Milo isn’t done yet though. “Don’t let the door hit you on your ass. Although it’s hard to believe anything could make it any flatter than it already is.”
Felicity’s sharp gasp follows, but I’m determined to keep walking.
“Holy crap, Milo. That’s low,” she scolds.
“You want low? You just met her. This woman is so shallow she’d make a minnow suck on air.”
And I just can’t seem to help myself. I pause only for the time it takes to yell over my shoulder. “Looks like those penis-enlarging pills are working miracles. You’re twice the dick you were last time I saw you!” It’s an oldie, but it still rings true.
I shove the storm door open and let it slam with a satisfying bang behind me.
There goes my shot at affordable housing.
To be fair, though, I should have known better. The situation sounded too good to be true right from the start. I mean, $125 a week for a fully furnished room in a beach house with a girl named Felicity? With a name like that, there was no possible way she could be a shitty housemate. And all I had to do was not smoke, be tidy, keep stray animals from following me home, and hide my inner asshole until I earned enough for a car and could split for Charleston.
I can’t afford to get comfortable in this town.
It had all sounded so perfect—until I showed up on Felicity’s doorstep only to discover that this poor young girl is dating the biggest nightmare on earth. I can put up with a lot, but there is no way my willpower has the strength to keep me from stabbing Milo Papatonis. No matter how perfect his girlfriend’s spare room is.
Back to square fricking one.
“Jill! Wait!” Felicity’s footfalls crunch on the gravel behind me, and I’m swinging around on my heel before I can stop myself.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know you, but you seem like a nice girl. You can do so much better than that… that…” Crap. A degree of discretion is certainly called for here. You don’t tell a girl you just met that her boyfriend is the devil incarnate. A sneaky, two-faced, son of a turd-eating viper. The douchiest of all douchebags in the universe. A shit stain on Harvey Weinstein’s shittiest pair of underwear. A—well, you get the idea.
“Yeah, he can be a pain sometimes, but I promise he means well.” She attempts and fails an encouraging smile.
He has this poor girl brainwashed. Not that I haven’t seen this kind of thing before. A woman falls for an older guy and buys into all his bullshit, and before she knows it, she’s lost her entire identity and let herself be slowly isolated from her loved ones…
Wait. I take a few seconds to examine Felicity more closely. She’s tugging at the frayed ends of her long sleeves and kicking the gravel of the short drive with her black combat boots. There’s not a trace of a wrinkle or line on her skin, and I can see a few pimples close to her hairline.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for asking, but how old are you?”
Her spine straightens a little in a way that’s so achingly familiar. I think I know what she’s going to say before the words leave her mouth.
“Sixteen. Why?”
I’m stalking past her and marching back to that storm door so fast I wouldn’t be surprised if I had wind in my hair and an accompanying bad-ass soundtrack. I don’t bother knocking, and it’s possible I bust the hinges on the door when I jerk it open and sail on through into the house.
“If you think I won’t call the police right fucking now, you are not just a filthy piece of shit, you’re even more idiotic than I remember!” I’m careful to keep my tone loud and free of any trace of a tremble.
“What now?” Milo’s head cranes around the corner from what appears to be the kitchen.
I get right up in his face and poke his chest with my index finger. “How dare you take advantage of a sixteen-year-old girl, you son-of-a-bitch! You’re going to rot in jail, and I’m going to bake myself a freaking cake every time I think about your big, burly cellmate making you his bitch. Now, feel free to stay and wait for the cops to arrive, but I’m calling now!” I whip my phone out from my back pocket and poise my thumb over the emergency button, but he’s too fast for me.
A hand swipes at my wrist, and I’m suddenly facing the other way with my phone gripped behind my back and Milo’s hot breath against my scalp.
“Calm. The hell. Down.” His voice is steel.
Self-disgust pours over me when a tingle rushes down my spine at his controlled tone and hot breath. I use my best self-defense moves to break his hold, but I can’t get free. I make a mental note to request a refund for that useless Krav Maga class I tried out last summer.
“Get your hands off me!”
I continue to struggle, but all it does is put me in closer contact with this vile man, my ass practically grinding into his crotch behind me.
“Not until you listen to me, woman!”
Part of me hopes he leaves bruises so I’ll have one more thing to show the officers when they get here.
“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say, you pervert!”
“I’m not a pervert, for fuck’s sake!” he growls close to my ear. Too close.
And then I feel it. He’s actually hard. This man is so warped, he got wood while trying to keep me from turning him over to the cops. Gross! But genius strikes in the next moment, and I know exactly what I need to do.
I stop struggling entirely and arch my back the barest bit until my ass is just about nestled against his nasty boner. “Milo.” I fake a whimper and try not to gag.
And just as I knew it would, it works like a freaking charm. Milo’s grip on me loosens, and I don’t hesitate. I bring the heel of my boot down on his foot, elbow him hard in the gut, and spin out of his grip as he doubles over in pain.
Without wasting another second, I hit the emergency button on my phone and hold it up to my ear with what I know is the devil’s grin on my face.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
I draw in a ragged breath, ready to unfurl all my righteous indignation into the phone when Felicity comes tearing into the kitchen wearing an utterly horrified expression.
“Stop! He’s my uncle!”
Uh, say what?!
My words die on my tongue, followed closely by the spread of cold tendrils of horror winding through my entire body until they reach the tips of my fingers where I grasp the phone.
We all freeze, Milo with clenched teeth and a vicious glare, Felicity with wide eyes and a gaping mouth that matches my own.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?” the operator repeats, and I know I have to rein this shit show in. So I clear my throat and run a careful hand over my hair while I try to regain a tiny sliver of my dignity. “I’m sorry, ma’am, there seems to have been a misunderstanding.”
Milo maintains his glare, and I can perfectly read his lips as they mouth, “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.”
After which I am thoroughly schooled in 911 protocol and the various humiliations it offers. Apparently, you’re not simply allowed to say, “Just kidding,” and hang up—on the off chance that there happens to be, say, a gun pointing at your head. No, even misunderstandings require a multi-car, siren-wailing parade to the front door, followed by private interrogations of each individual involved in said misunderstanding. I can promise you that admitting to a room full of police officers that you mistakenly thought an old acquaintance was boffing a teenager is almost as uncomfortable as it sounds.