Page 27

I don’t have to search long in the fridge. All I currently have stocked is some tomato sauce and a six pack. I reach for the beer.

‘What is that stars-awful sound?’

I jolt, almost losing my grasp on the drink, before I readjust my grip.

‘Fuck me,’ I curse under my breath before peering over the refrigerator door.

Tall, dark and asshole is leant against the kitchen counter.

‘It’s called music, Walker.’

‘It sounds like a chain smoker trying to play the trumpet.’

Technically, he’s correct. I put on some jazz to set the mood. I ran out of smooth, so it’s on to Avant-Garde. ‘That’s part of the appeal,’ I say. Damn, I was sure I could have pinned him as a jazz guy. ‘What did you listen to when you were alive?’

‘I’m dead, not deaf.’

‘Alright, what do you deem worthy listening for your advanced musical predilection?’

‘Not this,’ he says disapprovingly, looking down his nose at me.

‘Evidently.’

Walker’s brows pinch with a look of disgust as he peers through the doorway.

‘And what the fuck is that on my couch.’

I look over my shoulder as I bend to grab the beer.

‘What?’

‘Is it even house-trained?’

‘Why? You scared he’s going to piss in your territory?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

I shut the fridge and turn to face him. ‘The only dog here, Walker, is you.’ I smile and flee before he can answer.

I collapse into the couch beside him, and with a renewed sense of pettiness, forget the fact we hardly know each other. I take a swig of Henry’s beer and let some spill down my chin.

‘Whoops.’ I bite my lip and look up at him through my lashes. ‘I’m all wet.’

Henry smirks, and it makes his chin dimple look like an open belly button. It’s probably the worst look I’ve seen on him thus far, but there’s this little vindictive voice inside my head crying out for me to claim the couch. Walker’s worried about another man coming into his house, when he should be worried about me. Because I’m about to claim every damn room of this house. There’s going to be prints of my bare arse on every flat surface of this house and there’s nothing he can do to stop me.

The kiss he gives me is not pleasant. He tastes like chlorine and his tongue is like a minnow darting in and out of my mouth. He exhales through his nose and hot air bathes my face. Henry’s started rubbing my thigh crease now, and I have to question, is this truly what I want? Is this actually worth doing?

I’m interrupted mid-contemplation by the lights flickering. A strange sound grows, ominous and dark, like black mould sporting the ceiling. It builds and ends in scratching, somewhere behind the walls. The effect is eerie, no doubt, but Henry is an imbecile. I suspect even fear may sit beyond his emotional range.

‘What—?’

I shush him with quiet hums and kisses. I’ve managed to coax Henry away from the aggressive tonguing and redirected his efforts to my neck while his hands play with my breasts. It’s actually… quite nice. Almost even good.

The scratching resumes. Louder, this time.

Honestly, it takes a tremendous amount of self-control not to groan. I was just starting to feel something other than the crushing weight of despair of his ineptitude, and he just had to go and ruin it.

Henry pauses long enough to question, ‘What is that?’ He’s toying with my nipple like it’s a fidget spinner.