by Emily James
“Incredibly hot, available guy brings incredibly hot, fricking lasagne,” Mikey squeals as he dances through the hallway and into my apartment. He drops the container on the dining table and falls back on the adjacent sofa.
“That was exhausting,” he says. “Why people don’t just eat at restaurants instead of putting themselves through all that I’ll never know.”
“So you’re enjoying intense cookery one-oh-one then?” I chuckle; he’s red in the face and panting. Mikey hasn’t sweat this much since the rumour broke that One Direction were splitting up.
“Joanie, it was awful,” Mikey whines. “Chef made us make ten different types of pasta. He’s all anal, and not in a good way, about the hand rolling of the dough and making it the right thickness. Is it a crime to prefer a long, thick noodle, Joanie, is it? Because I didn’t think so, but Chef, Chef likes them long and thin. He thinks I add too much salt. Me? I pride myself on just the right ratio of sodium to liquid, but Chef said he’s worried about my arteries. I told him, ‘my arteries are in the best shape of their life.’”
“And relax.” I pass Mikey a cup of the herbal tea that I keep just for him. “So you don’t like the cookery class then?” I ask.
“It’s okay. It’s been quite a distraction, you know, with Ted going back to his wife.”
My mouth gawks open.
“He went back to his wife? You poor thing, why didn’t you say?”
“You were so upset about Chris and I didn’t want to steal your misery. Besides, he’ll be on his hands and knees, begging me back before long, same as always.”
This is true. Ted has been married for twenty years; he’s been with Mikey for eleven of those, and someone else before that.
“Thank you for allowing me to wallow in my misery, but you can tell me anything. Even if I’m heartbroken, I want to know. I’m still annoyed with Melinda for keeping her split with Steve a secret.”
Mikey grabs plates from the kitchen and starts to dish up the lasagne and a salad from the Tupperware container he has brought. As he loads it on the plate, my mouth salivates and my hunger growls.
“Actually, I have news. Steve is back. It’s part of the reason I’m here. Melinda decided to come to cookery with me, and when we got back to Melinda’s place, Steve’s car was in the driveway, so I let her out and said I’d come here instead, to give them chance to reconnect after his ‘business trip.’”
Mikey only plates me a small amount, reminding me I have a date tonight. Over dinner, we debate whether Steve and Melinda will get back together, and why they might have broken up in the first place.
I invite Mikey to stay in my spare bedroom until Steve goes away again, or until Mikey is ready to go home. He hates being alone in his apartment, so his stay may wind up being a while.
I’m just about to fill Mikey in on tonight’s date, when a deep, brassy noise interrupts our conversation.
“What is that God-awful noise?” Mikey asks.
“That, my friend, is Six, playing his trombone. It’s a recent thing, designed to destroy me, but I am not letting it. No. It started last night, went on until late, and then started up again this morning. However, I have a cunning plan.”
I get up, and move the speakers of my docking station, resting them on top of the headboard in my bedroom. Mikey stands back, and his shoulders bob as he chuckles.
“I think some Dolly Parton may be in order,” I announce, proud of my retaliation.
Letting Dolly sing her heart out to the audience of my blank wall, I collect a fresh set of clothes and shut the door, leaving Dolly alone in the bedroom.
“That’s better. I’ll be in the bathroom getting ready for my date. You can stay as long as you like, Mikey, but you do not take Dolly off repeat. You hear me?”
“Amen to that sister,” Mikey says and sings along to Dolly.
I SLAM THE DOOR AS I walk back in my apartment praying to God there is more lasagne left and wine. I definitely need wine after a terrible date number three.
“That was the worst. No more. I’m telling Melinda, NO MORE,” I yell to Mikey as I walk into the lounge.
“Four, you look all discombobulated. Let me put some music on to help you relax. My personal favourite, Jolene? Or would you prefer Nine to Five?”
Six, the smug bastard, looks relaxed sitting on my sofa, smiling his face off with his bare feet resting on my coffee table. Mikey stands in the doorway of the adjacent kitchen with a cup in his hand.
“What’s going on?” My eyes tighten on Mikey, who stands immobilised like a rabbit about to become a stew.
“I didn’t mean to let him in, Joanie. He came about the music, but then he smelled the lasagne.”
I let out a slow, controlled breath.
It’s okay.
I can be calm.
There’s no need to kill anyone tonight.
Mikey shrugs out his palms, as though the situation got out of his control.
I waver. Six is a despicable character; Mikey is flaky and easily led.
Trust Six to manipulate him into letting him in.
I’m not going to let it spoil my supper. Walking into the kitchen, I open the cupboard and pour a large glass of red.
“Not for me thanks, I’m-” I fix Mikey with a death stare.
“Mikey, please get me my lasagne.”
Mikey’s face is blank; he’s lost for words.
A shadow looms over me. Six has moved off the sofa and is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the door jam. In his hands is an empty glass dish. It has a smear of tomato sauce and a smattering of the cheese crust welded to the edge.
I take a long slug of my wine.
I remind myself to stay calm.
Calm, logical people don’t get worked up over lasagne.
“How was the date?” Mikey chimes, removing the dish from Six and hiding it away in the dishwasher.
“Ah yes, how was your date? Date number three, wasn’t it? Your home very early, Four, are you okay?”
I can’t possibly tell Six that my date met me outside of the multiplex cinema, only to explain that he had arranged to get back together with his wife. He then tried to give me his telephone number, just in case their reconciliation didn’t go as planned or in case I might like something ‘casual.’
“I’m fine, Six. It’s time you went home. I’m worn out since some jack-ass parked his car in my space again, and I had to park four streets away!” Saying it aloud reignites my anger and I slip off my heels and try very hard not to throw them at Six to hammer home the point.
“You don’t own the car park, Four, but I will speak to Two’s girlfriend, who has parked a mobility scooter in one of the spaces.” He winks. It’s a friendly, ‘I got your back’ wink. It makes me want to punch him in the face.
“Time you were going, Six.”
Mikey throws Six a ‘sorry’ look and they agree that they’ll see each other soon. Apparently Six has been having flying lessons, and Mikey has agreed to take him out for a lark on the local flying field.
“Okay, okay I’m leaving.” Six responds to my glares by holding out his palms and then reaches to grab something from beside the sofa. I don’t stare at his rock-hard, olive skin as his shirt rides up over his abs. “Thanks for the dinner, Mikey. I’ll see you on the runway on Saturday. Oh, before I go, the postman left this for you earlier since you were out.”
In Six’s outstretched hands, barely concealed by the wet, torn, brown paper packaging is the Come-Hard-6000 in all its glory.
Trust Six to take Dolly and hit me back with the Come-Hard-6000!
“GET OUT!”
My scream is deafening.
My blushes are catastrophic.
Chapter 8
AFTER WORK ON FRIDAY, I end up parked almost a mile from my house. Six was right; someone is parking a mobility scooter in a perfectly good, car-sized space. Six’s car is in my usual space. It makes me want to scratch the beautiful matte black paintwork, but I don’t. I’m a grown
-up after all. Six on the other hand is a childish asshole, and he probably can’t even help it.
By the time I get into my apartment, I’m ready to throw away my Mary Jane’s and amputate my own feet with a butter knife. Why do beautiful shoes have to be such deceitful divas?
I search my archives for the building contract. I go through it with beady eyes looking for evidence of Six’s crimes and am furious to find residents can park in whichever space they wish. In addition, noisy sexipades are not noted as antisocial behaviours!
My phone chimes a message from Mikey. He’s on his way over to my place and he wants to know if I need any groceries. Since my cupboards are empty, and my feet hurt too much to walk back to my car, I ask him to come over and pick me up to go with him to the supermarket.
At the supermarket, Mikey spends ages smelling tomatoes for freshness and fondling meat for tenderness, while I take my time checking the depth of the bottom on the wine bottles and reading the fancy descriptions on the back. I settle on some classic Chardonnay and Pinot, since I’m not brave enough to try anything new. Mikey is practicing his pizza recipe tonight. He plans to make it for a date with Chef. As such, it must be perfect.
Tonight I have dinner with date number four, and tomorrow I am going paint balling with date number five. While Sunday is usually a day of rest, I will be going to church with date number six.
“Damn it, I forgot the basil,” Mikey says, once we’re nearly home.
“I think I have some dried herbs in the cupboard you can use.”
Mikey’s face crumples in harsh creases. “I am not using dried herbs! I’ll have to turn around and go back.”
I laugh; he really is starting to take this cookery malarkey very seriously.
“Mikey, we’re nearly home; can’t you just use the dried stuff? I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
Mikey insists he would know. It would be cheating. “Chef says a lazy chef is a shit chef. I’ll drop you here, swing back and get the herbs and meet you back at your place.”
My feet rage in anger, but I reluctantly agree as Mikey swings around and stops outside my building. As I walk up the driveway toward the entrance, I notice something strange. Six’s car is missing. My usual space next to the foyer is gloriously empty. My legs quicken their pace with excitement and my feet, no longer aching, break into a gallop. I have no idea what to do. My car is too far away; if I walk to retrieve it, Six might come back and take my space. I might never get it back.
So, even though the sky is a bleak shade of charcoal and there’s a frigid chill in the air, I go to my space and sit on the floor in the middle of the rectangular painted white lines. I text Mikey and beg him to be quick, that I’m saving him a space. We can swap our cars over later, but I must reclaim my space.
Hours pass, perhaps days. I hug myself to keep warm and oscillate from sitting to standing. I read an article once about cold surfaces causing the onset of piles. I start to worry.
Shortly after the streetlights blink on, I hear the obnoxious thrum of Six’s car turn the corner and coast towards the space I am standing in. Six sees me and flashes the lights of his car. Even though the lights blind me, I sit cross-legged on the floor. I will not be moved.
Six stops his car just a few feet away from me and gets out. I lay back, in a starfish shape, so it’s more difficult for him to drag me away. He walks over and crouches beside me. I look away, refusing his eye contact and pray Mikey is close by.
“Four, you know this is a space for cars and not people?” He sounds all reasonable and chipper. He moves and puts his face in front of mine, so I cannot avoid his gaze.
Trust Six not to realise I am being defiant. I close my eyes so he cannot make me look at him.
“Four, I need to put my car in this space. I am going to need you to move.”
I cross my arms and jut my chin.
Please Mikey, get here now with your sodding herbs!
“Okay, that does it.”
Six’s arms are giant hooks as they swing beneath my arms, and hoist... no, catapult me up and over his shoulder.
Six walks with purpose into the building. His legs move in long strides causing his glutes, clad in soft, tight denim, to lengthen and retract. Squeezing his ass right now would be a catastrophic error, so I fist and slap it instead and squeal that he should put me down.
As we pass, I call out to number eight, who is collecting her post, to please call the police because I am being attacked. She pays me no mind. She isn’t wearing her usual plastic beige hearing devices around her ears today.
“Where is your key, Four?” Six asks as we approach my apartment door.
I’m not telling him they’re in the pocket of my jacket. I need to break free and protect my land; I need to get back to the coveted space outside.
“Okay, have it your way,” Six tells me, as if there is any chance I could have it his way.
We stride past my door all the way to his. He fumbles in his pocket and has to re-grip me, so I don’t slide down his body and face plant the floor. His hand grips me by my ass; my ass doesn’t seem to mind and it concentrates on staying perky under the duress. He puts his key in the lock and swings open the door with his foot.
This is it, Six is going to kill me and dispose of my body. Perhaps he’ll cut me into pieces and store me in his fridge, next to the protein shakes and bloody steaks.
He walks through the hall, which is a fashionable shade of grey. He has a nice striped rug with an accent of mustard. I wonder if the police will admire it as much when they find my cold corpse rolled up inside it.
Trust Six to be current in his interior design.
My own hallway needs an update in comparison, and I realise this probably isn’t the best time to have hallway envy.
My legs continue to kick and assault him as best I can. Six swings the arm that’s not gripping my ass and loops his hand around my ankles. Restrained, I dangle over his shoulder like an unlucky and overgrown horseshoe.
Aware that I am losing, I change tact. “Please, don’t hurt me,” I beg.
Six chuckles and apologises as my head bashes the doorframe and he turns the corner into his bedroom. In one rapid lift and slide, I am thrown down onto the plush silken comforter on his bed. I land on my back, my legs akimbo.
Six looms over me, with an intense look in his eyes and a sheen of sweat coating his brow.
I swallow hard.
Trust Six to ace murderous with a side of sexy.
He takes my hands high above my head and leans forward on the bed, framing my body, his face inches from mine. “What to do with you now, naughty, defiant little Four.”
Six’s intense, calculating eyes match the all consuming, throbbing of his body above me. He looks like he’s going to eat me.
I swallow hard, about to protest. I dislike the use of the word ‘little’ and I’m not sure I want to die by consumption, but something strange happens and it shuts me up.
He kisses me.
As though teaching me a lesson, Six’s lips press against my own in an intense and urgent assault that’s too violent to be described as a caress. The press of his mouth plants me to the bed—his bed. Magically, my mouth widens as his lips part mine, opening and closing like puppets on a string. A string that Six controls.
I’m so grateful not to be murdered, I forget the why and how and focus on the kiss, which isn’t awful. It’s delicious.
Trust Six to be good at kissing.
My body melds to his bed, and all I feel is the relentless pressure of his mouth against mine. Parts of my body, that I had long forgotten existed, ignite and burst into flames. If I could move, I would wave a white flag and surrender myself, it’s so good.
Too good.
A traitorous groan escapes from my mouth as his sinful weight pushes down on me. I writhe beneath him to release the throb taking over my body. He feels so good and I fit right into his curves. The hand that doesn’t hold my own starts a slow exploration. Six squeezes the curve of my hip
and rough fingers glide up the bare skin of my torso, under my coat.
I’m suddenly too restricted in all the clothes that seemed like a good idea when I left the house earlier. I want them off, and I struggle to try to kick the toe of my boot with the other in a bid for freedom. It’s the only part of my body that I have any control over and is no easy task when my legs feel so drunk and unsteady.
Six suddenly releases my mouth and the air is heaved from his lungs in a brutal choke. He releases me and falls onto his side next to me, his usual tanned face pale and drawn.
Maybe Six’s stamina isn’t what I had imagined. If this is his come-face, it isn’t as beautiful as his cocky, sarcastic, or charming face. He looks angered and pained. Six’s knees lift and he slowly rocks. Panic grips me and I jump to standing as I realise my misjudgement of the situation.
“Six, are you okay? Is it your heart?” Please God, don’t let him be having a stroke. “Should I call for an ambulance?” I splutter.
Six continues to rock. His face is a ghostly white. “Shit... Four.... Knee... Balls...” Six grumbles in between shallow gasps for air.
I leap to Six’s side, cupping him in my embrace, apologising empathically over, and over again. I can’t believe I knee-d Six in the balls and not even on purpose!
It takes a little while for Six to compose himself, as one might expect. Once the air returns to his lungs and the colour is back in his face, Six holds his hand over mine.
“It’s okay, Four. You can let go of my balls now. I think I’m going to be okay,” he says, his cheeky tone returning.
I throw down the balls and leap to stand.
“I... I...” I feel the heat of blood flooding my face. I can’t meet Six’s gaze. It’s then I notice what a nice, neatly kept bedroom he has. This room is a lighter grey than the hallway, accented in navy. It has the look of an expensive hotel. I’m suddenly eager to check out his guestroom, lounge, and kitchen—I bet his bathroom doesn’t even have a leaky shower like mine.