“Oh my God,” Poppy huffs out. “It’s fine, just… don’t worry about him.”
“Okay, what are we taking?” I ask, turning to the bed where there is an overfilled suitcase, a duffle bag that looks about ready to explode, and bins full of… shit. I don’t even know what.
“How the hell did you know where I was?” Poppy asks, clearly still hung up on the fact that I’m here. “I didn’t give my address to Cam.”
I rub at the pinch of guilt in the back of my neck. “I called a friend. At the club…”
She huffs again, muttering, “Pretty surethat’sagainst the law…”
I look at her, deadpan. “Sue me.”
Rolling her eyes, she closes the suitcase and struggles to zip it. I nudge her out of the way and take over, making quick work of the stubborn zip before hefting the case up and placing it on the floor.
“What else?” I ask her.
“Those bins.” She points at the plastic tubs and I pick them all up at once.
“I’ll take these down,” I say. “Come with me.”
Poppy grabs the duffle bag and opens the door for me, and as we walk out of the apartment, I spear fuckface with a hard glower, daring him to even breathe wrong because I will not hesitate to break his nose.
Outside, Poppy turns to head to the small parking lot off to the side of the building, but I wrestle with my fob, careful not to drop the bins, the Range Rover unlocking with a loud beep.
“This is us,” I say, nodding at the SUV.
Silently, we load everything into the back of the vehicle and I head back to the apartment, stopping and turning to face Poppy.
“What else are you bringing?”
Her eyebrows knit together as she looks from me to the apartment building and back again. “The suitcase. My laptop… that’s it.”
There’s a pang in my chest at the realization that she wasn’t kidding earlier; her whole life does fit into a couple boxes and a suitcase. With a nod, I tell her, “Stay here.”
“Brookes, I?—”
“Stay. Here.” I steady her with a serious look and, thankfully, she doesn’t argue, just nods once and waits by the Range Rover, her arms crossed in front of her.
I jog back up the stairs and let myself inside the apartment, ignoring the asshole as he watches me from his place on the sofa. Grabbing the suitcase and the MacBook that looks as if it’s seen better days, I do a quick look around. There’s not a lot else in here. Just the bed, the side table, a lamp with a stained shade. And I don’t even know Poppy, but I hate that this is where she lived, in this tiny room, with a lock on the door.
Carrying the last of Poppy’s things, I walk back through the living room toward the front door, with all intentions of ignoring the sack of shit on the couch. But then he goes and fucks himself by opening his bitch-ass mouth.
“Good luck with her,” he mutters, adding a derisive scoff that grates on me, causing me to stop in my tracks.
I don’t look at him, still staring at the open front door, my jaw ticking while I wait because clearly he has more to say.
“She’s a frigid bitch,” he derides. “You’ll be lucky to get a blow job once a month.”
And that’ll do it.
I let go of the suitcase and place the laptop on top, turning and crossing the small space in a matter of steps, and then, standing above the asshole, I stare down at him, watching his face pale the longer I loom. My palms burn with the need to smack the shit out of him, but I know I can’t do that. Assholes like this guy prey on people like me to make the first move sothey can take us to court for a quick pay day. I won’t give this fucker the satisfaction.
“You play for the Hurricanes, huh?”
He hesitates before nodding. “Yeah. Starting short stop.”
“Bruce Wiley still the GM?” I arch a brow.
“Yeah.” He huffs, shrugging like he’s confused by my question.
