Chapter One Hundred and One

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I force myself to look away from the paper, trying not to focus on the unsettling thoughts and emotions it's evoking in me. So, I turn my attention to the array of food displayed in front of us; sliced ham, stuffed bell peppers, deviled eggs, roasted mushrooms, steamed broccoli, baked sweet potatoes, brown bread, some kind of vegetable casserole, and...I think those are clams on the other end.

Anyway, it all looks and smells amazing, but I can't really appreciate any of it. Not like this.

I'm using all my energy to focus on clenching my vaginal muscles and squeezing my thighs tightly against each other so I don't start dinner off by pissing myself.

It sure as hell doesn't help matters when he picks up a bottle of wine and pours himself a glass. My eyes involuntarily follow the motion, watching closely as the red stream flows into the long-stemmed wine glass. The sight of it emptying into the larger brimmed glass from the smaller mouth of the bottle only makes me think of a toilet bowl and how much I need to use one right now.

I tear my eyes away from it and do my damnedest to block out the torturous sound of liquid pouring on liquid.

I really hate this.

I'm actually pretty hungry, too. My mouth starts to water as the aroma continues to fill my nostrils, but I just can't bring myself to put anything in my body when I already feel this uncomfortably full and uneasy. Hell, I can barely lean forward or move my arms without feeling sharp jabs and pricks in my lower belly, and the pressure in my bladder only seems to keep building by the second.

"Under normal circumstances, I would offer you wine," Frost says, drawing my eyes back to him again. "But because of your medical situation, consuming alcohol is unadvisable so I got organic grape juice for you instead."

I say nothing in response, nor move to pour myself a glass of the pitcher of said grape juice to my left. In fact, I do my best not to look at it at all.

I keep moving my feet under the table, curling my toes to the point of pain to distract me from the tension in my groin. I have to keep adjusting myself in the chair, changing my posture every ten seconds or so.

I can't keep fucking still!

No matter what I do or what position I take, I can't find even the tiniest lick of relief. I've never been so physically uncomfortable in all my life.

I look up at him with an unapologetic glare, wishing I could bore holes in his forehead for denying me basic human rights. I mean, who the fuck refuses to let a person take a goddamn piss, for crying out loud?

I seriously have the good mind to grab his water glass, pee in it with the smuggest smile on my face, and then hand it right back to him; a tall, fresh, steaming glass of Roni Gallo's piss. And a 'bottom's up' sign thrown in for good measure. Hell, make it two signs.

I almost laugh out loud at the fantasy, suppressing a smile as my eyes dart to his water glass. I can actually feel my bladder stretching to accommodate more of my piss, begging me to go through with my crazy daydream. It actually doesn't even seem so crazy. I'm certainly desperate enough to go through with it. But I'm also very unnerved by his unpredictability, and I can't even begin to imagine what would happen if I did something like that to him. So, I don't.

I can't risk blowing this rare—albeit terrifying—chance at a real financial solution for me and for Gran.

Still, in spite of being angry with him, a small, very desperate part of me hopes that he'll see just how much distress I'm in and just let me use a fucking bathroom already.

I continue to hold his stare; silently waiting.

Asking.

Hoping.

He does no such thing.

Instead, the look in his eyes says my constant fidgeting is annoying him.

That only infuriates me all over again.

I seriously can't believe this guy. I'm the one who's bladder is spread as thin as a single layer of low-fat butter on a slice of bread and he's pissed off? Well, he can grab the first dick he finds and suck it straight to hell for all I care. I don't give a fraction of a fuck how he feels. He's been nothing but a pain in the ass since I stepped foot into his house. Hell, he's been nothing but a pain in the ass since we first met. Besides, he sure as hell didn't hold back in showing me he feels the same way about me in the elevator.

I've only been here like fifteen minutes and I already want to run back into my Polo just so I can drive myself off a fucking cliff. And then do it all over again.

"You're not eating," he says simply. To an outsider, his words would seem harmless or even concerned, his tone matter-of-fact, but the intensity in his eyes says otherwise. It's not just a statement or a mere observation. This is another one of his mind games.

I don't respond. I don't want to talk to him right now.

"I believe it's rude to eat alone when you have a guest," he continues. "That's a principle I adopted early on in my life and I've upheld it to this day without fail. I say all that to say, if you don't eat, then I can't eat. And when I don't eat, it follows that I'll stay hungry. And you should know that when I'm hungry, Ramona, I can get...irritable."

Huh? Guest?

Did he just try to insinuate that I'm his guest? Or that he's not always irritable? Right. Like that's news to me. He's a constant, unrepentant grouch and he actually thinks having some food in his belly is suddenly going to make his attitude towards me angelic? Puh-leez. I'd laugh if I wasn't so pissed off.

I scoff and roll my eyes at the absurdity of the word, given the very clear dynamic between us; fucker and fuckee.

That's it.

I push my chest out in a show of defiance. "Well then, Sir, you have absolutely nothing to worry about," I say, letting the sarcasm drip off my words. "Please feel oh so free to dig right in, seeing as I'm not...how did you put it? Ah, yes. Your guest."

He doesn't say anything back, but it's clear he's irritated.

You know what, I take that back.

He's pissed as hell; his lips taut with tension, his icy eyes narrowed at me in silent aggravation, but I'm way too pissed off to care.

We continue to sit in silence for God knows how long, neither of us making any moves to eat or say anything. He's analyzing again. I've come to expect it from him. He never does anything without a reason. There's always some underlying motive with every choice he makes, with everything he says and, more importantly, everything he doesn't.

After another tense moment, he exhales audibly; a clear sign of frustration. And then, he abruptly drains his wine glass in one go. He dabs an immaculate napkin to his perfect lips and sets it down in one gentle, calculated motion—all the while boring holes into my skull with his piercing, relentless gaze. Then, without looking away, he presses something and a buzzing sound follows. I frown at the action, wondering what the hell he's up to now.

A few seconds later, I hear footsteps.

Many footsteps.

Oh, my God, what the hell is going on?

I start to silently freak out, and my heart almost leaps out of my chest as all sorts of frightening thoughts race through my mind.

Did he invite friends to join in on this? Maybe even some of his enemies? Oh God, what if he called up those assholes from the party? Holy shit, did this fucker invite Bitch McGraw to fuck me, too?!

I feel my legs moving on impulse, my body rising on suddenly shaky knees before I even know what's happening. An unexpected rush of adrenaline floods my brain and spikes my blood, and I realize my entire system is getting ready to flee—my bladder's protests be damned.

But then the doors open and my bulged, slightly glassy eyes land on four men and two women dressed in black and white uniforms.

A moment passes.

And then another.

I stare blankly at the six of them for several seconds, my body awkwardly suspended in my partially erect position. I probably look crazy as hell but I'm too stunned to do anything about it.

You have got to be fucking kidding me...

***

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