Hopeless(34)

He pauses as he’s passing through the doorway and tilts his head toward me. “Only this weekend? You plan on getting knocked up next weekend, instead?”

I follow him into my bedroom. “Nah. I’ll probably wait a few more weeks.”

He inspects the room, slowly turning around until he’s facing me again. “I’m eighteen.”

I cock my head to the side, confused as to why he pointed out that random fact. “Yay for you?”

He cuts his eyes to the bed, then back to me. “You said to stay off your bed because I’m not eighteen. I’m just pointing out that I am.”

I don’t like the way my lungs just constricted when he looked at my bed. “Oh. Well then, I meant nineteen.”

He spins around, then walks slowly to the open window. He bends down and sticks his head out of it, then pulls back inside. “So this is the infamous window, huh?”

He doesn’t look at me, which is probably a good thing because if looks could kill he’d be dead. Why the hell did he have to go and say something like that? I was actually enjoying his company for a change. He turns back to me and his playful expression is gone, replaced by a challenging one that I’ve seen too many times before.

I sigh. “What do you want, Holder?” He either needs to get his point across about why he’s here, or he needs to leave. He folds his arms across his chest and narrows his eyes at me.

“Did I say something wrong, Sky? Or untrue? Unfounded, maybe?” It’s obvious in his taunting remarks that he knows exactly what he was insinuating with the window comment. I’m not in the mood to play his games; I have cakes that need baking. And eating.

I walk to the door and hold it open. “You know exactly what you said and you got the reaction you wanted. Happy? You can go now.”

He doesn’t. He drops his arms and turns around, then walks to my nightstand. He picks up the book Breckin gave me and inspects it as though the last thirty seconds never even occurred.

“Holder, I’m asking you as nicely as I’m going to ask you. Please leave.”

He lays the book down gently, then proceeds to lay down on the bed. He literally lays down on my bed. He’s on my damn bed.

I roll my eyes and walk over to where he is, then reach down and pull his legs off my bed. If I have to physically remove him from the house, I’ll do it. When I grab his wrists and lift upward, he pulls me to him in a move that happens faster than my mind can even comprehend. He flips me over until I’m on my back and he’s holding my arms to the mattress. It happens so unexpectedly; I don’t even have time to fight him. And looking up at him right now, half of me doesn’t even want to fight him. I don’t know if I should scream for help or rip off my clothes.

He releases my arms and brings one of his hands to my face. He brushes his thumb across my nose and laughs. “Flour,” he says, wiping it away. “It’s been bugging me.” He sits up against my headboard and brings his feet back onto the bed. I’m still flat on the mattress, staring up at the stars, actually feeling something other than nothing for the first time ever while looking at them.

I can’t even move, because I’m sort of afraid he’s crazy. I mean literally, clinically insane. It’s the only logical explanation for his personality. And the fact that I still find him so incredibly attractive can only mean one thing. I’m insane, too.

“I didn’t know he was gay.”

Yep, he’s crazy.

I turn my head toward him, but say nothing. What the hell do you say to a crazy person who literally refuses to leave your house, then starts spouting off random shit?

“I beat him up because he was an *. I had no idea he was gay.”

His elbows are resting on his knees and he’s looking right at me, waiting for a reaction. Or a response. Neither of which he’s getting for a few seconds, because I need to process this.

I look back up at the stars and give myself time to analyze the situation. If he’s not crazy, then he’s definitely trying to make a point. But what point? He comes over here, uninvited, to defend his reputation and insult mine? What would be the point of even going forth with the effort? I’m just one person, what does my opinion matter?

Unless, of course, he likes me. The thought literally makes me smile and I feel dirty and wrong for hoping a lunatic likes me. I had it coming, though. I should have never let him in the house, knowing I’m alone. And now he knows I’ll be home all weekend alone. If I had to weigh tonight’s decisions, this would probably be so heavy it would break the dumb side of the scale. I foresee this ending in one of two ways. We’ll either come to a mutual understanding of one another, or he’s going to kill me and chop me up into tiny pieces and bake me into cookies. Either way, it makes me sad for all the dessert that isn’t being eaten right now.