“Don’t test me,Iceeer! I’m a woman of my word,” she shouts as I slam the door shut.
Looking down at the handle, I make a mental note. “My first priority is buying a lock for that damn door.” With that decided, I start the shower and don’t wait for it to warm up. Lukewarm temperature works in this case.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Letti
When I hearthe door slam shut to the bathroom, a giggle escapes me. Two can play that gamehestarted. “Chingada madre,” I mutter, calling him a motherfucker underneath my breath.
I try to busy myself by ordering dinner and pulling up one of the many streaming services he has on the television so we can choose a show to watch together instead of sitting around, stewing. My inner girl is doing exactly what I told him I’d do, place our entire relationship underneath the lens of a microscope.
“Why do men think it’s a good idea to do this to women?” I whine. “Now my brain is going to be stuck on…we need to talk.”
The pipes in the house turn off letting me know he’s jumping out of the shower. My nerves suddenly take a nosedive and fall into an abyss of the unknown. With nothing left to do to keep myself busy, I start wiping down the already clean kitchen and start making a grocery list. Which I won’t be ableto contribute to since I no longer have a job thanks to Slayer and his overreaction. That’s another subject Viking and I need to discuss. My unemployment. Nobody should have the right to decide when or who I get to work with or where I do it.
He comes strolling into the living room, his sweats hung on his hips and rubbing his hair with a towel, drying it. “You took your braids out,” I complain.
“Needed to scrub my scalp,” he states. “There was a lot of dust at the rodeo grounds and it was making me itch.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve re-braided his hair and I doubt it’ll be the last time I do so. “Go get your supplies, and I’ll redo them,” I instruct him. Thankfully, there’s a channel aired online that gives step-by-step instructions on how to give the perfect Viking braids. I had to use it the first two times I did this, but now, I think I’ve got it down to an art form. I stretch my fingers and pop my knuckles because this is a long process since his hair hits mid back.
As he comes in with his hands ladened down with his separating comb, jar of gel, clips, and a pack of rubber bands, the doorbell rings. He drops the items on the coffee table and tells me, “I got it.”
I eyeball the things he set down and am slightly disappointed. He didn’t bring any of his rune beads. Even though they’re a pain to add to his braids, I love the look of them. But it’s not me who has to wear them, sleep in them, and have them whipping around my head so I swallow my sadness and plaster a smile on my face.
“Food first?” he asks as he places the bags down at my feet before settling on the floor and elbowing his way between my legs. Myeyes nearly cross at not only his close proximity, but because his heat solicits a different type of want to flow through me. I feel wanton as my womanly desires take center stage. I don’t know how to be a seductress, but I want to learn. I wonder if they have a tutorial for that?
“I’ll take bites in between braids,” I decide. “Otherwise, we’ll be here for hours and I’ll get full and want nothing more than to wrap a blanket around me and snuggle into these cloud-like cushions.” I’m obsessed with his couch and it has become my favorite napping place.
“I’m suddenly jealous of my custom couch,” he mumbles.
Teasing him, I say, “Money well spent, my Viking. You did good.”
“It’s sad that I prefer it over my bed, huh?” he asks, reaching into the bag and pulling out our meals. He pops the styrofoam lids on them and sits mine beside me on the couch as he starts digging into his. “Nothing better after being on the road for half the day than a greasy burger and homemade fries.”
“Goes straight to my hips, but I can’t resist a good burger, especially when it’s made with Angus beef and comes from a Mom and Pop diner,” I say, agreeing with him. “You know that it’s made with love.”
A slight chuckle escapes him. He knows I have a love/hate relationship with food. I love it and it hates my body. I wasn’t lying when I said it goes straight to my hips because it most certainly does. It also settles in my ass and tits and makes a home for itself. Damn genetics. No matter how physical I stay, and even if the doctor claims I’m in great shape, I always feel the weight of those feminine attributes. They follow me like a long-lost friend that’s attached themselves to you like a suckerfish, one that you wish you could yank yourself free of and kick to the curb because they’re that annoying.
I shake my head at my wayward thoughts and pop open my lid so I can snack on my meal as I make my Viking look like himself again.
“I like your hips,” he claims. “I’m not scared I’ll break you.”
“I’m made of some tough stuff,” I jeer. “I’ve proved that time and time again.” I reach up and start the tedious task of sectioning off his hair and clipping it to separate it. I like to start in the middle and work my way out to the sides. It’s a template of how thick to make each row, like follow the leader.
“You have,” he confirms. “We both have.”
Out of the two of us, I’m not sure who had the more traumatizing childhood. We both walked on eggshells never knowing where the next strike was coming from or why it would happen. He had more freedom than I did, but he was just as trapped as I was.
“We’re warriors, Viking.”
“With the scars to prove it,” he amends.
“Internal and external,” I add.
“Quite the pair,” he grinds out. “I can’t help but get angry when I think about the way you were treated, my Letti.”
