the integrity of the delicate lace, and my inebriated mind actually pities them until I remember it’s me she’s fucking pissed at. The appearance of her underwear doesn’t help my focus, either. But watching her shove them purposefully into her bag snaps me back to reality. Or it snaps me the fuck out of my Beth-panty-coma, at least.
“What the fucking hell are you doing?” I repeat as calmly as I can manage—which, it turns out, isn’t calm at all. But where the hell does she think she’s going in the middle of the goddamned night?
“Taking my stuff and going back to my dorm,” Beth deadpans, and it takes me a second to realize she’s not actually kidding.
I shake my head and grab her upper arms. “The fuck you are!”
Beth wrenches from my grip, and I have to release her or risk hurting her, which is not a fucking option. “The fuck I am, is right!” she shouts, skirting back around me to stuff more clothes into her bag.
