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BEHAVE.
OZ.
There is nothing sweet or even friendly about his note. Just like when he spoke to me last night, he’s not asking or suggesting, he’s ordering me to do as he says. As I read, I can hear him growling at me, and my skin pebbles in reaction to his rough, gravelly voice in my head. If I were my friend Octy, she’d laugh at this note, then throw it in the trash and ignore it, but for some reason—that I can’t even begin to explain—I feel some of the tension I’ve been feeling since I woke up start to melt away. Suddenly, I feel less like an intruder in his space, instead, I’m just doing what he’s told me to.
Feeling more confident, I search the cabinets and find a carton of eggs, a package of bread, and all the other things I need. I don’t usually bother with breakfast, but today I find myself cracking eggs into a bowl with gusto, happily humming to myself as I move around his kitchen.
Distantly, I hear the sound of my cell phone beeping, but I ignore it, too impressed with my culinary skills to care about anyone who might be trying to reach me.
Pouring myself a mug of coffee, I add a little creamer, wishing that Oz had something a little more interesting than just plain original flavor. Back in Vegas, I had an entire shelf in my refrigerator dedicated to all the weird and wonderful flavors of creamer I could find on the internet. My favorite by far was raspberry white chocolate, which really should have been disgusting but was delicious.
Grabbing some silverware, I balance my mug and plate and carry it over to the dining table, sliding it onto the spot I used last night. The moment my butt hits the seat, my cell starts to ring. Sighing, I try to ignore it, stabbing some food onto my fork and lifting it to my mouth, moaning as the taste of the buttery eggs hits my tongue.
Picking up a slice of toast, I go to take a bite when my ringer abruptly cuts off, only to start ringing again moments later. Sighing, I drop my toast back on my plate and push out of my chair, rising to my feet.
The ringer on my cell cuts off, then starts again for the third time, and I sigh as I reluctantly make my way upstairs to grab it from where I left it. By the time I walk into the bedroom I used last night, the ringing has ended, and the lack of noise is startling. Picking up my cell, I tap to bring the screen to life, then jolt when it immediately starts ringing in my hand.
Without thinking to check the caller ID, I answer it, bringing it to my ear. “Hello.”
“Etta.” Even though I’ve never spoken to him on the phone, I immediately recognize Oz’s voice.
“Osc…Oz,”—I correct myself—”is everything okay?”
“What did I tell you last night?” he demands.
“I—”
He talks over me before I can answer.
“I told you that if I texted you, I expected you to reply. If I call you, I expect you to answer.”
“Okay,” I say, unsure if I’m agreeing or just saying what I think he expects me to.
“Okay,” he snaps. “If it was fucking okay, I wouldn’t have texted you three times without a response and called four times without you fucking answering. Where were you?”
“I was downstairs,” I say, my voice getting weaker and weaker in response to his anger.
“Then why didn’t you answer me?”
“Because my cell was upstairs and I was making breakfast,” I whisper, sounding more and more childlike. God, I sound so freaking pathetic. I’m never combative, but I can be assertive…sometimes. Of course, that’s usually via email, but that’s not the point. Oz has always had the ability to reduce me to a jabbering pile of nerves and fear, but I’m not a child anymore, and I need to figure out how not to behave like a scared kid faced with their tormentor when I’m around him.
“What the fuck is the point of having a cell phone if you leave it in your bedroom?” he snarls angrily.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to call,” I answer honestly.
“I text, you reply. I call, you answer,” he hisses through gritted teeth, his voice pitched so low that goose bumps pebble on my arms in reaction to it.
“But—” I start to whisper, and he cuts me off again.
“I want your cell with you at all times from now on.”
“But—”
“At all times, Etta, no fucking excuses. Do you understand?”
“I…yes, I…I understand,” I answer meekly.
“Good girl.”
