For A Good Time, Call... (6 page)

“I've
had better mornings.”

I
want to throttle her. I really did. I had never met someone so
incredibly frustrating in my whole life. And I had met a bunch of
pain in the ass people. So I went up to her, trying to get a
reaction. Trying to show her that what had happened to her was all
kinds of wrong. But she looked up at me with those huge green eyes
and told me I wouldn't hurt her. And offuckingcourse I wouldn't hurt
her. But that wasn't the point.

She
shouldn't have been fine. Of all the things she should be: shocked,
angry, horrified, hurt, sad, vulnerable, vengeful... “fine”
was not one of them.

But,
perhaps even more than she was fucked up, she was stubborn. Pushing
at her wasn't going to get me anywhere. Except maybe locked out
behind one of those huge walls she had around her. And I would prefer
the opportunity to be able to at least speak to her again. I don't
know why. Maybe it was just the mystery she had about her. Maybe I
just wanted to figure her out.

Or
maybe I just needed to go out and get laid. It wasn't like me to
obsess about some chick living next door. It was probably all of the
loud, kinky sex she had that was making me get all worked up about
her.

There
was a knocking on my door sometime after six that night, light,
hesitant knocking. So I knew it wasn't the hellcat next door. No one
from my past knew where I was so I grabbed a hammer off the table and
went to the door.

Then
there she was. In a pair of tight blue skinny jeans and a tight
golden sweater, holding a potted cactus out at me and looking
completely petrified. “Sixteen,” I said as way of
greeting, inclining my head at her.

She
looked down at her feet for a second, stuck into a pair of brown
leather boots with four inch heels. I don't know how the hell she was
able to wear the ankle-breaking shoes I always saw her in all the
damn time. “I... I ... ah...” Was she stammering?
Seriously? The chick with the chip on her shoulder and walls higher
than Mount Everest was nervous? “Here,” she said, pushing
the cactus out until I took it. “It's a... welcome to the
building and thanks for saving me from rape gift.”

“Wow,
they have a whole section for that, huh?” I asked, trying to
lighten the mood.

It
worked a little. She snorted, shaking her head. “Look, I know
I'm a bitch and I and am really, really bad at the whole human
interaction thing,” she started, her green eyes looking even
bigger with her hair pulled and braided down her back. She looked
younger, almost soft. “But I do have manners. And you were good
to me...”

“Hard
for you to say that, huh?” I asked, watching the look of
discomfort on her face. “Consider us even. You haven't been
assaulted and I have... a... cactus.”

She
smiled then, a strange, self-deprecating kind of smile. “I
figured you would think of me whenever you saw it.”

Because
she's prickly, I thought and laughed, the sound foreign to my own
ears. When was the last time I had really laughed? “That was
pretty damn clever, Sixteen.”

“I
thought so,” she said, shrugging. “Well... um... I just
wanted to drop that off. I have to go...”

“Get
ready to go out and drink again,” I supplied and I swear I saw
a trace of embarrassment cross her face. “Tell you what,”
I started, not even sure what I was about to suggest until it was out
of my mouth. “why don't you just... hang out with me tonight
instead?”

She
glanced worriedly out past me toward the balcony. “No. That
wont work. You don't understand.”

“Then
help me understand,” I suggested.

She
ran a hand over her eyebrows, her shoulders slumping slightly. A part
of me wanted to tell her never mind, to go do whatever it was she did
at night just so she didn't keep looking as anxious as she did right
then.

“I
cant be home at night,” she said before I could tell her she
didn't have to tell me. “Like... when it's dark. I cant be
home.”

“Not
even with company?” I asked, more than a little curious about
why a grown woman was still, for all intents and purposes, afraid of
the dark.

“I
wouldn't know... I never have company,” she rolled her eyes.
“You were the first person to be in my house and only then
because...”

“I
barged in.”

“Exactly.”

“So
what's the harm? We'll go buy some groceries for that empty fridge.
I'll cook something. Watch a movie. Whatever. Give your liver a
break. I mean... what's the worst that can happen if you're home at
night...” I started and her eyes darted immediately downward.
Ashamed. “Oh,” I said, thinking about her cuts. So that
was the deal. The nights she didn't go out. Which, since I moved in,
was one. Those nights, she cut. “Well... whatever. I wont
judge.”

She
looked up then, her eyes relieved. Like I had offered her a life vest
when she was drowning. Like no one else had ever just blindly
accepted her problems before. And I realized with a feeling of
sympathy for her that no one probably ever has.

“Come
here,” I said, looking down at her, watching as she stepped
past the doorway. And I knew it was bad timing. And I knew we
shouldn't... but I couldn't fucking help it.

Nine

He
was going to kiss me. Holy fucking hell. He was actually going to...
kiss me. I have to admit, of all the things I thought might happen
when I knocked on his door: yelling and arguing came to mind. Making
plans to hang out and getting kissed were certainly not on the list
of possibilities.

He
moved closer, closing the door behind me and slowly backing me up
into it. There was a strange lightness in my stomach. A quick,
insistent and undeniable fluttering. My neighbor was giving me
freaking butterflies.

I
felt the cool door behind my back, hard and unbending. I pressed
against it, hoping it would shake me out of it. Ground me. Because he
was right in front of me, as close as he could get without touching
me and his eyes looked heavy-lidded and I swear all I wanted to do
was melt into him.

And
that was fucking terrifying.

His
hands went around me, landing on the door on either side of my head.
He leaned down toward me, making me tilt my head upward to keep my
eyes on his. And I was lost in them. His body moved slowly forward.
His knees brushed mine, then his thighs, his pelvis, his stomach,
chest. His boot-covered feet slid in between my heels, holding my
legs slightly open.

His
head dropped lower and I felt his breath warm on my cheek.

What
was taking him so long? I swear my entire body felt like it was
standing on edge, like it was waiting for the contact. Like it
wouldn't survive if I didn't get it. How long had it been since I was
kissed? Longer than I wanted to think about. Years? Probably.

The
last time I remembered was in a bar the first week I moved into my
apartment, some random hot guy who was more than willing to
accommodate me after one too many drinks and sexy songs from the
speakers. I had grabbed his face and pulled him down to me. And I
remember it being frustrating and lacking.

I
took a deep breath, watching Hunter. He leaned in quickly, taking my
lips into his. I swear white sparks went off at the contact. I heard
myself whimper as he pressed hard, taking my lower lip between both
of his and sucking. There was a bolt of desire from my belly and
downward, making me want to clench my thighs together. But his feet
were holding them apart. His teeth dug into my lower lip, moving
slightly back and forth. My arms went out, grabbing the sides of his
hips, as much contact as I felt like I could initiate.

He
grunted, his tongue thrusting forward into my mouth. I felt my body
shudder and his arms moved downward, encircling my back and trapping
my arms to my sides. I was completely at his mercy and I realized
with more than a small shot of fear, that I was completely
comfortable with that.

Hunter
pulled my body tight against his. I sighed into his mouth, pressing
my tongue into his. Getting lost in the sensations. I felt like I was
floating and drowning at the same time, like I was fully submerged
but free. That's what kissing Hunter felt like: freedom. After a life
of being imprisoned.

His
teeth grazed my lower lip then started planting soft, quick kisses
over my lips, before they left me entirely. I whimpered and I could
feel his laugh come out as air across the bridge of my nose. He
rested his forehead against mine, still holding me against him.
“So... pasta for dinner?” he asked, infuriatingly calm
while I felt like my body was in utter chaos.

His
arms slid downward then released me and he pulled the door open,
moving me with it until I stepped out of the way. Was he kicking me
out? It seemed like the sonofabitch was kicking me out.

Then
he was slowly closing the door and I was sure of it. I was getting
kicked out. What the actual hell?

I
walked back to my apartment, unlocking the door, closing it, then
collapsing against it.

So...
that just happened. I slowly slid down to the floor, pulling my legs
to my chest and encircling them. I felt frustration laced through
every fiber of my being. Every bit of me was craving something it
knew I wouldn't give it. Horny was horny, but this felt like more.
This felt stronger. This felt overpowering.

Maybe
it was because I spend all my time denying the possibility of sex. My
body got used to not having it. It wasn't even an issue anymore. I
dealt with the physical frustration with the aid of my trusty
vibrator.

But
now I got a taste of what I had been missing out on, what I had
denied myself. And my body was reacting with years worth of repressed
need. My skin felt like it was humming with it. I pressed my thighs
together for a second, a hand going to my lips. If there was ever a
kiss to end the famine, that was the one. A huge feast of a kiss.

Which
was great and all, but then I was kicked out. Like some common whore.
And that was unacceptable. I heard his door slam shut and the
elevator chime then stood up and made my way to my bedroom. Good.
Leave. I slipped out of my shoes and jeans, then reached in my
nightstand.

Thank
god for vibrators.

I
laid down on the bed and twisted it on, closing my eyes and trying to
get lost in the sensation. Trying to ease the aching desire. But ten
minutes later, I brought it into the bathroom, dropping it in the
sink and running the water over it. My O was not going to make an
appearance.

I
blamed Hunter.

I
went back to my closet and picked out a quick outfit: a plain tight
black club dress, black tights, and a pair of polka dotted shoes. I
wouldn't go back to the same club as I was at last night. It just
didn't feel right about it. I would go back eventually. Maybe in a
week or two. Besides, I usually didn't do the same place two nights
in a row.

I
pulled my hair out of its braid, grabbed my wallet, and went to the
door.

“That's
a little overdressed for pasta and movies, don't you think?”
Hunter asked, standing in the open door holding a brown bag in his
arm.

I
thought it was canceled. I really did. I wouldn't have gone through
the work of getting changed if I thought we were still on for the
night.

“I
didn't think we were still doing that.”

“Why?”
he asked as if genuinely perplexed as to why I would think that. So
kissing your neighbors was totally normal for him then.

Well,
fine. I could play the 'who can pretend to care less' game. And
what's more... I would win. I had been playing this particular game
my whole life. “I heard you leave,” I said, shrugging a
shoulder.

“Yeah,
to buy groceries, remember?” he asked, holding up the bag. “Why
don't you slip into something that doesn't look like you could work a
corner in it and come back out to help me?”

I
rolled my eyes, letting him pass and closing the door. Sliding all
the locks. “I hope you can cook in the microwave. I don't have
the stove hooked up,” I informed him, making my way back toward
my bedroom.

What
outfit would make the absolute best barrier between me and him and my
still throbbing desire? I slipped into a pair of tight jeans and an
oversize gray long-sleeved t-shirt. I pulled my hair back again. I
might not have been a cook, but I knew hair in the food was generally
frowned upon.

When
I walked back into the kitchen, he was already boiling water on the
stove. Across my counter was an assortment of vegetables and herbs, a
box of whole wheat pasta, a small carton of heavy cream, and a
plastic container of Parmesan cheese.

“I
hooked up your stove. I mean... you seriously have never even made
mac and cheese in here in...”

“Two
years,” I supplied, walking over to the cherry tomatoes.

“Two
years? You order takeout every night?”

“And
morning. And sometimes afternoon. So what do I do?”

He
glanced over his shoulder at me. “Slice those tomatoes in
half.”