Arranged What 2- You Want Me to...What?!?!?!?!

Chapter 2- Taco Tuesday

[Hey all. Part of this I like, part of it I don't, but I've been working for 3 hours on it, so I hope you likes! I tried to make it long, because you've all been so wonderfully patient with me! <3 you! -Jess]

Chapter2-

Half an hour later and steam was still coming out my ears as I beat the stuffing out of a punching bag in the gym.

How dare she go behind my back on all of this? How dare she give me ridiculous and easily dismissible reasons? How dare she change the subject just because she doesn’t like something?

Every time I came up with a new reason, I hit the bag again. Every time the thoughts ran through my head again, I hit the bag harder. End result: my arms and wrists hurt like heck, and the punching bag has several new dents in it.

But I didn’t care about any of that, if I didn’t get some way to release this ever-increasing anger then we were going to have some major issues. My energy can’t last forever, because unfortunately anger isn’t fuelled by energy.  

“You know if you didn’t punch like such a girl that might actually be impressive.” His voice startles me. I turn around to see him leaning against the door frame casually.

“Whatever. I didn’t know anyone else was here.” I rip the Velcro grip of my punching gloves- I love that sound- and slide them off, breathing hard.

“Oh don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying watching you completely fail at giving a worthwhile punch.” He smiles cynically.

“Well I’m sure you didn’t enjoy it half as much as I enjoy watching your face fail at looking manly every day.” I go over and grab a drink from the mini fridge, taking a nice long gulp to quench my thirst.

“Yeah, yeah whatever, I’m just here ‘cause Giovanni wanted me to tell you we’re having shrimp for dinner.”

“What? What happened to Taco Tuesdays?” We hadn’t missed a Taco Tuesday in three months!

“Oh that was the party planner’s doing.” He said in a neutral tone staring at the wall opposite him. “She’s here too by the way, looking around the house to get a feel for it.”

My skin begin to crawl at the thought of some tight-skirt, controlling, neat-freak woman marching into my house telling my chef what he can and can’t cook and looking around at my stuff like she has any right to.

I hate her already.

“Who’s showing her around?”

“Herself.” He tried to say it casually, but I could see his lips twitching and hear the amusement that leached into his tone when he said it.

“She’s walking around my house without a bloody escort? Where the hell is she?!” I’m going to find this woman and wring the know-it-all attitude right out of her!

“I think she was going to head to the ballroom to start thinking of preparations for the little gathering,” he chuckles again, “but she did say something about looking around the grounds too… maybe she’s looking for you on your floor. You know now that I think about it, she could be anywhere.” He chuckles once more before pushing off the door frame and walking away.

Great, so there’s no way for me to find her. My anger now back full force, I decide to put a little more time in that punching bag. It appears to be a few dents short of adequate.

**

Tired is me as I trudge down to the kitchen, my hair still sopping wet and tangled as my arms had decided they were too tired to hold themselves up long enough for me to brush the tangles out. Same goes for blow drying.