Page 77 of Brutal
Too bad I can’t bring her into the office for damage control.
I shut the door to the safe, ignoring the harder drugs, then go to her, wrapping my arms around her from behind. I nuzzle her neck, murmuring, “We have a little bit before I have to go…” I hint.
Mimosa cranes her neck to look at me. “Enough time for a leisurely breakfast and so we can have that conversation you put off for the past few days.”
The conversation.
My mood sours again. I don’t want to talk about “stuff.” I don’t want to hear her tell me that she’s leaving, or that she wants her own apartment, or whatever demands she has.
Demands I’m going to give into because I somehow can’t say no to her.
I sigh. “Yeah, I guess.” I run my hand through my hair, then kiss her neck again, but I know she’s in that unyielding sort of mood. I turn, putting on my boxer briefs before heading to the kitchen. “You can cut up some fruit or whatever,” I tell her when she follows me.
“If I cut it into pretty shapes, will you eat it?” Mimosa teases. “I might even throw a vegetable in there.”
I shudder. “Don’t threaten me,” I tell her, joking half-heartedly as I pull the carton of eggs and slab of bacon out of the fridge. “You’re the one who wants to eat that crap.”
She takes the eggs and bacon from me—and places the bacon back in the fridge. “I’ll make omelets. With vegetables in them. We’ll have the fruits as a side.” She smiles at me. “You can handle that, right?”
“But I don’t want veggies in my omelet,” I half-joke, half-whine. “Fine, fine. But I still get my damn bacon. Jesus Christ, woman. Are you trying to completely shock my system?” I grab the bacon again, eyeing her.
Mimosa shrugs, and the robe slips halfway down one of her shoulders. “Okay. I can’t actually dictate what you eat.” She goes to grab the vegetables she’d ordered yesterday and begins chopping them. There are tomatoes and bell peppers and even mushrooms.
“Yeah.” I watch her for a moment, wishing I could just distract her. But I need to man up. “So. This… conversation,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “What are we talking about? I mean, if it’s just about fruits and veggies, it’s done, yeah?”
“We’re not just talking about fruits and vegetables,” Mimosa says. Her hands are quick with the knife, in a way that implies she actually knows how to cook. I’ll have to ask her about that later. “We’re going to talk about me, and about us.”
My heart drops into my stomach. “You can just use the knife on me, you know,” I say, trying for another joke but failing miserably. “That would probably be less painful.”
Mimosa pauses in her chopping. “Less painful for you, but a lot messier for me. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of fabric?”
I do, actually, but I don’t think I should say that. “Okay,” I say, sitting down at the table to watch her be all domestic in my kitchen. Will this be the last time? “So,” I start again. “What?”
She turns on the stove and pours oil onto the pan. As it begins to sizzle, she asks, “Am I still your sex slave?”
“Jesus,” I mutter, burying my face in my hands. “I don’t fucking know. No?” In truth, I don’t think she has been since…
Since the day at Mer d’Or.
Since the yacht, when we’d fought but she’d fucked me senseless.
Since the salon, when she’d hold my hand to keep me from getting too fancy.
Since the casino, when she hadn’t run off.
Mimosa doesn’t react. She just throws the vegetables into the pan and begins to stir them.
“In that case, do I get to leave the apartment? Do I get to have a life? Or do I have to stay here, a toy that you put away when I’m not in use?” Mimosa gives me a brief glance. “Just to make sure we’re on the same page, I’m a human being, not a toy.”
I glare at her. “I’m aware of that,” I retort. “And I’ve been treating you like one.” I hesitate. “Haven’t I?”
She gives me one of her slight smiles that almost feel better than the big ones. It’s a secret smile. A smile for me.
“You have. I’m impressed. But I wouldn’t want you to backslide now when you’re going to be interacting with the kind of people who work at your Fortune 500 company.”
“Fortune 100,” I correct automatically. “But who’s counting?”
Me. Definitely me.