Twice Between The Sheets (2 Nights A Week)

Chapter 8: Sleeping with the Enemy

The car rumbled down the empty highway, the tires droning on the asphalt as the silence between them stretched into uncomfortable eternity. Arabella's arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her chin tilted defiantly toward the window. She stared out into the blackness beyond, refusing to acknowledge the presence of Rafael beside her, though his every breath seemed to fill the car with an invisible tension. Her gaze was fixed on nothing at all, yet everything—every thought, every frustration, every sharp-edged feeling that had been gathering between them for hours—now seemed to converge in the stillness.

Rafael, however, was struggling. He couldn't handle the quiet—not the kind of quiet that pulsed with accusation, with the weight of a thousand unsaid things. He glanced toward her, but she didn't so much as twitch in his direction. He sighed and fiddled with the radio dial. Anything to break the tension.

He was met with a cheery, overly peppy voice announcing, "Are you ready to get closer? Nothing says love like condoms for real couples in real relationships! Order now, and take your intimacy to the next level!"

Arabella's head snapped around so fast he was certain her neck might snap with it. Her face drained of color, only to be quickly replaced by a bright, crimson flush that spread to her ears, her jaw slack in disbelief.

"Really?" she spat out, her voice an almost strangled gasp. Her glare could've burned through steel.

Rafael's hand flew to the dial, flipping the station with almost panicked speed. "Okay, okay. I didn't know, I—"

He froze. The new station blared the ominous tones of a news report: "...Rising AIDS statistics in the U.S. are causing alarm... health experts urge immediate action..."

"Great. This is so much better," Rafael muttered, his fingers quickly finding the off button. He sighed, then let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "Well, no need to waste battery on bad news, right?"

Arabella's stare didn't waver.

Rafael cleared his throat and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "Anyway, we're almost there." His voice was a little too light, a little too strained.

The car's tires rolled to a smooth halt, and Rafael threw the gear into park. The silence returned—heavy and suffocating. He opened his door with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, trying to shake off the mood, but Arabella's cold presence was a weight he couldn't escape.

Arabella stepped out of the car, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement, and glanced around. "This doesn't look like a house," she said suspiciously, eyeing the sleek, modern building that towered before her. Its glass walls glimmered in the dim light, offering no warmth, only sharp edges and the gleam of money.

"It's a condo," Rafael said, brushing past her toward the entrance with that same lazy swagger he always wore. "It's home, for now."

"You live in a condo?" Arabella scoffed, incredulous. "That's not a home. That's a glorified hotel room."

Rafael shrugged, as if she were stating the obvious. "Same difference. Unless you're afraid of heights." He threw her a teasing look, his dark eyes glinting. "My place is on the 10th floor."

Arabella scowled, the edges of her mouth curling downward. "This better not be some trick to corner me." The warning in her voice was thick, though she couldn't quite explain why she felt it.

Rafael gave her a crooked smile, and she was almost certain it was the kind of smile that meant trouble. "Relax, baby. You're thinking too much."

Arabella's fists clenched at her sides. "Stop calling me baby."