Down and Out(12)

It’s one of those plush, super-soft microfiber blankets, and I’m barely able to contain my glee as he spreads it out. I bite my lip, looking at the giant bed and blanket longingly when a pang of guilt hits me for displacing Declan from his own bed. “You really don’t have to do this. The couch is fine, honestly.”
“I’m your boss and you have to do what I say, and I say you’re sleeping in here. So get over it.”
My mouth twitches into a smile, matching the one he’s wearing. Where did the moody and brooding guy from earlier go? “Thanks. . . It’ll be nice to spread out in an actual bed.”
His easy-going smile fades until he’s glowering at me from across the bed. “I still can’t believe you were sleeping in your car. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Not to mention reckless and stupid.”
Indignation swirls in me like a tornado, picking up hurt and embarrassment along the way until they’re all crashing around inside me with no place to go. So I let them out.
“It must be nice never having to worry about finding a safe place to sleep at night, where the chances of getting raped or murdered aren’t gone, but just a little less likely. And it must be nice never having to decide between eating and doing laundry, because you can’t afford both.”
Declan blanches, but I keep going, practically hissing my venom-laced words at him. “The things you take for granted are the things I would kill for, so don’t you dare stand there and judge me when you don’t know the first thing about me or the choices I’ve had to make.”
He looks sick. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Savannah . . . I’m so sorry.”
And there it is—pity. God, I hate that look. Declan can take his pity and shove it up his ass. I don’t need it and I don’t want it.
I’ve survived just fine without it, f*ck you very much.
My angry words linger in the space between us as the seconds pass. His silence only makes them more pronounced.
I wrap my arms around myself, because I need the physical barrier. I know I’ve said too much and I suddenly wish I could take it back. Emotional outbursts like that are not commonplace for me. I’m so good at keeping everything contained and suppressed, and I have no clue what the hell that was or where it came from.
“Don’t.” I look away from him as my jaw clenches and embarrassing, unwelcome tears prick my eyes. I hate that my body’s natural inclination is to cry when I get really mad. Why doesn’t it know that crying solves nothing? “Don’t look at me like I’m some broken little thing that needs fixing. I hate that look.”
When I steal a glance his way, I see his jaw tensing so hard it looks like stone. Before I know what’s happening, he grabs one of my laundry baskets and stalks out of the room.
Shit, I’ve really done it now. He’s kicking me out.
I run after him and call his name, but he ignores me. I can’t blame him for doing it—I’m a straight-up bitch sometimes—but it’s not like I enjoy being mean.
It’s just a coping mechanism.
People don’t want to get close to you if you’re mean, and if people don’t get close to you, then they can’t hurt you. And really, it’s not like I’m worth knowing. Emotionally speaking, I have nothing to offer anyone. I’m all tapped out.
My brows furrow when Declan hangs a right towards the kitchen instead of back out the front door. There’s a utility room adjacent to the kitchen and he starts throwing my clean clothes inside the washing machine.
He’s . . . washing my clothes? Why?
I try to take out what he’s put in, but it gets lost in the continual avalanche he keeps shoving inside the big metal drum. “What are you doing?” He sees me fighting him. Why won’t he just stop?
“I’m doing your laundry, what does it look like?” His words have bite that I don’t appreciate. I didn’t ask him to do my laundry. I didn’t ask him for any of this.
“Will you stop?” The clothes are a lost cause so I go to the source, grabbing his huge arms as I try to stop him. “Declan!”
He finally stops and faces me. His dark brows are drawn tight and his jaw is a solid stretch of muscle as he stares down at me with a look so intense, the air in my lungs just up and evaporates. What I’d mistaken for some kind of misplaced anger is actually . . . anguish.
But why?
I suddenly don’t know what to say anymore. I’m confused and stunned. “Why are you doing my laundry?” The words are almost inaudible as Declan’s glare pins me in place.
His jaw slowly unclenches. “Because I want to help you.”
There’s more to it than that. I saw it in the flicker of his eyes just now.
“I appreciate it, but—”
“Just let me do this for you.” There’s a hint of desperation in his voice that I don’t understand, but instead of dwelling on it, I let it go, because there’s a very good reason why he doesn’t need to do this for me. And for once, it has nothing to do with my pride.
I swallow, afraid to admit my transgression. “Those clothes are already clean. I snuck them into the gym today and washed them.” Chewing on my thumbnail, I glance up at him and then lower my eyes to the thin white cotton stretched across his chest. I’m too ashamed to maintain eye contact. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Using company property for personal use is a fireable offense at almost any job, and if he fires me, then so be it. I’m guilty, after all.
“Hey.” His voice is soft as his rough fingers slip under my chin and gently tip my head back, forcing me to look at him. “I don’t care. You can use those machines anytime you want.”