shouldn’t do. But I’d never seen anything like what that asshole was doing to her, and I hoped to never see it again.
That man deserved to be castrated.
I lifted the coffee table and sat it back in the depressions made by its feet in the carpet, then snatched up the book that must have been sitting on top of it. I was a little surprised to see the title of the book. It was A Memoir of Thomas Alexander Tefft. Tefft was an architect who lived in Rhode Island and designed quite a few churches and schools during his career.
An interesting choice. I thought she had said she didn’t know much about architecture.
When I was done cleaning up, the living room once gain set to rights, I sat on the edge of the couch feeling out of place in this home I’d not be invited into. It was sparsely decorated, the furniture, what little there was, clearly hand me downs from a larger home. The couch and recliner were undoubtedly purchased in different decades. None of the tables matched, the coffee table being a deep mahogany—kind of like her hair—and the end tables a yellow blond. The dining table that pushed into one corner of the wide room was heavy and clearly expensive, but none of the three chairs matched each other, or the table.
A typical first apartment. But she’d managed to make it feel warm with a few cheap prints on the wall, a bouquet of wax flowers in a vase on one end table, and a bowl of potpourri on the other. There were pictures of her and an older woman, presumably her mother, set in frames on the low tv stand. It was almost homey. It was just a little too neat to feel completely welcoming. There needed to be a blanket draped over the couch, or shoes abandoned by the door. Something that showed a real person lived there.
I got up and paced a little. I didn’t know what to do with myself, didn’t know what I should be doing. I didn’t want to be surrounded by Sloane’s personal things. You couldn’t hate someone whose home you felt welcomed inside of, someone who had begged you not to leave in the aftermath of something as personal as what that creep had just done to her. I wanted to keep hating her. Because if I didn’t, I was afraid I would begin walking a path I didn’t want to walk.
I sauntered out. I was determined to go back to my apartment, back to my episode of Chopped , and forget about her. I made it as far as my own kitchen. And then I heard the water pipes shutter again as she switched off the shower.
Fuck!
I couldn’t just walk out on her, pretend that nothing had happened. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.
I grabbed a bottle of bourbon from a high cabinet and went back, fished a couple glasses out of her cabinet and welcomed her with a glass filled with potential oblivion because it was the right thing to do.
Damn it!
Chapter 14
Sloane
I stood under the pelting spray of the shower head and closed my eyes. But that was a mistake. Ryan’s face was suddenly there, flooding my mind with the fear and adrenaline that had been rushing through me since the moment he turned on me, the moment he showed me his true colors. And that brought the bile back, and I barely got out of the shower in time to deposit my dinner in the toilet. The sickness tore through my body, ripped everything loose, leaving me so weak that I fell to my knees and just lay there for a few minutes, hugging the toilet like a girl who couldn’t handle her booze.
How could I let this happen to me?
I was more angry than I was anything else. I knew better than to put myself in such a vulnerable situation. I never should have let him come upstairs, never should have let him inside my apartment. Never should have let any of that evening happen. I knew at the end of our last date that he wasn’t what I thought he was. I never should have agreed to a third date. But I felt bad, felt that I might hurt his feelings if I didn’t. How stupid was that?
I was stupid. That was why it had happened. But I was determined it wouldn’t
That man deserved to be castrated.
I lifted the coffee table and sat it back in the depressions made by its feet in the carpet, then snatched up the book that must have been sitting on top of it. I was a little surprised to see the title of the book. It was A Memoir of Thomas Alexander Tefft. Tefft was an architect who lived in Rhode Island and designed quite a few churches and schools during his career.
An interesting choice. I thought she had said she didn’t know much about architecture.
When I was done cleaning up, the living room once gain set to rights, I sat on the edge of the couch feeling out of place in this home I’d not be invited into. It was sparsely decorated, the furniture, what little there was, clearly hand me downs from a larger home. The couch and recliner were undoubtedly purchased in different decades. None of the tables matched, the coffee table being a deep mahogany—kind of like her hair—and the end tables a yellow blond. The dining table that pushed into one corner of the wide room was heavy and clearly expensive, but none of the three chairs matched each other, or the table.
A typical first apartment. But she’d managed to make it feel warm with a few cheap prints on the wall, a bouquet of wax flowers in a vase on one end table, and a bowl of potpourri on the other. There were pictures of her and an older woman, presumably her mother, set in frames on the low tv stand. It was almost homey. It was just a little too neat to feel completely welcoming. There needed to be a blanket draped over the couch, or shoes abandoned by the door. Something that showed a real person lived there.
I got up and paced a little. I didn’t know what to do with myself, didn’t know what I should be doing. I didn’t want to be surrounded by Sloane’s personal things. You couldn’t hate someone whose home you felt welcomed inside of, someone who had begged you not to leave in the aftermath of something as personal as what that creep had just done to her. I wanted to keep hating her. Because if I didn’t, I was afraid I would begin walking a path I didn’t want to walk.
I sauntered out. I was determined to go back to my apartment, back to my episode of Chopped , and forget about her. I made it as far as my own kitchen. And then I heard the water pipes shutter again as she switched off the shower.
Fuck!
I couldn’t just walk out on her, pretend that nothing had happened. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.
I grabbed a bottle of bourbon from a high cabinet and went back, fished a couple glasses out of her cabinet and welcomed her with a glass filled with potential oblivion because it was the right thing to do.
Damn it!
Chapter 14
Sloane
I stood under the pelting spray of the shower head and closed my eyes. But that was a mistake. Ryan’s face was suddenly there, flooding my mind with the fear and adrenaline that had been rushing through me since the moment he turned on me, the moment he showed me his true colors. And that brought the bile back, and I barely got out of the shower in time to deposit my dinner in the toilet. The sickness tore through my body, ripped everything loose, leaving me so weak that I fell to my knees and just lay there for a few minutes, hugging the toilet like a girl who couldn’t handle her booze.
How could I let this happen to me?
I was more angry than I was anything else. I knew better than to put myself in such a vulnerable situation. I never should have let him come upstairs, never should have let him inside my apartment. Never should have let any of that evening happen. I knew at the end of our last date that he wasn’t what I thought he was. I never should have agreed to a third date. But I felt bad, felt that I might hurt his feelings if I didn’t. How stupid was that?
I was stupid. That was why it had happened. But I was determined it wouldn’t
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