Craving Redemption
Page 54

“You don’t want to be here—don’t come. It’s pretty simple,” I answered flatly.
“I told you I had shit going on! That’s my fuckin’ job, Callie. How do you think I’m paying your fuckin’ bills?” he thundered back, a vein in his neck bulging.
“Funny thing about that…. You sure showed up pretty fast even though you had shit to do,” I  answered, tilting my head to the side in mock confusion.
He raised his face and roared at the ceiling, his entire body tight with frustration.
When he finally dropped his head back down, I’d controlled my facial expression from the horror his explosion had caused, and was glaring at him with my brows raised.
“You done?” I asked calmly, as if my heart wasn’t racing.
“Bitch, I’m paying for your shit. The food in your belly is mine. The power in your electronics is mine. The fuckin’ gas in your car came from me! The fuck is your problem?”
Bitch?
I snapped.
“You can keep it, you fucking prick!” I screeched at him, grabbing a bunch of bananas off the counter and throwing them at his head. “I got a job! I don’t need you! Fuck you!”
He ducked the bananas, but the apple that I threw right after hit him square in the jaw. We both stopped for a second, stunned, and then I was darting around the counter so we had a barrier between us.
He was stomping toward me, his chest heaving, but when I lifted my hand between us, he stopped instantly.
“You didn’t even call me on the day of my parents’ funeral,” I told him quietly as a lump formed in my throat. “I needed you.”
“Fuck, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” he answered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was on a run and I forgot.”
“You forgot?” I asked incredulously.
“I know the world revolves around you Callie—”
“What?” I yelled, cutting him off.
“Fuck, that didn’t come out right. But, shit, girl. It’s not like I’m in Oregon sitting at a desk in some office! I’ve got people depending on me up there to keep their asses alive—I can’t stop to call my girl because she’s having a hard day.” He ran a hand down his face. “I’m not explaining this very well.”
“No. You pretty much just sound like an asshole at this point.”
“Sugar, I was in the middle of something important and I fuckin’ forgot. No excuse,” he told me, lifting his palms out in front of him and then dropping them down at his sides. “I’m sorry as shit for it.”
He was sorry. I was sure he’d fuck up again, but at that moment, I knew he was sorry for being so distant. His face was soft in a way that I’d seen before, watching me as if I’d break.
I couldn’t comprehend what he was doing in Oregon that was so important, but he obviously felt strongly about it, so I wasn’t going to question him. I didn’t want to know about that part of his life. However, I was still freaking about one other thing in Oregon.
“Do you have a wife?” I blurted, mortified, but not willing to take back the question.
“What? No!” he laughed, looking at me like I was crazy.
“Well, Farrah’s mom sees a guy named Gator and he has a wife!” I griped back, annoyed that he was laughing at me. “She only sees him once in a while! It sounded pretty fucking familiar!”
“Wait, you’re friends with a club whore’s kid?”
“Her name is Farrah, and don’t call her mom a whore,” I replied snottily.
“Gator’s bitch? Wait, Natasha?” he asked, his voice raising an octave as his face paled.
“Yes. That’s Farrah’s mom,” I answered with a nod, daring him to say anything further. “She only sees Gator once in a while because he has a wife and kids he has to get back to.”
“Sweetheart, I think you’re forgetting something,” he told me in amusement.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not.”
“I’m pretty sure you are,” he said back, imitating my voice. “Only reason you aren’t living with me is because you refused to move to Oregon.” He laughed again. “Sugar, you’re my old lady—not a whore on the side.”
“Oh,” I sighed, my doubts fading.
His words gave me a sense of calm even though he was laughing as he spoke. But I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be considered anyone’s ‘Old Lady’. My mouth lifted in a small smile at his laughter. I couldn’t help myself. His laugh was beautiful.
But even though I wasn’t feeling the need to maim him with fruit, I still wasn’t fully ready to forgive him. He’d pretty much ignored me for weeks and then showed up acting like I was the one who was in the wrong. Um, no.
“I’m going to bed,” I told him dismissively, ignoring the shocked look on his face as I gave him a pat on the stomach, effectively ending our conversation. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I knew I wouldn’t get far.
I barely made it into the bedroom before he was wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling my back against his chest as he slammed the door behind us. His arm squeezed tight—almost to the point of pain—before he was using his chin to brush my hair away from my neck.
“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday,” he rumbled against my throat, placing sweet kisses there.
“How?”