The Arrangement Anthology 2(63)

Whatever he did, whatever happened in the past, he can’t admit it to himself yet—so he can’t tell me. Not yet. “Okay, but I’m going to have trouble with the no touching thing.”

“That won’t last long. It’s the aftershocks.” He finally turns his head and looks into my eyes. “You’re amazing. I don’t deserve you. I know I don’t.”

I offer a lopsided smile and resist the urge to throw my arms around him. It’d be like setting off a bomb and he’s already covered in shrapnel. Why do good intentions turn to crap?

Stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. There she is, that voice within me—the part of me that’s sick of complaining and excuses—she’s the savage part of me, comprised of a drop of animal instinct combined with raw rage that’s kept me alive this long. Everyone steps in shit. They keep walking and it comes off. Move, Avery. Let Sean deal with his crap and you deal with yours.

My spine straightens and my voice is more certain when I speak. “We deserve each other. There’s no one I’d rather be with—ever. Get used to the idea, because I’m not changing my mind.”





CHAPTER 13




We pull out Monopoly, the world’s longest game, and eat Amber’s bitch stash. It’s mostly chocolate and carbs. I’m starving, but Sean doesn’t want to order pizza or leave the room. No one saw him sneak in and he’s hoping the delivery didn’t mess up his plan.

As I stuff a Hershey bar into my mouth, I glance at Amber’s bed. “Where the hell is she?” Normally I’m glad when the roommate from hell is gone for this long, but she usually stops in and whines, before going back out. I haven’t seen her yet.

Sean moves his little silver shoe and goes straight to jail. His dark eyes lift to meet mine. “That feels like an omen.”

“Maybe we should pull out her Ouija board.” I glance at Amber’s bed again.

“I thought you said she didn’t come back every night.”

“She doesn’t, but it’s day time. Trolls have to hide during the day. It’s a state law.” I move my thimble and draw a card. “Fork over $50. I won a beauty pageant.” I strike a pose and giggle.

Sean tosses me the paper money. “This would be more fun with real currency. Who the hell wins $50 at a beauty pageant anyway? That’s like winning 50 cents.”

“Nah, you’d be out at least $450 on a dress. Unless it’s a birthday suit contest. I don’t think the Monopoly man hosts those kind of events.”

Sean sniggers and rolls. No doubles, so I go again while his shoe hangs out in the slammer. “So, what’s the plan?”

Sean’s eyes dart away from mine as he leans back on his elbow. “There is no plan.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I move a few spaces and pay $2 in rent.

Sean takes the money from me. “Wow, thanks for this. I’m rich.”

“Snob,” I tease.

“Am I so out of touch with reality? Very well, Miss Smith, where can I find boarding for $2?”

“There’s a lovely box that I’m subletting.” I hold out my arms like a game show hostess toward the corner of the box by Amber’s bed.

He tosses a little plastic house at me. I make a face and start to peg him with hotels. “That wasn’t nice, Mr. Jones!” As I say it, I take the bank tray, stand, and dump it on his head. All the fake money flutters around him. A $500 bill sticks to his shirt and another is in his hair.

Sean grins. “Now I feel better.”

I chuckle and wish that I could pounce on him and tickle him until he cries, but I keep my seat. I’ll have to wait until he’s ready to touch me again. I hate waiting. “Oh, good. Then here, have some real estate too.” I lean forward and start tucking cards in his shirt and then put another behind his ear and then another in his pocket.

Sean grabs my wrist before I manage to touch him. He immediately realizes that I wasn’t going to touch him and drops my hand. “Sorry.”

I shrug. “Don’t be.” After a moment of silence, I add, “I won’t hurt you, Sean.”

He sits up and pinches the bridge of his nose, like he has a massive headache. “Avery I need to tell you something.”

Before he can say more, there’s a knock at the door. Our eyes meet and hold for a second before Sean jumps up and slips into Amber’s closet, again. It’s next to the door and slightly behind it. A second knock doesn’t come. Instead, the metallic sound of a key slips into the lock.

I remain on the floor, like I was throwing fake money over my head. This is it—this is the madman that’s been shooting at me, the person who hired the pilot to kill me. This deranged nutjob wants me dead and I have no idea why. My skin covers in gooseflesh as the knob turns. I don’t move, I don’t hide. This is it. One of us is leaving this room in a body bag and it won’t be me.