“Dinner’s ready.”
He nods once, and I turn, returning to the table to take my seat. Dylan pulls his chair out at the opposite end, and glares at the bottle of beer.
“What’s this?” he asks, hand outstretched to the green glass, dripping with condensation.
“Your beer.” I sit like the good wife, hands placed in my lap, under the edge of the table.
He slumps into the seat, and his arms slam down on the table on either side of his plate with enough force to rattle my cutlery. “What fucking good is it now? Why didn’t you bring it to me as soon as I got in?”
“I didn’t think you’d have time to drink it before dinner.”
He stares at me, his eyes like fire, and I burn under their intensity. “Wouldn’t have time?” He nods slowly.
My palms grow hot and itchy in my lap.
“Now it’ll be fucking warm by the time I’ve eaten. How am I supposed to drink, and eat at the same time?”
Most of the population manages it.
I say nothing.
“What a fucking waste.” He leans back in the chair.
My feet push harder into the floor.
“I’m going to drink it now, at my own pace, and when I’m done you’re going to cook me a fresh meal, hot and ready to eat. You aren’t going to reheat this one.”
I look at the food on my plate, and run an inventory. I’ve got the vegetables, and the makings for the gravy. I don’t have more meat.
I don’t have the meat.
“I don’t have any more steak.”
Why the fuck did I choose to cook the steak? His eyes widen, and he leans forward with both hands braced on the edge of the table.
“You cooked me the fucking steak? After I caught you flirting with that guy today?”
“I wasn’t . . .” I stop myself before I can be accused of starting an argument. “I didn’t think.”
“No. You never think, Jane. For fuck’s sake, woman. Are you trying to insult me?” His face is twisted into the kind of rage that precedes his disagreements getting physical.
My clothes feel too tight.
“Get over here.”
My chair staggers across the carpet, seemingly as hesitant as I am to obey his command. I make my way to him beside the rectangular table, and stop inches shy of his end.
“Closer.”
Two steps.
“Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never met him before.”
I think of anyone but our neighbor. Hollywood stars, politicians—hopefully if I can trick my mind into thinking of people I truly haven’t met then I can make this look convincing.
“I’ve never met him.”
He lashes out, taking my wrist in his grasp. As much as I try not to let the burn of his fingers affect me, the corner of my mouth twitches with the pain.
“You’re a fucking liar.”
“I swear, Dylan. I’ve never seen him before.”
He tugs me so I stumble closer. My thighs knock into his knees. “Are you sure?”
The cool menace with which he asks the question has my mind doing back-flips, trying to deduce if he knows that I’ve met our neighbor before, and he’s testing me. Backing out of my lie now would ensure my fate, so I run with the chance that he doesn’t know, and that he’s bluffing me. At least then I have a chance at getting away with less impact.
“Positive.”
“He doesn’t look familiar at all?” Dylan’s gaze narrows.
I swallow thickly. The sound resonates in the room.
“Not in the slightest?”
“No.”
“I didn’t quite hear that,” he taunts.
“No,” I say louder, with more conviction.
“So you’re telling me you had no idea that guy is our neighbor?”
Fuck.
“No.”
“Shit, Jane. You must think I’m a fucking half-wit, hey?”
Most of the time, yes.
“What do you want me to say, Dylan?”
I let out a squeak as he tugs me onto his lap. “Look me in the eye, and tell me the truth: you’re fucking the guy.”
I wish. He would be so much sweeter than you.
The thought must be written over my face. His eyes grow dark, and his grip slides up my body to my neck. I read somewhere once that when a person tries to choke you, you should press your tongue to the roof of your mouth as it helps to keep your airway open. I figure now is as good a time as any to test the theory.
“Well?”
I shake my head in his grasp. He tightens the hold while he tuts at me.
“Jane. Why do you treat me like shit on your shoe? Why do you disrespect me with your lies?”
The tongue pressing aids a little, but the airflow is still restricted to the point that my time spent breathing is limited. Out of self-preservation, my hands find their way to his wrists. I beg him with my eyes to let go. I plead, but he hangs on, rising to stand.