I laugh, but I don't stop, filling up a pot with water and pouring it into the back of the coffeemaker. It's such a mundane task, but when I'm talking to Royal, it feels exotic, like I'm doing something wrong, something dirty. It's stupid, I know, but I can't help it. Just the sound of his voice is enough to make my toes curl, my pulse skyrocket, my nipples harden. I feel electrified, like I'm plugged in and waiting for a surge.
“I can get my own cell phone, Royal,” I say as I press the brew button and take a step back. I end up bumping one of the paper bags with my shoulder and knocking it over. Inside, there's a box of condoms I bought on impulse and assumed I probably wouldn't even get the chance to use. But I should. I should be using them.
“And I'll get you another one. I think you should have a backup, just in case.” There's a pause and I hear the sound of a door opening and closing, some feminine voices in the background. A trickle of jealousy drips down my spine and I shiver. Seriously, Lyric? I think as Royal starts to talk again. “Grab some clothes, your gun, and every single pair of naughty knickers that are in that dresser of yours. I'm getting the truck back from the shop tonight, and I'll bring it over.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, pausing as I drop the condoms on the counter and search for that extra bottle of wine that should be hiding in here somewhere. “My gun?” I find a bottle of Merlot behind a box of Ritz crackers and pull it out. After the week I just had, I could use a glass. Or two. Or maybe I'll just have the whole bottle. Who has to know? “Did you just tell me to pack a Glock with my crotchless panties?”
“Oh, you have more of those? Bloody brilliant. Put 'em on now, and I'll see you as soon as I can.”
“Royal,” I start, but he's already talking to somebody else, his voice muffled and laced with irritation. I'm not exactly sure how he interpreted last night's events, but I don't think I actually agreed to move in with him. I mean, come on. I'm a practical kind of girl; I know how these things work. I've always had this timeline in my head, a way to measure relationships to a ruler of expectations. Casual dating for a month or so before the big Talk with a capital T, the one about sex and STIs and all that good stuff, and then six to eight months before moving in together.
Suffice it to say, I've never once lived with a guy.
And I'm not about to start right now.
“Are you still there?” I ask as I listen to the bubbling of the coffeemaker, staring at the dark drips of liquid as they splash into the pot. I can hear men talking, arguing, the harsh clip of Royal's accent when he snaps at somebody. Things are getting heated over there, aren't they? I hope that has nothing to do with me, I think as I stand up straight and turn around, opening a drawer and drawing out a corkscrew. I pop the top of my wine and fill a goblet sized glass from my crystal cabinet. My mother keeps buying me crystal for every birthday and Christmas. I'm not exactly sure why, maybe because she doesn't know me at all and has no idea what I might actually want.
Like a big, brutal biker boy.
I suppose I can't blame her for that one; I had no idea I wanted it either.
“I'm hanging up now,” I start, but Royal cuts me off.
“Just stay inside and keep the phone with you, okay love?”
“That doesn't sound at all ominous,” I tell him as I carry my wine to the window and peek out the curtains at Mug, sitting conspicuously at the end of my driveway. “And is there any way for you to get your boy to park his bike around the corner or something?”
“No deal, Pint-Size. I gotta go. I'll see you later, alright?”
He hangs up before I get another chance to protest.
I sigh and set the phone down on the counter, lifting the wine to my lips with a sigh. I guess our argument will continue in person then. Not good—for me, especially. When Royal's around, my hormones take over my brain and I have a really hard time thinking clearly. Mostly, I just want to be naked and sweaty and moaning.
I slap a hand to my forehead and shake my head. I guess I can't complain. On Sunday, he'd given me an out and instead of taking it, I invited him in. I made him mine. I promised to be his. In what way, I'm not sure. I keep telling myself this whole thing is casual, but it feels deeper, like we're already bound together somehow.
“Stupid romance novel crap,” I say aloud, but I don't think I believe it. Not really. Instead, I pop my head out the door. “Hey Mug, how do you take your coffee?”
“Shitload of sugar, no fucking cream,” he says, looking up at me through his shades. I nod briskly and retreat inside, dumping half my fancy little sugar dish into his cup before I take it outside and pass it over into his big, hairy hands. “Thanks,” he says and I smile.