Smoke and Steel (Wild West MC #2)(108)

I threw my hands out to the sides. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Generally?” he asked, then waved a hand between us. “Or in the context of this shit?”

“Is it the laundry?”

“What?”

“The laundry. Me not doing the laundry?”

He appeared genuinely confused. “The laundry?”

“I haven’t done it in a couple of weeks.”

“Do you need laundry done?”

Was I going insane, or was this an extremely frustrating conversation?

No, an extremely frustrating day.

“Not really, but it’s overflowing.”

“You need the laundry done, I’ll do it. I steer clear because you got nicer clothes than I do so I don’t wanna fuck anything up. But if that’s your damage, when I hit something I don’t know what to do with it, I’ll ask.”

I crossed my arms on my chest. “I don’t want you to do laundry.”

“Then why are you talking about the laundry?”

I sought patience. “I’m asking if you’re pissed at me that I haven’t done laundry.”

“It’d be nice there wasn’t a mountain of dirty clothes in the corner of the closet, but—”

He cut himself off.

“But what?” I prompted.

He shook his head, not in a negative, as if he was clearing it.

Then he said, “Nothing. You want the laundry done, just take anything out that needs dry cleaned. I’ll drop it off and do the rest.”

Okay, wait.

What was happening?

I didn’t know, but I sensed something was very wrong because I was not insane, this conversation was frustrating, I just was no longer certain why it was.

“I do the laundry,” I pointed out carefully. “You do the cooking.”

“That’s the way it was, but if you need me to get on it, just tell me.”

“I’m not saying I need you to get on it.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled in a big breath, tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling.

I tried something new.

“Are you mad about the mascara?”

“Jesus, fuck, someone kill me,” he said to the ceiling.

“Core,” I called.

He looked at me. “Please do not tell me we’re gonna talk about your goddamn mascara again.”

Right, that didn’t work.

“I’m getting a weird vibe from you.”

“And I’m telling you, you’re feeling what you’re feeling, and that isn’t coming from me.”

He was so wrong, and I was not a fan of being gaslit.

“It is coming from you,” I asserted.

“Okay, good, great, it’s coming from me,” he gave in. “Sorry, babe. We done with this now?”

Oh no.

Not okay.

“Don’t be a dick,” I groused.

“How am I being a dick when you’re up in my shit about something I do not get?”

I tried his tack. “Right, fine, everything’s cool. I’m getting up an hour and a half earlier so I can get work done and be home to have time with you. I’m busting my ass at the office and squeezing work in so you know you’re a priority to me. You’re neat, I’ve let some things slide, mostly because I’m busy, it’s the holiday season so it’s even busier, so I don’t put my mascara away—”

“I didn’t ask you to get up early so you can get home earlier.”

“You were in a mood because I made us late to Beck and Janna’s.”

His brows shot up and his vibe plummeted into the hellfire zone.

As such, his tone was sizzling when he asked, “Are you fucking shitting me?”

“No. You were,” I stressed.

His voice was rumbly, and not the good kind, when he stated, “I do not need one of those bitches in my life who sits on shit for days, weeks, fuckin’ months, then throws it in my face.”

My voice was rising. “I’m not throwing anything in your face! And don’t call me a bitch!”

“Then don’t sit on shit you need to talk out and lay it on me after you’ve let it gnaw at you so I gotta deal with the fallout. I do not care if you’re late. You got a job you dig, you were clear that comes with the territory, so I’ll repeat and hope it sinks in. I…do…not…care…if you’re late.”

“Okay, so obviously everything’s awesome between us,” I said sarcastically.

“Everything is totally awesome between us,” he agreed snidely.

“And I’m perfect, you’re living with me, you’re fucking me, you love me, and I can do no wrong, even if I work late and you trip on my mascara.”

“And now you’re back to Kiki,” he griped, getting it right because I harked back to his words when we were discussing her.

“I don’t need to worry about Kiki,” I retorted. “I’m perfect. Right? You’re perfect. We’re perfect. You don’t mind if I work all the time. Oh no, it wouldn’t be you that’s sitting on your mood so it can gnaw at you, and later, I have to deal with the fallout,” I drawled sarcastically.

“I’m not sitting on a mood,” he growled.