Maybe I should lay low for the next few days? I’ll call Mom and Dad and tell them I can’t visit. Maybe sneak into work early to avoid any potential run-ins. Hell, maybe I should justbuild a new apartment building and move into that, giving the new guys some peace of mind that there won’t be any repeats of today.
With a long-suffering exhale that feels like it weighs at least a ton, I roll awkwardly out of my bed and pad quietly to the bathroom, the cold floor seeping through my socks. Shutting the door behind me, I shuffle to the sink and flinch so hard at the reflection that greets me in the mirror.
“Holy shit, jump scare,” I blurt, eyeing myself in absolute horror.
Blinking back at me is a face that looks like it’s seen better days. As predicted, the hockey stick did a real good number on me. A mottled, dark-purple bruise stains the skin around my eye and bleeds out beneath the patch that covers my new stitches, giving me the appearance of someone who fought a kangaroo and lost. If I’d wondered what a sucker punch from King Kong would look like, I’d imagine the way half of my face currently looks. It certainly joins the race for the worst-looking injury I’ve received, and that’s coming from a girl who snapped her leg clean in half with the bone protruding out of her skin after a particularly brutal fall from a swing when she was twelve.
But that’s not all. Icy-blue hair sits in a rumpled mess on top of my head, a sign that I was tossing and turning as I slept off the whiskey that flattened me enough that I needed to be carried to bed. My mascara is smudged beneath both eyes, more visibly smeared beneath the eye that isn’t surrounded by a bruise to end all bruises. To top it all off, there’s a sucker stick stuck to the side of my cheek that has me frowning at my reflection.
Peeling the stick from my skin with a hiss, the sting of it cementing the travesty my day has become, I give myself a dirty look before relieving my bladder and washing my hands and face. I’m careful to avoid the square bandage over my stitches,keeping my fingers gentle despite still wincing in pain as I brush over the bruised skin.
I’m patting my face dry when I hear a knock on my door, followed by, “Madison? It’s me. Open the door.”
Staring at my reflection, I wonder which god hates me enough to turn my life into this kind of shambles. As if the day I’ve had wasn’t bad enough, it had to include the bane of my existence.
“Please, Madison. I just want to talk,” Toby calls from beyond my front door, his voice grating on my nerves. Not that he sounds weird or anything. In fact, Tobe the Chode is obnoxiously handsome. Outwardly, he’s the epitome of what one would imagine as a handsome actor. His voice is deep and rumbling, he’s tall and dashing with surfer-blond hair and a body born from the gym and light use of steroids. However, it’s everything on the inside that makes him the ugliest motherfucker to stain the planet. I don’t even know how he found out where I lived, but I’m going to have to talk to Tanner and Callie about this now that he does know and bypassed her somehow. I’m sure it wasn’t hard. Most women fold at a mere glance from Toby Moore, and Callie would be no better. Not without warning.
Mentally kicking myself for not warning her and making a note to have a lengthy meeting about what a dickhole the guy is and to never let him set foot in my building again, I retrieve a brush from the mirrored cabinet above the sink, brushing out the tangles and knots my hair gathered as I slept. All the while, Toby continues to knock on the door, pleading for me to hear him out and to give him a chance to talk. That I’ll change my mind if I hear him out. That he’s willing to forgive me for the meme and talking to his mom if I just open the door. I snort at that one, placing the brush back before throwing my hair up in a messy bun on top of my head.
Still ignoring the persistent bastard outside, I walk back to my room, my feet leading me to my walk-in closet that would be a bedroom in the apartment below. Beelining straight for my fluffy hoodies, I retrieve a cream-colored oversized hoodie, find a plain white tee and matching shorts, and strip where I stand. Dressing quickly, sighing the moment I feel cozy and comfortable, I gather the clothes on the floor and carry them to my laundry basket.
Just as I’m leaving my room once more, leading myself to the kitchen, I hear a voice that has my eyes widening in dread.
“Why are you sitting outside Blue’s apartment?” Caiden’s voice carries through the door, and my now-bare feet are suddenly rushing through the hallway and heading straight for the door just as Toby answers.
“I’m Madison’s boyfriend. Who the hell are you?” Toby answers, and I fight the urge to kill him with my bare hands, instead using them to switch the lights on and swing the door open. I stare with an undignified amount of revulsion when I find Toby sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and a puzzle book on his lap as though he were going to settle in for the long haul.
Mouth falling open in shock, my horror-filled gaze colliding with Caiden’s, I shake my head rapidly before looking back down at the weirdo at my feet. Sadly, Toby chooses that moment to look at me.
Ah, shit.
Chapter Thirteen
Maddie
“What the hell happened to your face? Have you been to the hospital? Why didn’t I see you? Who did this to you? Did you call the police? What did they say? How did this even happen?” Toby practically yells his game of twenty questions, scrambling off the floor in such a way that I cringe away from him. It’s like watching a man chase after a ping-pong ball that keeps bouncing away, or trying to step on a wrapper the wind keeps blowing from him, or trying to pick something up off the floor but missing each time and getting progressively more annoyed with every attempt. It gives me the ick, as the youth of today would say, and I can’t stop the way my body visibly recoils from him when he steps closer and lifts his hand as though he’s about to cup my face.
I’d rather step into a raging volcano wearing a bikini, snorkel, and flippers than allow that infestation of a man to touch me ever again. So, it’s with quick reflexes that would make Chuck Norris proud that I lean backward like I’ve just stepped out ofThe Matrix, dodging the touch as Toby’s hand swats awkwardly at the air in front of my face.
At the very same time, Caiden steps forward, pressing the back of his hand to my stomach and gently but firmly forcing me to step farther into my apartment. The single touch sets off a whole flurry of butterflies inside me, my stomach somersaulting at the warmth that bleeds from his hand and through my hoodie. He shuffles into the space where I’d been standing a second before, his beautifully built body blocking my view beyond the doorway so much that I have to lean to the side to see past him.
And what I see is pure comedy.
If it wouldn’t make this situation worse, I’d hug Caiden for putting the aghast look on Toby’s face. His face is slowly flushing red, the usually tanned skin, often fake and from a bottle, growing ruddy with newfound anger, and I can see his chest rising and falling with barely contained fury. I can’t really tell if it’s because my face is busted up at the moment, if it’s because of Caiden being here, or if it’s a beautifully concocted potion of both. Either way, it sends a giddy little thrill through me seeing Toby all hell-bent out of shape.
The prick deserves so much more, but I’ll take this little win after the day I’ve had.
Feeling a little vindictive, not wanting to deal with Toby myself, and with the opportunity presenting itself too grandly to let pass by, I do what any crazy person would do in this situation. I’ll apologize to Caid later, but for now, I use him like a well-loved dildo and lean my front into his back, wrapping my arms around his waist like I have every right. Like he’s mine to paw all over, hugging him from behind like some cutesy girlfriend greeting her boyfriend after a long day.
“What took you so long, babe?” I wonder, softening my voice as I press one hand against a deliciously firm chest packed with tight muscle while the other drags along the washboard abs I can feel through Caid’s shirt.
Holy shit, the guy is ripped.
Caiden catches on pretty quickly. I’d like to think it was the look of sheer terror I sent him moments before Toby caught sight of my face that has him playing along so effortlessly, but my appreciation for him extends beyond time and space when he rests a free hand over mine as it caresses his abs like the pervert I apparently am and says, “Sorry, sweetheart. The line was long tonight, but the food is still hot. Let me just get rid of whoever this is and we’ll watch our show and eat.”
I press my face into Caid’s back to stop myself from outright laughing at the expression that now paints Toby’s face, his mouth opening and closing like a fish caught in a net. I didn’t think he could grow any redder, but I’m proven wrong when he turns a funny shade of tomato, the color spreading down his neck and beneath his skin-tight shirt that shows off his artificial muscle.
Nodding against Caid, my nose rubbing along his spine, I sigh and say, “Don’t be long taking out the trash. I’m starving.”
