I should be at home, determining how to take down Alexander. Because it’s evident that I’m not going to tell him. That for once in the last decade of my life, I’m going to do right by someone.
And I have no fucking clue why.
“Sweetheart, ye aren’t even paying attention,” Rory says. “I’d have killed ye about three times by now if this were real.”
“Just show me what I need to do to inflict the maximum damage,” I insist.
He frowns and then says the worst thing he could say to me.
“Scarlett, what’s wrong?”
I glance around the gym, and people are staring at us. At me. Like I’m an uppity bitch and I shouldn’t even be here.
I know they’re right.
I just wish Rory would figure that out.
“I have to go,” I tell him.
He follows me out the door and stops me.
“Why do ye always have to do this?”
“Do what?” I snap.
“Ye’re always trying to pick a fight with me just when something good happens.”
“Nothing good has happened,” I argue. “Since you’ve come into my life, everything is fucked up. It’s all wrong.”
“Fine, Scarlett,” he sighs and turns away from me. “That’s just fine. Go on and run along then. Do whatever it is ye need to do to convince yourself that this is wrong.”
“I will.”
I turn to go, but he grabs me by the arm. And I know he means what he says this time.
“And next time ye want to come and play with me?” he says. “Don’t.”
He slams the door in my face and leaves me standing out there on the street.
Alone.
And as it turns out, I’m not broken and some things do change.
I feel.
I feel like hell.
Whiskey isin his own special sort of mood today, following me down the hall and meowing incessantly.
“I don’t have time for your shit too,” I tell him. “It’s bad enough that I’ve caught feelings for one asshole. I don’t need you on that list as well.”
He doesn’t care, apparently, because he’s a fucking cat, and so the keening continues.
I give in and pet him before telling him to bugger off. Still, he persists. All the way to my door, berating me in cat speak. I’m not fluent myself, but even I know when he’s pissy about something.
I tell him to join the club before I open the door to my apartment and gesture him inside, but he won’t go.
“Fine, suit yourself,” I say. “All you men are the same.”
