Maybe Someday(83)

speak to me. I spent the drive with my focus out the window and my questions lodged in my

throat.

We walk into the apartment, and he tosses his

keys onto the bar as I shut the door behind me.

He doesn’t even turn around to look at me as he

stalks off toward his bedroom.

“Good night,” I say. I might have said it with a little bit of sarcastic bite, but at least I’m not

465/692

screaming, “Screw you, Warren!” which is kind

of what I feel like saying.

He pauses, then turns around to face me. I

watch him nervously, because whatever he’s

about to say to me isn’t “good night.” His eyes

narrow as he tilts his head, shaking it slowly.

“Can I ask you a question?” he finally says, eye-

ing me with curiosity.

“As long as you promise never again to begin

a question by asking whether or not you can pro-

pose a question.”

I want to laugh at my use of Ridge’s comment,

but Warren doesn’t even crack a smile. It only

makes things much more awkward. I shift on my

feet. “What’s your question, Warren?” I say with

a sigh.

He folds his arms over his chest and walks to-

ward me. I swallow my nervousness as he leans

forward to speak to me, barely a foot away. “Do

you just need someone to f*ck you?”

Breathe in, breathe out.

Expand, contract.

466/692

Beat beat, pause. Beat beat, pause.

“What?” I say, dumbfounded. I’m positive I

didn’t hear him right.

He lowers his head a few inches until he’s at

eye level with me. “Do you just need someone to

f*ck you?” he says, with more precise enunciation this time. “Because if that’s all it is, I’ll

bend you over the couch right now and f*ck you

so hard you’ll never think about Ridge again.”

He continues to stare at me, cold and heartless.

Think before you react, Sydney.

For several seconds, all I can do is shake my

head in disbelief. Why would he say that? Why

would he say something so disrespectful to me?

This isn’t Warren. I don’t know who this *

is standing in front of me, but it definitely isn’t

Warren.

Before I allow myself time to think, I react. I

pull my arm back, then make four punches my

lifetime average as my fist meets his cheek.

Shit.

That hurt.

467/692

I look up at him, and his hand is covering his

cheek. His eyes are wide, and he’s looking at me

with more surprise than pain. He takes a step

back, and I keep my eyes focused hard on his.

I grab my fist and pull it up to my chest, pissed

that I’m going to have another hurt hand. I wait

before going to the kitchen to get ice for it,

though. I might need to hit him again.

I’m confused by his obvious anger toward me

for the past twenty-four hours. My mind rushes

through anything I could have said or done to

him that would make him feel this much hatred

toward me.

He sighs and tilts his head back, pulling his

hands through his hair. He gives no explanation

for his hateful words, and I try to understand

them, but I can’t. I’ve done nothing to him to

warrant something that harsh.

Maybe that’s his problem, though. Perhaps the

fact that I’ve done nothing to him—or with

him—is what’s pissing him off like this.

468/692

“Is this jealousy?” I ask. “Is that what’s mak-

ing you this evil, wretched excuse for a human

being? Because I never slept with you?”

He takes a step forward, and I immediately

back up until I fall down onto the couch. He

bends down, bringing himself to my eye level.

“I don’t want to screw you, Sydney. And I am definitely not jealous.” He pushes himself away

from the couch. Away from me.

He’s scaring the living shit out of me, and I

want to pack my suitcases and leave tonight and

never, ever see any of these people again.

I begin crying into my hands. I hear him sigh

heavily, and he drops down onto the couch be-

side me. I pull my feet up and turn my knees

away from him, curling into the far corner of the

couch. We sit like this for several minutes, and I

want to stand up and run to my room, but I don’t.

I feel as if I’d have to ask permission, because I

don’t even know if I have a room here anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, breaking the si-

lence with something other than my crying.

469/692

“God, I’m sorry. I just . . . I’m trying to under-

stand what the hell you’re doing.”

I wipe my face with my shirt and glance at

him. His face is a jumbled mixture of sadness and