I groan as I open the car door and pull my body to standing. I rub my eyes, so happy I ditched the contacts and shake out my legs before going to the trunk to pull out my go-bag. Every vehicle I own (even the boat and four-wheelers) has a small duffel bag stashed somewhere in them. They contain cash, clothes, one day of rations (beef jerky and a flask of Jameson, don’t give me too much credit), and a new identity.
The identity I probably won’t need just yet, but I do need the set of clothes. My suit jacket was lost to some poor male patron with a gut shot, and my pants and shirt are ruined by some lady’s blood and the remnants of what I did to Thad during his interrogation. I feel guilty for not using the Morganite knife and killing him for real since I know he’ll heal in the next couple of days. My only solace is that it will take a few days to regrow his whole fucking head.
I knew I shouldn’t have gone to my stupid exhibit. I swear it’s the last time I let Evan talk me into anything.
I mean it this time.
Rhys has been quiet most of the drive, and it’s a blessing because I have no idea what to say to him. But it’s a curse as well due to the barbed guilt running through my veins. I’ve spent little time with him that hasn’t included me trying to rip him limb from limb, so a conversation might be impossible. I’m also a little disturbed having him so close hasn’t been the hardship I thought it would be. He’s been quiet, considerate, and he pumped the gas when we stopped because me getting out of the car would have caused a stir.
We both get out of the car and walk to the trunk, which I’ve popped with the key fob.
“You want me to carry that?” he asks, chivalrously reaching past me to lift my duffel out of the trunk. The bastard. I really wish he’d cooperate and be an asshole so I could hate him appropriately. I grind my teeth together in an attempt to avoid screaming and give a jerky nod, letting him take the bag. It takes some effort, but I gently close my trunk, careful not to hurt my baby even though I want to smash something.
I stride towards the front door behind Rhys, vigilantly trying not to stomp my feet and pout like a Goddamn toddler. My anger only grows when I notice how fucking spectacular he looks in a suit. Holy shit balls. He’s easily six foot three, maybe taller. I’m five-three on a good day, so he’s at least an entire foot taller than me. The crisp dark charcoal gray suit emphasizes the wideness of his shoulders and the line of his body as it flows from his strong neck to his lean waist and tight ass. People I hate are not supposed to be this fucking hot in a suit.
© Copyright 2015 Annie Anderson
- I’m a veteran. I served 4 years Active Duty and 2 years Reserve in the United States Air Force.
- My favorite color is cerulean. (Yes, I know it’s pompous, and I don’t care.)
- I hate lettuce.
- I am actually pissy after a good workout. Like rip my shoes off and pout on the carpet, pissy. I work out at least 3-6 days a week, and throw a 2-year-old fit every single time. I hate being hot, so much.
- I love math. I seriously considered becoming a high school math teacher when I was in college.
- I order pizza with no cheese on it. I don’t like melted cheese. I like solid cheese and liquified cheese but the in-between stringy yuck on pizza? No. But I love pizza, so I order it cheese-less. (My daughters eat it this way as well.)
- I read obnoxiously fast. When I’m not writing or running after children, I can read about 4 books a day.
- I suffer from RBF (Resting Bitch Face). I’m not mad. This is just how my face looks.
- I’ve been married for almost 10 years to my awesome husband. He’s put up with my picky, blunt, RBF-having self for a decade. The man deserves a medal.
- I like to sew. And craft. And paint. And organize. And clean. I think I missed the day when they passed out left-brain, right-brain cards in school.
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