by Max Monroe
He worked so hard to make sure I had all the things I dreamed of, and to tell him just how close I’ve come to losing it all… Well, I can’t even stomach the thought of it.
I’d much rather soak in the bitter truth of it all by myself.
Luckily, I don’t have to lie about the quality of the apartment. Emory’s parents own one hell of a classy place.
“It’s great. Spacious and modern,” I say, trying to give him at least a morsel of something to cling to. “And yes, Dad, I got renters insurance.”
He smiles at my jab at his smothering worry and points to his shirt.
I didn’t even notice it before, but I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing I’ll notice now.
Dad Body is the new Hot Toddy.
Gah, that’s terrible.
It’s like a dad joke from hell, and the only thing remotely creative about it is that it rhymes.
I smile and nod anyway, just to humor him, but not before reaching to grab the wine bottle and pouring myself another enormously healthy glass.
If I’m going to make it through the rest of family dinner with the Corny Dad, Mute Teenager, and Tina Turtleneck—aka my lovely witch-in-law—without saying something I shouldn’t, I’m going to need a little lubrication, if you know what I’m saying.
Liquid courage.
Hooch.
The sauce.
A little vino for my—
Alcohol. I need alcohol.
By the time I leave The Last Supper, I’m what a college frat boy might refer to as smashed, bro. And three large glasses of wine are all it took to get me here.
My tolerance for drinking is on the low end of the spectrum because I don’t really drink that much.
Other than a glass of wine here or there, the most I ever drink is at dinner with my brother and his family.
It’s not that they’re that terrible or anything; I think I’m just…comfortable. Or I need the intoxication to tolerate my sister-in-law’s stink eye. Honestly, it’s a toss-up.
But I know my brother would never judge me or jump to conclusions, and even though Rhonda doesn’t talk to me, she doesn’t talk to anyone else either. They see me for who I am and accept it.
Hell, my brother drove me home in his minivan and waved from the curb like a proud father when I finally got the outside door to my building open.
I’m a lucky woman, having such a positive, supportive guy in my life—even if he’s got corny dad jokes and doesn’t contribute to my bank account at all.
Hah.
Truth is, Heath is such a good guy, he probably would give me money if I asked him to.
But I’d never do that to him. He has his own business to run and family to feed.
My head swims as I force myself to climb the stairs rather than taking the elevator as some form of pseudo-punishment, and I’m only slightly disappointed when I make it to the top without falling down and acquiring a head laceration.
I’m kidding. Well, sort of. I mean, I’m currently in a phase of life where a two-to-four-day hospital stay sounds like a trip to the spa.
Basically, a life has many seasons.
My door seems nice and very door-like as I sidle up to it and give it a hug. For all my joking, I’m glad to have a home, and that seems like a good reason to give it a hug.
I get a little too cuddly, though, and the door bites back, smacking me right in the forehead.
Well, that wasn’t very nice.
“Ow!” I yell at my wooden friend. “Our relationship is never going to work if you can’t get past your intimacy issues. My other friends might start telling me to leave if you’re not careful.”
He doesn’t laugh, but I do enough for the both of us. I’m just getting ready to take the flirting to the next level with some keyhole penetration when my friend moves away on his own, swinging open…and right into my nemesis’s apartment.
Except, holy cotton balls, does he always look this good?
“Well, if it isn’t Trent Turner! Juney Junior! Turn the Burn! The Term-i-nator!” I greet him, reaching out with my hand and poking his bare chest with my index finger just to make sure he’s not some sort of mirage.
He’s real.
“Holy shit. You’re real,” I mutter, and I can’t stop my gaze from moving down his body.
He is in nothing but a towel, his hair is wet, beads of water roll down his perfect chest, and dear God…I might pass out.
I’m pretty sure I just saw the outline of my boss’s penis.
No skin action, no actual visual of the amount of purple power that thing gets when fully locked and loaded, but a penis blueprint, if you will.
And, apparently, the architect who drew up those penis plans didn’t hesitate to put in some serious square footage.
Immediately, I start thinking about what Trent’s boner would look like, and I giggle.
God, that’s such a funny word. Boner. The bones. Boneville. Boner Time.
“What about bones?” he asks, and my giggling comes to an abrupt halt.
Oh my God, WHAT? Did I just say that aloud?
“Did you just say something about bones?”
Oh, holy shit, I did. Someone. Help. Me.
“Don’t wah-y, about it Ah-nold.” I give him a friendly slap on his bare shoulder, and the smacking sound reverberates around us. “I’m just singing. A song. About bones. It’s an old one. You probably don’t know it. Almost no one knows it. No one but me. I know the big bone song.”
Nice save, Greer. Obviously, I do my very best thinking under the influence.
I should probably drink more often.
“What?” he asks again, before adding, “Are you drunk?” His eyebrows pinch together in what seems a whole lot like judgment.
My personality spawns another side—one with absolutely no sense of self-preservation.
“Don’t be so judgy, Junior. Everybody enjoys a little bit of wine every now and then. It might not cost one billion dollars a bottle like yours does—”
He rolls his eyes.
“But it’s flipping del-i-cious!” I singsong, even adding a bit of jazz hands to pizzazz it up a bit.
“Look, how about I help you get into your apartment, and we’ll talk in the morning?”
“Fine,” I agree. “We can talk in the morning. But you better put that lightsaber under some heavier fabric before we go to commune with the Lord. It’s impossible to focus when that thing is just swinging around like it owns the joint.”
Just one side of his mouth hitches up, but I think he might actually be smiling.
Wow. He looks goooood with a smile.
“Commune with the Lord? You go to church?”
“On Sunday? As in, tomorrow’s Sunday? Of course. It’s just that sometimes—most times,” I muffle under my breath, “I sleep in a little too late or get stuck in traffic or come down with a cold or—”
“So, you don’t actually attend church. You just pretend to plan to so you feel better about yourself.”
“I don’t know.” I shrug one lazy shoulder. “That was a lot of words that just came out of your mouth, but hey, they sounded good.”
“Come on,” he says with a laugh. I fall into a trance in his eyes like he’s the snake in The Jungle Book. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“Yes, sir,” I agree. Bed with him sounds mighty fine.
Trent
It’s funny how a night can start one way and end in completely another.
At seven p.m., fresh drink in hand, I settled onto the couch and stretched out an arm across the back, the plans for the hotel and a stack of expense sheets stretched across the surface of my coffee table.
I haven’t had time to get a TV for my apartment yet, and besides the grandfather clock ticking audibly from the corner of my living room, there wasn’t anything but the silence from next door to seep through the walls and into my place.
I hadn’t heard her all night, and against every ounce of my judgment, I couldn’t help but wonder where she was.
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Does she spend all of her Saturday nights out or only the occasional one to let loose?
Is the stress of this job going to be too much for her, and perhaps most importantly, is she going to distract me this much the whole time?
Annoyed with myself, I grabbed my phone and sent a funny meme about a blowfish in the group text with Cap and Quince, but neither responded, and the loneliness became even more painful.
Frustrated, I decided to busy myself with the task of unpacking more of my boxes and trying to make this place have at least a semblance of actual residence.
I’ve been living out of a suitcase like a vagabond since arriving here, and this was exactly the kind of desperation I needed to change that.
I sorted and piled, I tucked and folded, I arranged and rearranged. It took nearly four hours, but finally, I had a closet full of clothes, a medicine cabinet full of toiletries, and a kitchen with at least a few random supplies.
With only one box left, I fully expected to finish the job and be rewarded with at least a pathetic sense of accomplishment.
But expectations are often much different from reality, and the Walter White mask at the very top distracted me.
Stupid thing in hand, I wandered the apartment looking into the chemist’s face like he could somehow take me back to that night.
To recklessness and spontaneity and a kiss with a stranger I still think about.
It was the first time in years—hell, maybe ever—that I’ve acted out of instinct and hormones at a work function rather than sticking to a carefully crafted plan.
It was the first time I’ve been so amused by a woman that I let go of all thought of rationality and responsibility.
It was a dick thing to disappear so quickly, without even the exchange of a name, but the pressure of my dad’s judgment was too much. And the fear of losing the NOLA project became too vivid in my mind.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about it.
Which is exactly how I ended up in the shower with my hand to my cock, giving myself something I needed more than I even realized.
I’d only just come when I heard a loud bang on my door.
Quickly, I jumped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my half-hard dick and hips and went to check it out.
Fast-forward twenty minutes and one extremely drunk employee, and here I am now. In Greer’s apartment, doing my best to lift her dead weight into her bed, while trying to keep my towel secure around my hips at the same time.
It’s a fucking task.
“Use your legs, woman,” I coach, wondering if I need to spend more time at the gym. In all regards, Greer is a petite woman, with just the right amount of curves. I shouldn’t be struggling under her weight, but it’s like she’s lined her pockets with lead or something.
She laughs, of course, because apparently when she’s drunk, I am incredibly funny. “Legs. That’s a funny word, don’t you think? Like, who came up with that? Why aren’t they called trunks? Or yims? Or blosts?”
“I’m not sure. But if I run into anyone who was around during the previous millennia, I’ll let you know,” I mutter and try to avert my eyes when the hem of her skirt moves up her perfect thighs a few inches too far.
What feels like miles upon miles of her silky-smooth skin is right there. In front of me.
Good God. My dick hardens immediately.
Before I can even think about doing something stupid, I snag the edge of the wrinkled comforter at the edge of the bed and toss it over her body before that skirt decides to migrate any farther.
Abruptly, she sits back up, squishes my cheeks together and guffaws, speaking in a voice laced with baby talk. “Oh my, my, someone’s cheeks are awful cheeky, aren’t they?”
When she reaches out with a pesky hand and runs her fingers across the cotton knot at my hips, I shove a gentle hand to her shoulder and settle her back into the bed.
I’m completely unsure what her plans were, but I know they wouldn’t have been good.
For her—she’s drunk. For me—I wish I were drunk at this point. For my fucking sanity. Or for my carefully constructed willpower, for that matter.
“Just relax,” I instruct. “Go to sleep and forget this ever happened.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she challenges, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Trust me, Greer,” I say, and like my hand has a mind of its own, it reaches out and slides a lock of hair out of her eyes and behind her ear. “You’d like it too. Probably even more than me.”
For a long moment, she looks up at me with those big blue eyes of hers, and my chest tightens.
God, even drunk, even slurring crazy shit I don’t understand, even when she’s talking back to me at work, she’s beautiful.
“That’s what they want you to think,” she says quietly, and her eyelids start to droop with sleep. Each blink lasts longer and longer, and I’m damn near mesmerized by the way her long lashes fan down over her cheeks.
“Yep. That’s exactly what they want you to think,” she repeats, and I blink from my trance.
“They?” Who the fuck is she talking about?
“The Wimwoms,” she says seriously. “They want you to think that I’m a frog and you’re a prince or something like that, and that our kiss could cure the world. But it can’t. I know because I’ve pictured it, and all that happens is explosions.”
“Explosions?”
“Bombs.”
“Bombs?”
“Big ones.”
Sweet Jesus, what did she drink tonight?
“Greer, did you go to a club tonight? Did someone drug you?”
“A club!” she shrieks with her eyes now closed and devolves into a fit of hysterical laughter. “No way! Just dinner with a witch, a cornball, an iPhone, and a whole bunch of delicious pickles.”
I pinch my eyebrows together in concern, and she reaches up to smooth them with just one finger.
“Green eyes,” she says. “Goddamn those goddamn green eyes.”
And then she’s out. Dead to the world and snoring just enough to confirm she’s breathing.
I shake my head and take a deep breath before looking down to my now fully hard cock.
Fuck, this is becoming a problem.
I turn her so she’s safe on her side, shove away from the bed, grab the trash can from her bathroom, and set it beside her bed before leaving.
I don’t look back, given my dick’s obvious inability to behave, and head straight for my apartment to pass out in my own bed.
It’s after midnight, and if I don’t end the day now, there’s no telling what else will happen.
I step out into the hallway quietly, being sure to lock her door behind me, and walk the five steps to my own. I grab the knob and turn…nothing.
Oh fuck.
I jiggle again; no give.
Nooooo. Are you kidding me?
I look frantically around the hall for a key that doesn’t exist. For all the unpacking and settling I did earlier this evening, not one moment of it included hiding a spare key in case I locked myself out.
And I’m still in a towel. Only a towel.
What am I going to do?
Thoughts scatter and dart through my head like rats as I try to grab ahold of one long enough to come up with a plan. By the time I do it, I’ve settled against the door of my apartment, leaned my head back, and covered my eyes with my hand to block out the light.
My dick, however, the traitor, is still hard.
Luckily, the name that comes to mind does a good job of changing that.
Quincy. Quincy is dating Emory, and Emory’s parents own the building. Surely, he can get a key to let me in with as little humiliation as possible.
Right?
Wrong.
Quincy’s laugh is downright obnoxious as he comes through the front door of our apartment building and meets me in the lobby.
I would have stayed upstairs in the hallway, but the only public phone is downstair
s at the front desk. Plus, the bastard told me one a.m. delivery service goes no farther than the bottom floor.
“Wow, Turn,” he greets with a smile ten times bigger than my face is even built to accommodate. “This just keeps getting better and better.”
When I called him, I thought keeping the part about being in a towel out of the story would somehow benefit me. Evidently, I forgot that he’d have to find out anyway and that the element of surprise always makes it worse.
“Is there a new fashion trend I should be aware of?”
“Do you have a key or not?” I ask, completely ignoring his question.
“Oh, I’ve got the key,” he says cheerfully. “One I had to procure by waking my girlfriend, dragging her out of bed, taking her to her apartment to get the keys to her parents’ place, and then going there to get it.”
I wince.
“Thankfully for you, they’re on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean.”
“Listen, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but do we really have to do this now? I’ll take you to lunch one day, and you can give me the third degree.”
“Oh no. No, no, no,” Quince replies, shaking his head. “I’m not giving you any time to weasel out of this. No details, no key.”
“Jesus, Quince. When did you become this ruthless?”
“Around eleventh grade. Now, go. Details.” He snaps his fingers, and it’s only the reality that I will have to spend the rest of the night outside of my apartment with no clothes that keeps me from reaching out and slapping his slightly chubby face.
“I opened my door, stepped out in the hall, and the door shut behind me. I didn’t realize it was locked,” I paraphrase, holding out a hand for the key.
He shakes his head, unconvinced. “Nope. Not buying it. No way you’re going to go outside of your apartment in just a towel without a good reason.”
I growl. “I heard a noise, okay? I was checking it out.”
“And you found something, didn’t you?”
“Quince.”
“What did you find, Turn? Tell your good pal, Quincy,” he mocks sweetly, and I sigh.
“Greer.”