136. Hunt for Liquid Courage

Rose's POV:

Alright. I can do this. It's no big deal. It is simply talking to him behind the safety of the protectively warded windows of my house. How hard can it be, right?

I have been pacing around the living room for the past hour or so, preparing a moving speech; one after the other, picking off and adding new words and adjectives every few seconds in fear they might offend him into not complying—or worse, making my life even more difficult.

Yes, if that doesn't display how absolutely, mind-numbingly difficult this is for me, I don't know what will.

Besides, it's probably best to avoid calling him colorful names while I'm trying to convince him to my terms. Yup. "Asshole" and "son of a bitch" needs to go.

Ugh. What has my life come to?

An exasperated sigh leaves my lips, and I flop down unladylike on the couch, throwing my arm over my face.

My head lolls toward the window, and the sight has me groaning.

That Margarette lady was right—girls my age are out and about on weekends, not preparing a speech for their stalker to negotiate terms of stalking so we can find a middle ground, where he can keep peeping like a creep he is and I can go back to having some semblance of my previous normal life.

Like having fucking curtains on my damned windows!

Because that's totally normal. 

Jesus. I need to find a way to get rid of him.

But first, I need to figure out how to get drapes over my windows without having him burn them to ashes again.

Who knows what else his flames might decide to burn the next time he gets pissed off at my eluding him?

Which—hold up—begs a bigger question. How does he even do that? I found myself biting my nail over that question.

Nasty habit, I know. 

Is he a pyromaniac aside from being a stalking maniac?

How many types of maniac are there?

I think I should get a heads-up because, at this point, I have a feeling he's all of them crammed into one.

An all-rounder maniac with the power to set things on fire without even touching them. And I am going to attempt a conversation with him tonight. 

Yup, what could go wrong aside from me spontaneously combusting?

A shiver slithers down my spine, making me shudder. Is it chilly today, or am I just getting cold feet?

Either way, I need some liquid courage in me if I have any hope of doing this tonight.

I push myself up from my slouch and beeline toward the kitchen, intent on hunting down anything—anything—remotely alcoholic.

I rummage through every possible hiding place, digging through cabinets, checking the fridge, and even the highest shelf in the pantry.

Nothing. Not even a half-forgotten wine cooler. All I found was a few warm bottles of beer in the back of the pantry.

No way I am drinking that. Warm beer tastes like piss!

It's like Jake deliberately hid every single bottle before he left. And it makes no sense because I've seen him take out a few for himself before.

What in the hell, it's like he doesn't trust me at all!

Just then the wretched images of my inebriated little stunt from with him flurried across my thoughts making me perk up on the traitorous nature of my own mind.

Fair enough, he has a good reason not to.

I exhale sharply, placing my hands on my hips, glaring at the empty counter like it personally offended me. 

But it's not like intend to get drunk and do something stupid all over again, I'm just looking to take the edge off. Just so my jittering would stop and I could seem more confident then I feel.

Just like that night. I mean come on, I literally challenged him to come take me.

I am looking for that kind of confidence... minus the stupidity.

Then my gaze flits to the clock. The hour is drawing near, and my nerves are errant enough to make my fingers twitch.

Office. There must be something in his office.

I don't waste another second before I storm up the stairs, throwing open the door to Jake's study, and diving into every possible storage space.

I pull open drawers, check behind books, and even peek inside the filing cabinet like I might miraculously find a bottle of whiskey hidden among his tax records.

Fifteen minutes later, my treasure hunt has proven futile, just like downstairs.

I huff, fisting my hair in frustration, and march right back to the living room, resuming my relentless pacing in front of the window.

Every few seconds, my eyes flick outside as the sky darkens.

It'll be any minute now.

I can do this. I just need to have a word with him. Hell, I got naked and jiggled my booty for him that night.

If I can do that, I can most certainly have a conversation with him—with my clothes still on.

…Though, I have to admit, all that confidence was actually just reckless endangerment brought on by the drugs in my system, thanks to my best friend.

Whereas, right now? I'm way too sober to go through with this without second-guessing myself.

A frustrated sound escapes my throat as I attest to my fate.

Fine. Warm piss it is.

Dragging my feet toward the pantry, I grab the bottle opener and pop the cap off one of the beers I found earlier. The sharp hissing sound resonates in the utter silence of the house.

I lift the bottle to my lips, bracing myself for the taste of regret, and take a long gulp. Immediately, my face scrunches up in sheer agony. It's even worse than I remember.

This is what I've been reduced to? Chugging warm beer in my kitchen while prepping to have a heart-to-heart with my own personal demon?

This better work.

I am going through this agony so this liquid better work it's magic into calming my nerves and so does my plans for convincing him to back off.

Or else I'd be pissed! No pun intended.