Landmine - Post Malone

8

Rita, the interior designer, is driving Dillon mad. She whines a lot and is very clear that she thinks Dillon is dumb on top of not being impressed that she is the woman Austin is currently fiddling with. Those were her words - 'currently fiddling with' as if Austin has a string of women he pokes around in. That would explain how skilled he is about magically getting a condom on. Dillon also doesn't know him well enough to counter or challenge what Rita is saying. But, he doesn't come across as the type to bedhop. So she has unfortunately found herself in a love triangle after all. She doesn't have time for this shit so she doesn't know why she is still here, besides Rita has also mentioned twice that Dillon is temporary and needs to come to terms with it. She talks a lot and it's very tiring. Austin is an asshole for passing his problem off onto Dillon and she intends on making him pay for it.

"Why do you have to disagree with everything I say?" Rita whines. "Because, call me crazy, Rita, but I don't see Austin being happy about a pink kitchen," Dillon sighs; she doesn't know why they are still on the subject. "Pink cabinets with gold pops of colour will liven this place up. He has insisted on everything being neutral-toned, and now your insistence that the kitchen cabinets be white with black handles and hinges will make the kitchen look country."

"We are in the middle of nowhere. We are in the country, and I have a sneaky suspicion Austin likes country."

"Fine but I don't like the counters you picked. What was wrong with the gold?"

"They are gold."

Rita rolls her eyes and very loudly voices once again that she thinks Dillon is dumb. Dillon is done with this conversation. Like Austin, she doesn't think she can take large doses of Rita and she has reached her limit for the day so she stands and heads toward Austin when she sees him walking into the housing frame with Louis. "Take that wall, that wall, this wall and that wall out," he says pointing at four frames. "I just put those in. You told me to put them in. Why do you want them out now?" Louis asks, he looks tired of Austin's shit.

"Open plan."

"Open plan?"

"Yes, Lou. Open plan."

Louis frowns at him and turns to look at Becky who is climbing into the housing frame. "You hearing this shit, darlin'?" Louis asks her. "It's his house and open plan sounds good to me. I would like open plan when we do our house," Becky says walking a little closer to Dillon. "See the shit you start, Rancher," Louis grunts at Austin.

"It's just a few frames, you can knock them out easily," Austin says with a shrug. "I will knock you the fuck out," Louis says, it looks like he is being very serious. "Play nice, boys," Becky warns them, then smiles at Dillon. "Boys," she says softly rolling her eyes. Dillon smiles back and nods trying to push down that giddy feeling that has started swirling in her stomach again. Austin just changed his building plans, just like that? Just because of a comment she made? It makes her feel giddy and she can't explain why. It just does.

"Austin. Let's have dinner tonight," Rita says batting her long fake lashes at him. "Why?" Austin asks. He seems oblivious to her batting lashes and obvious flirting. "I know you said you would only meet up if it's work-related, but this is work-related. Dillon doesn't know what she is talking about and has made some horrible decisions about the house designs," she whines and then pops out her bottom lip like a toddler. "Dillon has it handled. If you can't work with her I will find someone else, Rita," Austin mumbles as he puts a pair of gloves on the looking at her once he is done with a raised brow. Rita looks stumped, but shakes her head, hugging her shambles to her chest. "No, it's fine," she whispers. "Good," Austin says, then accepts a sledgehammer from Louis. "Step back, darlin'," he says to Dillon so she takes a few steps back. "You were included in that, woman; don't be difficult," Louis says, frowning at Becky. She smiles at him then takes a few steps back and stands next to Dillon.