shortcake | liskook

18

I rest Chaeyoung’s “emergency Kindle” on my chest and shift my body for the hundredth time trying to get comfortable on this god-forsaken new couch, while not thinking about the brooding man-child under this roof. 

I didn’t even ask her why the heck she needed an emergency Kindle at work. I totally get it. Book boyfriends are the best. 

So much better than real-life arrogant jerks, especially real-life arrogant jerks named Jungkook. So much better than real-life husband’s named Jaewon who bail on you when you need them the most. Let’s just say, from now on if he’s not living in a book, he doesn’t exist to me. 

I end up shifting onto my side because my ass feels like the Harlem Globetrotters used it as a lay-up springboard. Next time I ride, I’m going to bubble wrap myself. 

Thunderous footsteps stomping down the hallway steal my breath. My eyes flare wide. 

It’s fee-fi-fo-fum-Jungkook. Great. 

I grip the Kindle harder, scooting further against the cushions of the couch, and quietly beg Deuce—my newest book boyfriend—to step out from the Kindle pages, just this once, because I’m pretty sure he’s the only one who could take on Jungkook. If not, I’m sure his club brothers could lend a hand. Even their bad-ass old ladies could throw down enough to distract him while I make my escape. 

I feel him move past the back of the couch. He can’t see me, but that doesn’t stop me from laying the Kindle flat against my chest, muffling the light and holding my breath until I hear him moving around in the kitchen. 

And by moving around, I mean tearing shit up. 

Each cupboard slamming jolts my stomach and sends a shot of anger through my heart. 

Slam! 

A grumble about something so low I can’t make out the words 

Slam! 

Grumble-grumble 

Slam! 

“Jesus Christ,” I curse between clenched teeth and swing my legs over the couch. 

Living with a broody Jungkook is one thing, living with this tantrum throwing man-child Jungkook is something else. Something, which, if the anger simmering in my gut is any indication, I’ve reached my limit of. 

My teeth clench as angry steps carry me into the kitchen. He’s not the only one who can stomp. 

I stand at the entryway with my arms crossed over my long-lost favorite sweatshirt (amazing the things you can find when you clean) and watch him tear through the cupboards like a wild animal scenting blood, his predatory movements sharp and aggressive. 

I clear my throat. The exaggerated sound fills the space between us. Nothing. Not even a glance my way. 

“Is there something I can help you find?” I say in a clipped voice. “Because you seem to be having a hard time finding whatever the hell it is you’re looking for.” 

When he ignores me again, I take in a cleansing breath through my nose, even adding a little Kumbaya for good measure. 

It doesn’t work. 

Slam! 

The loud sound blows the lid right off of my Mount Vesuvius-sized volcano. “Would you just freaking stop already! Jesus!” 

This earns me an over-the-shoulder glare that I’m pretty sure is considered a felony assault in forty-eight states. 

It’s the first time he’s met my eyes since he ripped the lunch bill from my hand when I went to pay. His glare then said not to argue, so I didn’t, not wanting to make a scene. This glare says he wants a fight, and it looks like he’s going to get his way, yet again.