"Where the hell have you been?", Derek demanded with his arms crossed as he glared up and down at me.
"Out," I replied in a cold tone, pushing myself past him when he suddenly grabbed my arm.
"Answer me!", he ordered, raising his voice.
"Don't touch me!", I snapped, yanking my arm free of his grasp.
I threw my purse on the coffee table then collapsed onto the couch, avoiding Derek's eyes, which were boring into the back of my head.
"Why didn't you call?", he asked in a calmer tone. I immediately turned around to face him.
"Since when did you care about my whereabouts?"
Derek let out a frustrated sigh, running his hands through his hair before placing them on his hips. He looked extremely tired, but I couldn't care less.
"You know, if something were to have happened to you, the first person your mother would blame is me."
"Oh my god, I am not a child!", I yelled, standing up so that I was right in front of him. And to this day, I still felt short compared to my husband, even in heels.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?! It's fucking two in the morning and you just got back! I've been sitting here for two whole hours waiting for you to come home!", he lashed out.
"Well then why didn't you call me?!", I retorted.
"You left your stupid phone at home," he said through gritted teeth, clenching his jaw.
"So what?! I never have a clue what time you come home everyday, and when it's my turn to leave the house, you act like this," I pointed out, my blood boiling.
"You could've at least made me dinner."
That tore it.
I began taking my heels off in an angry manner then threw them both at his chest, leaving him absolutely speechless as he stood there with his mouth hanging wide open. I had never been this furious before my entire life.
"I am not your damn servant! Haven't you ever heard of take-out?!"
I grabbed my purse and stormed past Derek, heading upstairs. He immediately followed me and I groaned, rolling my eyes in pure annoyance and rage.
"You know, you kind of look like a hooker right now," he remarked.
My body instantly froze which caused him to collide into me. I swore, it was like he was waiting for me to just kill him or something. I spun around and my eyes shot daggers at him as I opened my mouth to speak.
"Excuse me?! At least I don't go around sticking my dick into every single freaking girl on this planet!"
That's right. Give him a taste of his own medicine.
I quickly ran up the rest of the stairs and stomped to my room, mentally plotting ways to rid him of this earth.
"What the fuck are you talking about?!", Derek's voice boomed as he caught up to me.
I slammed the door in his face and locked it, not wanting to hear a single word my sorry excuse for a husband had to say.
"Claire Weston, you open this fucking door right now!", he demanded.
"Leave me alone!", I screamed, on the verge of breaking down.
Don't cry, he's not worth it. Who cares about anything that man says, my inner conscience told me.
I got into bed and covered my ears with a pillow, wishing that Derek would just disappear. But no, he was refusing to leave.
What was he gonna do? Break down the door?
And just like that, I heard the sound of rushing footsteps and then a loud boom. I shrieked as my door bust open before it came off its hinges and collapsed to the ground.
Derek stormed towards me with both of his sleeves rolled up, revealing the prominent veins on his forearms. A thin layer of sweat glistened on his forehead. How on earth did he freaking break down my door?! I never knew he was that strong!
Talk about intimidating.
"Get away from me!", I warned, scooting closer to the headboard.
"What, you think I'm gonna hit you or something?", he sneered, his lips curled into a smirk.
"Don't look at me like that! I swear, if you come near me, I will punch you."
I yelped as Derek snatched my pillow from my hand and threw it to the ground. I felt the bed dip as he sat down across from me, staring into my eyes. I couldn't even tell what his current mood was right now.
"You honestly think that I'm a manwhore?", he asked in an amused tone.
What the hell was wrong with this man? Was it even possible for him to be this bipolar? One minute he was breaking down doors and the next, he was trying to have a conversation with me.
"I don't know, and I don't care," I replied grumpily, rubbing my eyes. God, I was so tired right now.
"Well, I'm not."
"Good for you," I muttered.
"And earlier- when I said that you looked like a hooker- well, I just wasn't used to seeing you dress like that."
"And your point is?"
"Don't wear that ever again," he spoke in a stern tone.
Why, you son of a bitch...who do you think you are? My dad?
"You can't make me. I'll wear whatever I want, when I want. Now can you please leave? I'm so sleepy," I whined.
"Fine. I'll get someone to fix your door tomorrow, too," Derek said as he got up, giving me a perfect view of his butt. Even in dress pants, it looked good.
Shut up, Claire.
His footsteps froze at where my door used to be, and then he turned around to look at me with a devilish grin on his face. Oh no, that wasn't good...
"Oh, and about those heels that you threw at me? You're not getting them back anytime soon," he said.
I fucking hate you, Derek Weston.
"You bastard!", I yelled, throwing a pillow at him. He easily caught it with one hand then tossed it back to me, only it landed on my face.
In a perfect world, the pillow would've knocked Derek off his feet.
A ray of sunshine peeked through my window the next morning, accompanied by the cool ocean breeze. It was no doubt the most beautiful day so far this past week.
I yawned and stretched my limbs, looking over at the alarm clock. It was already ten. Last night, I had instantly dozed off once Derek left my room, with my dress and makeup still on.
As I made my way to the bathroom to take a shower, that's when I realized how much my feet hurt. How on earth could Charlotte even wear heels every single day?
At that moment, I remembered what Derek had said yesterday about my heels. He'd better give them back to me or I was gonna make him regret ever taking them.
I stood in the shower for what felt like an eternity before finally getting out, wrapping a towel around my body. While I was brushing my teeth, I looked up at the mirror and screamed when I saw Derek's face staring back at me.
"Oh my god, what are you doing in here?! Get out!", I yelled, my voice muffled from the toothpaste.
"Your bedroom door was opened, remember?", he said with a smirk, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
Apparently, Derek had just taken a shower, too, because his hair was still damp. He had a pair of black athletic shorts on and a gray tshirt. It was weird seeing him on the weekends because he dressed like any normal 24-year old guy would. I guessed I was always used to seeing him in suits.
"What do you want?", I demanded with an irritated expression.
"I was just wondering if you were gonna make breakfast. 'Cause if you aren't, then I'll go buy something."
"I am. Now leave so I can change."
"K. See you downstairs," he said, strolling out of the bathroom.
I went to my closet and picked out a pair of black Nike shorts and my red hockey tshirt from high school. I was surprised it still managed to fit me after all these years.
Once I finished changing, I headed downstairs to the kitchen where Derek was sitting at the table doing work on his laptop. I swore, that MacBook was like his supply of oxygen or something. I'd never seen him without it before.
"Is French toast fine?", I asked him.
"Sure, whatever," he replied dismissively. I rolled my eyes.
I began taking out the ingredients and set them on the countertop. I also decided to make omelets and some bacon since I was feeling pretty hungry. Derek probably was, too, since he didn't have dinner last night.
"So, what did you do yesterday?", he asked me, shutting his laptop. He leaned back on the chair, propping his hands behind his head.
"I hung out with Charlotte," I answered as I stirred the omelet batter.
"She came back already?"
"Yeah. We had breakfast then went shopping."
"And clubbing," Derek added plainly.
"That too. Hey, can you do me a favor?"
"What is it?"
"Put some bacon into the pan and make sure it doesn't burn. You know how to do that, right?", I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm not stupid," he said, getting up.
Twenty minutes later, we were both sitting down at the table eating our breakfast. Derek had actually been able to cook the bacon nicely, which surprised me. He usually never did anything in the kitchen.
"So...did you hook up with anyone at the club last night?", Derek asked casually.
"No!", I exclaimed.
"You at least danced with some guy though, right?"
"Yes, but that was all we did. Danced. Now will you please stop talking so I can eat?"
"This French toast tastes weird. What did you put in it?", he suddenly asked, making a face.
"You said it tasted delicious, like, three minutes ago!"
"I was lying," he stated in a cold tone.
"You jerk," I said bitterly, grabbing my plate and heading to the living room to eat. He remained in the kitchen.
A thought suddenly dawned on me as I angrily bit off a piece of bacon. Derek had been in a good mood this morning and said that he liked my French toast. But right after I told him that I had danced with a guy last night, he immediately became distant and sour, complaining that the French toast was bad.
Was it possible that Derek had been jealous? Or was he just acting like the complete jerk he always was?
Well, whatever reason it might be, one thing was for sure- I still hated his guts.
A/N- Poor Claire...Derek seriously makes me so mad! She can't even go out for one night without having him make a huge deal out of it. Will he ever change his ways? Read on to find out.