by P. Dangelico
My brainwaves flat lined. You can’t blame me––that face is a goddamn murderer of gray matter. It’s flawless in a way that renders one incapable of doing anything other than staring mouth agape. I catch myself doing it all the time, searching for a small bump, a tiny scar, an angle that’s too steep or wide. And yet nothing, I can’t seem to find a single one. Which aggravates me to no end. Which means I usually end up inadvertently glowering at him.
In my line of work, pretty boys are as common as flies on dog excrement. They’ve never been of any particular interest to me. I place them in the same category as exotic cars––typically useless and generally time consuming because someone’s always trying to jack them. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise when somewhere in the background a harp began to play, butterflies took flight in my gut, and a rainbow came shooting out of my…well, you get the picture.
I gravitate toward shy, creative types. Types that don’t reduce my attention span to that of a gnat because I suddenly develop the libido of a teenage boy. Who needs that kind of headache day in and day out? I’ve got shit to do. My laundry keeps piling up. My refrigerator hasn’t been cleaned in a month. However, I will admit that if eyes had the ability to orgasm, mine would have that day.
So there I was, standing in my doorway drunk on lust. Until he smiled at me. That counterfeit smile rubbed me the wrong way. An ice bucket over my head, no challenge included. Still in the midst of healing from the third degree burn of my latest bout with Love, I swiftly remembered that men were on par with Ebola, and all the reasons I vowed to stay away from humans with a penis for a brain returned with a vengeance. I glared, the smile fell off his pretty face, soon replaced by confusion, and the rest is history.
Since then, reshaping this reluctant attraction into indifference lightly garnished with a touch of resentment has been incredibly easy. And that’s where I firmly stood on the matter––until now. Whether by choice or coercion, he’s the only reason I am not a ward of the great state of New York. Now there’s a heavy load of gratitude standing in the way of my resentment.
“Fancy.” Nothing. Though I detect a very faint snore. Nice to know he’s human; I was beginning to have my doubts. I get closer. “Vaughn,” I say, a little louder this time. Still nothing. I hover over him, much closer than I’m comfortable with. The other choice is to touch him and I reeaally don’t want to do that.
A whiff of his man aroma hits me and my eyelids get a little droopy. It’s like stepping into an opium cloud, dangerously addictive. I stay there for a solid five minutes sniffing and sniffing, trying to ferret out what it is that’s making me mental. His eyes slam open and meet mine.
Woops. Busted.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in front of a turn-of-the-century limestone townhouse on the Upper East Side, one block from Central Park. Calling it impressive would be equivalent to me saying Ryan Reynolds has a pretty good body. In other words, woefully understated. There’s money, and then there’s Money. This is the latter.
“Did you neglect to tell me you’re related to the House of Windsor?”
“Norma gave it to me,” he absently answers while retrieving his keys from his jacket pocket. Loaded down with my suitcases, he trudges up the stairs to an elaborate wrought iron door.
“Didn’t peg you as the kept man type.”
His body goes rigid while his face adopts an expression of disgust. “Norma Ellington is my grandmother.”
“Ellington? Ellington as in the real estate company?” The name plastered on every building that isn’t named Trump in this city.
“Hmm.”
He unlocks the iron door and we step into a vestibule. “What, no butler to greet us?” My quip goes ignored. Next, the carved mahogany door swings open.
I cannot contain my surprise. Mouth gapping open, I am rendered speechless, which is close to impossible. I’m seldom surprised so this at least makes sense. What does not make sense is what I’m presently staring at.
“It’s The Money Pit. You’re living in The Money Pit.” Stepping further inside, Vaughn right behind me, I look around, my eyes not quite sure what part of this wreck to settle on first. “Is the staircase safe to walk on?”
It looks like a demolition crew took out half of it while the rest is in a state of serious disrepair. The few pieces of furniture that are present don’t seem to fit, the style ultra contemporary.
“I just hired a new contractor. I hadn’t planned on a houseguest.” While I stand there mesmerized, he walks past me. “Stay out of the living room, dining room, and…” He exhales tiredly, his broad shoulders dropping. “Better yet, don’t go anywhere other than the kitchen and bedrooms.” Without a backward glance, he begins to climb the stairs. “Stairs are fine––as you can see.”
On the second floor, he leads me down a long hallway, until we reach two closed doors…next to each other. He’s frowning again, staring blindly at the doors and frowning.
“You twist the knob to open the door.”
That did not go over well. He levels me with a narrow eyed glare and I’m immediately hit with regret. In my defense, I’ve been through a lot tonight. Sometimes my mouth does its own thing.
“Sorry, I’m tired.”
“The master bedroom is under repair and these two are the only bedrooms with electricity.”
“God’s sake, Vaughn. I don’t care if you have a cage hidden in a dirt pit behind that door. My brain is deep-fried and my soul is on life support. All I want to do is get horizontal and sleep for a thousand years.”
I push open the door to bedroom number one. A king size mattress with no sheets sits on the floor, the windows are bare, and a standing lamp offers the only light.
“You take my bedroom tonight. I’ll fix this tomorrow.”
“Absolutely not.” I drag my limp body to the mattress and plop down. “Do you have an extra set of sheets and a pillow?” The look of sheer desperation on my face convinces him not to argue. He acquiesces with a short nod.
“These bedrooms share a bathroom in the middle,” he states. You would think he’s giving me the nuclear launch codes with the tone he’s using. “Make sure you lock both doors when you’re in there.”
Minutes later he walks back into my bedroom, carrying towels, a stack of bed linens, a down comforter, and a pillow. After placing them on the mattress next to where I’m sitting, he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants and pauses.
“Can I get you anything else?” He looks like he stepped out of the pages of GQ, none the worse for wear after what we’ve been through tonight. I’ll admit I’m slightly annoyed by this.
His eyes meet mine. There’s something lurking in the dark depths of those eyes that I can’t quite put my finger on. I shake my head and he turns to leave.
“Hey.” Pausing, he looks over his shoulder. “Thank you for everything…really.” Raising his hand, he stalls the rest of my speech. After which, he exits.
Chapter Five
Bang Bang Bang
I bolt upright in bed. I’m a light sleeper, always have been. So light that I need earplugs, a sleep mask, and blackout curtains to remain asleep. And to fall asleep? That’s a whole other story. As in, it is unlikely to occur unless I get a little help from one of my mechanical boyfriends. This body runs on high RPMs. It takes a village (of electric man parts) to help me relax.
Momentarily confused and desperate to get my bearings, I push my black satin eye mask up my forehead. The sunlight coming through the bare window blinds me. Permanently, I’m almost certain. And then I realize where I am. Groan.
Bang Bang Bang
One glance at my cellphone tells me two things. One: it’s way too early in the morning for construction workers to have arrived. And two: I only got two hours of sleep.
Said banging gets louder. Mumbling obscenities under my breath, I jump out of bed, jam on my slippers, and stomp out of my bedroom in search of the source of my misery. I step over tarps and painting supplies, walk under an ope
n ladder––my luck’s shite anyway so what difference does it make––and descend the stairs in a hurry.
AC/DC’s Back in Black at seven in the morning? You have got to be kidding me.
Recognizing that the music’s coming from the living room, I head in that direction. Angry stomping, I whip around the corner and my feet skid to a stop.
Whoa.
I blink repeatedly to make sure the hot piece standing twelve feet away with his back to me isn’t a figment of my sex starved imagination. Naked from the waist up, he’s pounding away at the sheetrock. Tall, broad shouldered, back muscles rippling every time he swings the sledgehammer against the far wall. His Levis are worn and I mean, really worn, not to mention in danger of falling off any minute now. Fingers crossed they do with the next swing. Fingers crossed. They’re hanging so low over the pronounced muscles of his bubble butt that…
Wait…is he wearing underwear?
Nope. I can see crack. Butt cleavage. Yep, I am definitely staring at butt cleavage. My fascination with his butt cleavage produces a suspicious heat south of my waist. This is what happens when you’ve been without the feel of another human being for far, far too long. I knew I should’ve taken my friend, Justin, up on his offer to bone me into the next century. Once again, bad judgment on my part.
To say that my sex life is suffering a dry spell is akin to calling the Sahara a sandbox. It’s been years. And by the looks of it, abstinence yawns before me for many more to come. But after the fiasco that was the last time––the sex so bad I actually got angry while in the midst of it, that’s how utterly unsatisfying it was––abstinence seems the only reasonable way to go. Besides, I’ve got my boyz to get me through.
He’s going at that wall like he’s working out some serious aggression. On the next swing of the hammer, I’m reminded of the headache I awoke with. The delight wanes. Time to put an end to this nuisance.
“Hey.” Nothing. He keeps killing the sheetrock, exposing a very nice red brick living beneath it. “Hey! Bob the Builder! Give it a rest, will you!”
Freezing mid swing, he brings the sledgehammer down gently. Then he drops it and turns around.
Da fuuu…“Fancy?” is all I can muster out, my voice strangely high. I know what the sheetrock feels like. I know because he may as well have slugged me in the gut with that sledgehammer.
Nostrils flaring, sweat dripping down a chest that belongs in a Magic Mike sequel, Vaughn stares back at me for what feels like a lifetime. So long I may need Botox. So long I’m starting to fidget under his pointed though slightly detached examination of me, myself, and I.
The song ends and the silence breaks the weird vibe traveling between us. And when I say weird, I mean not good, not good at all. Huh. What’s his problem? I mean, besides having a total stranger live in his house and invade his privacy. Could be my vivid imagination is acting up. Could be. Yeah, that’s it. Probably lack of sleep…probably.
He walks over to the sound system and shuts it off. When his attention returns to me, his lips twitch as his gaze zeros in on my t-shirt. Still reeling from the discovery of all the muscles standing before me, I have to check to see what it is that’s amusing him.
“That’s, umm, an interesting choice of nightwear,” he finally says.
Cam and I have been exchanging prank Christmas gifts for the last ten years. This one is a personal favorite of mine. On the front of the oversized t-shirt, The Duck U Lookin’ At? ducking spellcheck is written in bold black letters. On the back, there’s a cartoon drawing of a duck flipping the bird.
I freaking love this t-shirt.
His chocolate brown eyes work their way down the length of my shirt, pause where it ends at the top of my thighs, linger for a while, then slide down to my feet. A baby v appears between his brows.
“Is that supposed to be chocolate ice cream?” He’s referring to the top of my fluffy brown slippers. The ones I bought at the mall because they’re a perfect metaphor for my life.
“It’s the shit emoji.”
“I was afraid of that,” he mutters. Picking up a gray t-shirt off the floor, he starts wiping his chest.
I should’ve definitely taken Justin up on that offer.
“You’re looking rather homespun this morning,” I say as I pour a much needed second cup of coffee and study the specimen seated across from me at the kitchen island. Elbows on the counter, I bring the mug to my lips while I openly examine his chest, the one he has yet to cover. Who the heck would’ve imaged what was hiding beneath all that fine cotton and wool. When my eyes climb back up to his face, he arches a knowing brow. If he doesn’t want me looking, he should put a shirt on it.
“Because I’m wearing jeans?”
“Because I’ve never seen you uncoifed.”
I don’t know what it is about him that brings out the hobgoblin in me, but every time I’m anywhere near his divine self I’m gripped by an irrational urge to kick his shins and pull his hair, to get a rise out of him. Sadly, it’s proving to be an impossible feat. The man has indifference running through his veins.
“I do not coif my hair,” he replies, running a hand through it.
“Agree to disagree.” The doorbell rings and we exchange a look of surprise. “Construction crew?”
He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “It’s New Year’s day.”
“Thanks, professor. I’ll go.” Hoping off the counter, I march to the tall window next to the front door.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” I hear him shout. A tall brunette is on the front steps, attempting to peer through the wrought iron door.
“It’s a woman,” I whisper shout over my shoulder.
I find him standing in the doorway of the kitchen, brushing the top of his hair back and forth in a gesture indicating what is clearly frustration.
I’m thinking an ex-something, maybe? Maybe. I’m not sure if he’s dating anyone.
“What does she look like?” he growls, the little v back to decorating his brow.
“Pretty, tall and thin, long brown hair. She’s in work out clothes.” I look over my shoulder and catch him staring at my legs. His gaze casually slides away. Men, what simple creatures. And when I say simple, I mean stupid. “She looks like she just got her hair and make up done.”
“Alexa.” More grumbling. I get the distinct impression he’s unhappy about this uninvited visitor. Camilla had mentioned a while ago that Vaughn has a string of admirers. Although, having them show up at his house? Without an invitation? I wouldn’t call it a string of admirers. I’d call it time to reevaluate your life choices, get a whole bunch of restraining orders, and most definitely an STD test.
It dawns on me, then. He’s going to be entertaining these women in his bedroom, one door down from me…less than twelve feet from my ears. This is what I have to look forward to. Fun times ahead.
Jaw locked, he’s staring at the ceiling. Discomfort is all over him, the muscles of his chest and arms taut.
“Want me to get rid of her for you?” I throw it out casually. I figure I’ll help him out this one time. After what he’s done for me, it seems only fair. However, if he’s going to hit it and quit it on the regular, he’s on his own. I will gladly feed him to the she-wolves, grab a bag of popcorn, and enjoy the show.
His gaze snaps back to me, his expression now bright with hope. “Could you?”
Could I? It takes some effort to tamp down the smug grin dying to spread across my face. “No sweat.”
He looks genuinely relieved. This dude is full of surprises. As I head to the front door, a pronounced masculine cough gets my attention. Vaughn is pointing at my legs, a rosy glow under his tan, one I imagine he got sailing, or playing polo, or maybe counting stacks of cash outdoors.
“You might want to put some pants on.”
Not that it matters, because I’m basically built like a thirteen year old boy, but I lift my t-shirt to reveal my pajama shorts. “Make yourself scarce,” I say as I reach for the door.
/> The brunette, Alexa, has her finger poised to ring for the fourth time. Seeing me, she tilts her head and frowns. Her gray eyes glide up and down my person, pausing meaningfully at the writing on my t-shirt.
“I’m looking for Ethan.” When she attempts to look beyond me, I’m one step ahead, swaying to stay in her line of sight. “Ethan Vaughn.”
“Bulgy eyes? Short?”
“No,” she replies, voice dripping in condescension. “Tall and gorgeous.”
“Oh, you mean, Fancy McButterpants. Yeah, he’s…uh…indisposed at the moment.”
“Is he okay?” Her concern is nowhere near genuine.
“I don’t think so.”
Surprise struggles to appear on her chemically frozen face. “I should check on him.” When she sidesteps to enter, I once again slide in her way.
“He’s got a ragging case of diarrhea.” That may have come out a little louder than necessary.
“Oh.”
Her discomfort emboldens me to continue. “You know, the angry sort that makes you pray for a speedy death.”
His slender nose crinkles. “No, I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. We’ve all had it. He barely made it to the bathroom.” She looks properly grossed out. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Alexa.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Fancy you stopped by. That is, if he ever makes it out of the bathroom alive.”
Her eyes turn into slits. “And you are––”
“Seriously overdue for a shower. Long night,” I say with a side-eyed smirk. “Anysomethin’, nice to meet you. Bye, Lexi.”