Husband For Hire

8. Drunk Part II

8. Drunk Part II
Was she always this attractive or did alcohol have some magic?

* * *

[Ashar's P. O. V.]

The "Princess" locked the bathroom and wouldn't let me enter. The sound of the toilet flushing relieved me slightly before I began knocking on the door again. What if she passed out in there? Even though I hated her (what an understatement) she was still my wife.

"Ano, if you don't open the door right now, I'll destroy your Choo Choo shoes," I threatened.

The door flew open and Anmol handed me the pair of shoes she was wearing, much to my surprise.

"Go ahead," she said.

What? That backfired. I swear this was the same girl who went to jail over those shoes and now she didn't care?

Seeing me standing with my arms crossed, she huffed and turned back to the sink. She picked up a brush and began brushing. I winced after she picked up the toothbrush the fifth time to clean her teeth. I hit my head against the door. "What's your problem?" she asked.

"You're using my brush."

Her eyes went as wide as saucers and she shrieked realizing what I said was indeed true. Too late now.

The brat washed her mouth with Listerine. It didn't take down the smell of alcohol though.

"Go take a shower," I said.

"You take a shower," she shot back.

She kept arguing, leaving me no other option than to use force.

I grabbed her arm and went inside the bathroom, dragging her behind me. She tried to bite and claw me. I turned the water on in the round Jacuzzi bathtub (very fancy, compared to the bathtub at my apartment) and pushed Anmol towards it. She clung to me, holding my arm tightly between her small ones, refusing to go inside the water.

"I know you're not worried about your hygiene, but show a little concern for mine," I said.

She shook her head, obstinate. Once the tub was a little more than halfway full, I shut the water off, picked up Anmol and sort of . . . dumped her in it. I had to do this with Rosie sometimes. Nothing new.

"Ah!" she gasped. I laughed, sitting on the side. "Cold water!" she cried.

"Matches the temperature of your heart, wifey."

She didn't say anything, but sat with a gloomy look, slapping at the water once in a while. Her silence and innocence struck me. Her wet, dark curls clung to her face. Her teeth clattered (probably) from the cold water and she curled up in one corner, hugging her knees. Being accustomed to the grumpy and bratty attitude, this quiet side of hers came as a new experience.

"What're y--you looking at?" she asked.

Immediately, I turned away. She was my wife, but . . . the contract. "I'm going to sleep."

"I'm sorry," she said, not meeting my eyes.

"For what?"