I feel like I am wrapped in a cyclone. Everything is whirling around me, drawing the air out of my lungs and filling me with the best kind of turmoil. Every time his tongue slides against mine, a prickle in my gut tells me how right we are together. How much I need David. How much I need us.

I hope the cyclone never stops.

Emma Searfoss has spent a lifetime trying to escape her abusive stepfather. It’s why she moved far away from home. It’s why she’s kept no ties with her remaining family. And it’s why she’s got a major rage problem. When her neighbor shows up to fix the kitchen in her new apartment, his enigmatic charm calms the fire in her. David is cool and collected, and he makes Emma feel safe for the first time ever. But David has his own chilling past—his six previous girlfriends have all disappeared without a trace. Emma’s walking a dangerous line, but David’s pull is intoxicating. And impossible to resist...

This is a new adult romance with mature content for readers 17 and up.

www.clairewallis.com

Push

Claire Wallis

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dedication

For Melissa

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Claire Wallis has penned hundreds of magazine and newspaper articles over the past ten years, with science playing the lead role in almost all of them. Though nonfiction writing will forever be her first love, fiction has unexpectedly swooped in, hooked her by the soul and become her true love. As a result of this coup d’état, Claire’s writing career has made a complete U-turn, and instead of rocks, plants, insects and microbes, she is now putting human characters in the lead.

Claire’s previous jobs include working at a limestone quarry, hawking vegetables at a farmer’s market, clerking at the dollar store and convincing new mothers that they need to renew their subscription to that parenting magazine in order for their child to survive. She lives in Pennsylvania with her amazingly awesome husband and son.

Connect with Claire by visiting her website, www.clairewallis.com; following her on Twitter, @ClaireWallisNA; and checking out her author page on Facebook.

Contents

Emma's Prologue

David's Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Emma's Epilogue

David's Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Emma’s Prologue

I am standing on the bridge, and in a rush of brutal and beautiful clarity, I know. I know that I am not the only one. I know that he has done this before. With other women. In other cities. On other bridges. But it doesn’t matter. They weren’t me.

How could he have been so careless?

The green fabric of my dress is clinging to my skin, and the air is calm and humid. My hands are tied behind me, but I’m not crying. I’m not fighting. My skin is not burning with anger or fear. My brain is in charge of my body, and it is telling my instincts to go fuck themselves. As I look out over the dark river, it is all falling into place. The picture is whole.

His breath is steady, deep. He’s always been the calm that feeds off my turmoil, is thrilled by it even. But not today. Today there is only peace. I know what he needs from me, and even as I stand here on the edge of everything, I love him. If he asked me to jump, I would. There would be no hesitation. I know that now, and he knows it, too. I suspect he always has.

I can feel the remarkable beauty in his anticipation. Doing this one thing is going to make him very, very happy, far happier than anything else we have ever done together. It is going to make everything better. I know it.

I will not fail.

I suddenly feel his hand on my face. I quietly sigh and push my head into his palm, feeling the softness of his skin. Inhaling his scent. His smile is small, sheltered. But if I do this, if this happens, his face will open with joy, and his teeth will show and his eyes will brighten. He will be unstuck.

His hand falls from my face, and he drops to his knees. The sacks of sand at my feet—on my feet—feel dense. I stand still as he knots them slowly to my ankles. I am quiet because I am not afraid. I am not sad.

Right after we met, he brought me to this bridge. He showed me the colorful graffiti painted across the trusses and told me that this illicit art had turned a simple bridge into a masterpiece. It was someone’s opus, he said. The fact that some kid, probably unaware of his own talent, could create something so moving obviously touched him deeply. At the time, I wondered why he was so captivated by it. But now...now it is clear. He knew, even then, that all this would come to be. Because it had happened before. With the others.

Still, none of it matters.

Because I am here now, and I am the one.

David’s Prologue

I love her. Truly, I do. And that’s something I cannot say about any of the others. I am, however, a goddamned son of a bitch, and despite my adoration of her, I need this. I need to do this.

I thought that, perhaps, I was past all this fucked-up bullshit. I thought that I could go on being with her forever. For the first time in my life, I was enjoying a taste of contentment. Happiness. But then, as it always does, the unrelenting ache swirled back into me, striking through me, biting into my brain like a gnawing hunger. A craving for a single, perfect moment in which I have absolute control. I can’t ignore it. Even with her. Even though I really do love her back.

I am standing on the bridge, and something in her face suddenly tells me she’s figured it out. She knows that she is not the only one. She knows that I have done this before. She looks at my eyes, and despite the darkness, I know she can see through me. She sees straight to the others—all six of them. She can see the three cities and the four other bridges. She knows now, yet she is so calm. Unchanging. But it doesn’t matter. Because they weren’t her.

I put my hand on her face. She sighs and pushes her cheek into my palm, her breath skimming across my skin. Shit. She is cold. There’s no heat. No anger. No panic. I smile softly at her, knowing that fear will sink in soon enough. It always does, because in this perfect moment, there is always fear.

I stoop down next to her and nearly brush her bare leg with my fingers. I don’t dare touch her again though, because I suddenly feel that if I do, I might change my mind. And where would that leave us? We are here now, and I am pulsing with my own eagerness. As I begin to lash the bags of sand to her bare ankles, I glance up at her face. She’s staring straight ahead, lost in her own thoughts. Her brow is rigid. Her lips are narrow. I think I see a slight smile. There isn’t so much as a drop of fear in her body.

Why?

A bitter realization strikes me like a whip. She isn’t afraid because she wants to do this. She wants me to love her so fucking badly that she will jump off this bridge, voluntarily, right now, if I ask her to. Just because she knows it will make me happy. Because she thinks it will fix me.

Now I am livid. I am awash with contempt for this woman. No, for myself. I fucking love her already. Did she not see it? Did she not feel it?

I am a twisted, fucking son of a bitch, and the woman I love is standing on a bridge prepared to let me push her off just to make me fucking happy. Jesus H. Christ.

I look back down at the sandbags, and I continue to fasten the knots far more slowly than I should because I am waiting for a whimper, a snivel, something. Some sign of her comprehension that I am going to do this. A sign that she is afraid. A sign that maybe she’s changed her mind, that she knows I am not worth fixing. A sign that she does not, in fact, want my love. But I get only composure and control.

It is infuriating.

As I get up I can feel my anger swell. I am standing behind her now, looking at how her dress clings to her body. She is frozen. I am a fucking fool for her, and the realization that she wants to do this makes me want to push myself off this goddamned bridge. I could stop. I could untie her hands. I could tell her that it is all an angry, sick joke. But what about the others? She knows about them now; I’m sure of it. I can’t ask her to carry that knowledge around for the rest of her life.

Because I really do love her back.

I put my hands on her waist and breathe.

Chapter One

Emma—Age 8

I am a small girl, much smaller than the other girls my age. I am standing on the white plastic bench in our bathroom, and I’m up on my tiptoes stretching as high as I can. I want to see her better. Watch her move. Smell her lady smell. She’s leaning into the mirror, her breath creating a small circle of haze with each exhale. Her softly curled red hair nearly reaches down to the back clasp of her bra. I want to touch the curls, find out just how soft they are. But I know she’ll scold me if I do because her hair is already fixed just the way she likes it.

As she shifts even closer to the mirror, her lips stay parted in concentration. Her left hand tugs at the corner of her eye and stretches it outward, smoothing its surface. Her right hand spreads the eyeliner across her top eyelid. When she reaches the end of her eye, she stands back slightly, and blinks at herself in the mirror. As she repeats the process on her other eye, I am transfixed. I want to put on eyeliner, too, but she says I am far too young to wear makeup. She says that I am beautiful enough without it. But I think that she just says that to keep me from pestering her about it, so this time, I keep my mouth shut.

When she’s finished with the eyeliner, she opens her eyes really wide and puts on her mascara using small, soft sweeps. The brush accidentally touches her eyelid, leaving behind tiny, sharp, black lines. She frowns slightly, licks her thumb, and absently swipes the lines away. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and a sweet grin touches her lips. She reaches toward the mirror and begins to playfully tickle my face’s reflection. Her eyes and nose scrunch up in delight. My face echoes hers.

“You are a silly girl, Emma,” she says as she turns to look at me, taking her hand away from my reflection and putting it on top of my ginger-colored head. She is looking down at me now, and we are smiling. After quickly mussing my hair, she trails her index finger down the center of my forehead, between my eyes and down to the tip of my nose. She sprinkles her fingertips across my nose and cheeks in a game of connect-the-dots.

“Someday you’ll love these freckles as much as I do,” she says as she plants a rapid kiss on the top of my head and then returns to her reflection in the mirror. She quickly puts on her lipstick, plumps up her breasts, and flips her long bangs out of her eyes.

“When will you be back?” I ask her, not really wanting to know the answer.

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror again, and I think they look a little sad. A little as if maybe she doesn’t really want to go this time.

“Michael says we’ll be back in three or four days,” she tells me. She is walking to her bedroom now, and I am following her like a puppy instead of an eight-year-old girl. “Emma, you know Carol really enjoys staying here with you and the boys. It’s just for a few days. She’ll take good care of you. Besides, you’ll have her mostly to yourself. Ricky and Evan will be at practice every night after school.”

“I know,” I say. It’s just that Carol doesn’t wear eyeliner. She doesn’t curl her hair. She doesn’t smell like a lady—she smells like a fireplace. She is not my mommy. She is not you.

As she dresses herself, I sit cross-legged on the bed and watch her move. After her skirt is zipped and her blouse is buttoned, she grabs my hand and pulls me off the bed. She leads me over to the dresser and switches on the lamp. The dresser is flooded with a soft light, and I am instantly delighted because I know that she is going to let me pick out her perfume. It makes me happy because I know that every time she takes a breath and smells the perfume, my perfume, she will think of me. And know how much I love her.

I study the little glass containers. It’s difficult to decide which of the beautiful bottles is most deserving of my mother’s neck. My mind is floundering with indecision when Michael walks in. He’s dressed in a pair of khakis, a blue dress shirt and a tie. His neck and back are stiff, and his dark hair is combed straight back in a series of perfect, rigid lines. When I see him I freeze, and my eyes drop toward the floor. Mommy lets go of my hand and steps over to him, kissing him on the cheek and touching his arm.

“We need to leave now,” he says, looking at her with his mouth straight. “Where is your bag?”

“Over on the chair,” she says, nodding toward the red wooden chair in the corner of the bedroom. Michael strides over to it, picks up the bag, and walks briskly toward the door. As he walks past me, I glance up at him, and our eyes meet. He smirks his knowing smirk, and I feel hot and angry inside. So angry. I feel my skin starting to burn.

Mommy doesn’t look at me again. She hastily picks up the nearest bottle of perfume and squirts two puffs of it on to her neck. I watch the little droplets of moisture spin around her as she rushes out of the room after Michael. She didn’t even pick one of the prettiest bottles—and it makes me want to explode.

Chapter Two

Emma—Present Day

I can’t find the picture anywhere, and it is starting to piss me off. What did he do with it? The fucker probably threw it away just to spite me. I’m disgusted with myself for asking Michael to send me my things, but frankly, it was better than the alternative. The thought of him wrapping and packing all the mementos from my bedroom makes me want to wretch. Yet I know it was far better than going back to that house to get them myself. Far better than having to look at him and his greasy-ass hair.

On top of the last unopened box is a yellow sticky note. It is my tally of the postage amounts from all the boxes. I peel it off the box and put it on my desk. I am sending him a check tomorrow simply because the idea of owing him anything makes me crazy. I open the last box and frantically rummage through it. I am really starting to get annoyed, and I can feel myself losing it. So help me God, if he kept that picture...

In my mind I can see myself buying a bus ticket and breaking down his door to pry the picture from his hairy, disgusting hands. But there’s no need for such aggression after all, because suddenly I can feel a corner of the wooden frame deep down in the box. Even without seeing it, I know exactly what it is. I have touched that frame a million times. I pull it out of the box and wipe the dust from the glass with my palm. There we are. Two freckled redheads. Our arms are wrapped around each other’s neck, and we are smiling. We are gleaming. I know I am happy in the picture because it was before Michael. Before the mess. Before my dad was gone, and before Michael turned my brothers into assholes. It is just my mother and me, and for the millionth time, I can’t take my eyes off of us.

* * *

I sit down on the edge of my bed holding the frame with both hands. When my mind eventually settles, I begin to scan the room for somewhere to put it. This place is still so new to me. I have barely settled in, so fully unpacking the boxes from Michael doesn’t make any sense. Frankly, I could throw the whole lot of them into the incinerator. The picture is the only thing in them that matters. I haven’t lived in that house since I was eighteen—nothing else of any real consequence was even there anymore. Still, I am curious about examining the contents just to be sure. Next week maybe. For now I’m going to concentrate on getting the rest of my clothes unpacked. I prop the picture up on my already crowded nightstand. I tap a light kiss on to my fingertips and then transfer it to my mother’s image.

I unzip one of the suitcases and start moving a pile of T-shirts into a drawer. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My eyeliner is smeared, my hair is gathered into a sloppy bun behind my head, and my constellation of freckles is now backed with a pink flush, no doubt the result of my internal rant over the whereabouts of the picture. I sigh and then remember that it really doesn’t matter how I look because now I live alone. No more brothers, no more Michael, no more college roommates, no more need for someone to share the rent and utility bills. It seems I am a grown-up now. At long, long last. It is both refreshing and humbling.

As I shift another pile of T-shirts to the dresser drawer, I hear the door buzzer. Who the hell is that? Who even knows that I live here? Oh, God. I feel a slight and sudden panic. Michael is the only one who has my address. I had to give it to him so he could mail the boxes to me. But he wouldn’t dare come here, drive all this way, would he? I decide there is no way it is Michael because he is a smart enough man—he knows I will knock him in the balls if he shows up here. Fucker.

I walk down the hall, past the wreck of a kitchen, and into the living room where the door buzzer startles me again by sounding a second time.

“Hold your damn hat on,” I mutter as I press the intercom button. “Yes?” I ask into the small, gray box.

“Hi. Um, is this Emma Searfoss? Apartment seven?” asks a male voice.

“Yes, it is. What can I do for you?” I ask. A rush of thick, syrupy relief courses through my veins. I am beyond grateful that whoever it is, it’s decidedly not Michael.

“This is David. I’m here to fix your kitchen cupboards. The landlord was supposed to call you yesterday to let you know I was coming,” he says. Oh. I haven’t checked my cell phone since yesterday afternoon, so I have no idea if Carl called me or not. For a moment I hesitate, but then I figure the guy must be legit because part of the rental agreement included refurbishing the kitchen cupboards. Right now they are a complete wreck; the doors are either falling off or missing altogether, the paint is peeling, and most of the shelves are cracked and warped. I haven’t even attempted to unpack the kitchen boxes, expecting Carl to come and fix the cupboards as he promised. I’m pleased that he’s decided to do it sooner rather than later. Whoever David is, he’s got his work cut out for him.

“Oh, okay,” I say into the gray box. “Up the stairs. Second door on the left.”

“I know,” he says casually as I press the door release switch. I quickly grab my purse and toss it into the back bedroom, just in case David is some kind of criminal. I almost snatch the pepper spray out of it first, but then I decide that that would be one step too close to crazy.

There is a knock at the front door, and a second later, I open it. I immediately wonder why I didn’t grab the pepper spray when I had the chance.

David does not look like a cupboard fixer. Frankly, he looks a little psycho, and I wonder how stupid I am to let him waltz into my apartment without checking for a message from Carl first. But if I close the door on him now, I’m going to look like the psycho. A stupid cliché pops unwelcome into my head: “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I stuff the words back into my brain, back into the mouth of every Sunday-school teacher I ever had.

The only visual indication that David is actually here for the reason he claims is the belt of tools slung low around his waist. There is a hammer swaying off his left hip and some screwdrivers tucked into little loops on the right. A tape measure sits next to the hammer, and what appears to be a pair of lineman’s pliers is sticking out of a small pocket to the side. There are some other tools there, too, but I don’t recognize them.

He catches my glance at the tool belt, and I realize that I must have some foolish look of relief on my face, because a second later he is wearing a small, lopsided grin. He looks quite pleased with himself, as a matter of fact, and I immediately think he must be a cocky bastard.

Aside from the tool belt, he is wearing a gray T-shirt, a pair of black skinny jeans and a pair of heavy black work boots. His dark, mussed-up hair is cut short, and it looks as if he forgot to shave—for the past several days. On each ear are two small silver hoops, and his arms are covered in tattoos. I can see the swirls of ink beneath his skin, but I can’t tell what the images are—I don’t want to look at them any longer than I already have. I don’t want him to think I am checking him out. Cocky bastards love being checked out, and I refuse to give him the pleasure.

I step aside and let him into the apartment. He looks around quickly and makes a beeline towards the kitchen. I think immediately that he must be familiar with the apartment’s layout because he doesn’t ask where to go, nor does he hesitate.

“Come on in,” I say sarcastically as he breezes past me.

“Thanks,” he says without turning around. I watch him walk around the corner to the kitchen and wonder whether I am supposed to follow him in there.

“Holy hell,” he says quietly. “What a mess.”

“Sorry,” I answer sheepishly from the living room. And, before I know it, I add, “My grandma got stoned here the other night and was desperate for some munchies. She gets a little out of hand sometimes.” The utter idiocy of my own words makes me want to evaporate. I don’t even have a grandma anymore.

In a split second he is out of the kitchen and standing in the hallway, his hand on the door frame. He looks right at me, completely stone-faced. Without a trace of mockery, he says, “I think I might like to meet your grandma someday.” He quickly turns away and slides back into the kitchen. I am silent. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

* * *

Since I can’t come up with a sharp retort, I decide to say nothing. I am not going to encourage this asshole. I am going to shut him down. In fact, I do not say another word to him for the rest of the morning. Instead I go back to the bedroom and continue unpacking my suitcases. I can hear him banging around in the kitchen, and I briefly consider closing my bedroom door just in case he really is some sort of psycho.

But then I wonder what he will think if he sees that I closed the door. I don’t want to seem paranoid or judgmental...or weak. The fact that I am putting so much thought into whether or not I should close the freaking door bothers the hell out of me. I want to not be bothered by the fact that I am alone with a strange man in my apartment. And for some stupid reason, I want him to see that I am not bothered by the fact that I am alone with a strange man in my apartment. I want to beat myself silly over all my foolish waffling about the goddamned door. I finally decide to shut my brain down before it melts—the door stays open, and I keep unpacking.

As I empty out the last suitcase, I decide that I am hungry. It’s got to be close to lunchtime by now. I turn to my alarm clock to check the time, and as I do, I see his reflection in the dresser mirror. He is walking down the hallway, toward my bedroom. Good. Now he’ll see that I didn’t close my door. I am standing next to my bed, and I try to come up with something to do with my hands so that he doesn’t think I’m just standing in my bedroom doing nothing. My nightstand is right next to me, and I reach down to grab something in advance of him hitting the doorway. Before I know it, I am flipping open my little plastic compact of birth control pills and looking at their circular pattern. Oh, fuck me. What the hell, Emma?

“Hey,” he says when he gets to the end of the hallway. “Sorry to bother you, but I need to use your head.” I turn to look at him just as he comes into the door frame. He has lost the tool belt, and his thumbs are casually hooked into the back of his waistband. He looks quickly around the bedroom before his eyes settle on my hands. I snap the pack shut quickly, hoping he might not recognize what I am holding—but I’m pretty sure he is the kind of guy who knows precisely what a packet of birth control pills looks like. I am deciding if I would prefer to curl up in a ball and die or evaporate yet again, when my mind registers what he has said.

“Um, for what?” I ask sharply. Should I offer him a calculator or something instead?

“Um, to take a piss,” he says with far too much lilt in his voice.

I stand staring blankly at him, and I have the distinct feeling that I am missing something. What is going on here?

After another moment passes, he says “Well?” And then it hits me. Oh, sweet Jesus, Emma! He is asking to use your head, not your brain.

“Of course. It’s right there,” I say meekly as I point to the bathroom door. I can feel the embarrassment creeping up my neck, across my face and through my scalp. I am sure now that I am blushing, and I look away so that he can’t see my face.

“Thanks,” he says. He turns to go, and once his back is to me, he adds, “Oh, by the way, your grandma’s handiwork is going to take me several days to fix, so you may wanna relax a little.” He keeps walking down the hallway, and I no longer feel like evaporating. Instead I feel like bitch-slapping the conceited jackass.

“Fuck you.”

The words come out of my mouth with a great amount of attitude and far more self-assurance than I am actually feeling. “And your little dog, too,” I add just loud enough for him to hear.

He turns on his heels and faces me again. His eyes look energized. There is a trace of a smile on his lips, and I suspect he wants to laugh at me...but he doesn’t. Instead he just stands there and looks at me as if there is some sort of crazy current running through him. I begin to think he’s trying to rile me up on purpose. Testing me somehow. I see his game now, and I am perfectly prepared to play.

When the moment passes, he turns around again and steps into the bathroom. The door closes, and I walk out to the kitchen to see what he has been doing out there all morning, vowing to myself that I will not lose my composure again. I will play it cool.

When I turn the corner, my view confirms that he is indeed trying to fire me up. He has torn all the cabinets off the wall, ripped up the linoleum flooring, and removed all the countertops. He has destroyed far more than my imaginary baked grandma ever could. Now I’m on the fence regarding the man’s sanity, and I know why he said he was going to be here for several more days. Game on, David. Game on.

Chapter Three

He comes out of the bathroom as I am busily looking in the fridge for something to eat. I am relieved that he hasn’t taken the doors off any of the appliances—at least not yet anyway. I pull out some cheese, an apple and a container of yogurt, and I walk past him to set them on the small table in the living room. Then I go back in for a bottle of water and a knife. As I step across the now-exposed plywood, I can feel him watching me. It is a very small kitchen, and I am silently hoping that he doesn’t come in here until after I walk out. My “fuck you” hangs in the air between us, and I want to somehow take it back but only because he seemed to enjoy my hostility, not because I didn’t mean to say it.

I grab what I need and move quickly out of the kitchen. He is regarding me intently, and it pleases me. It’s because he is surprised that I haven’t said anything about the state of my kitchen. Frankly, I am, too. But I will no longer let my irritation become his diversion.

“I figured while I was cleaning up after your raging grandma, I might as well fix the rest of your kitchen, too,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “Carl is a really shitty landlord. He doesn’t fix anything he doesn’t have to, so I am taking some liberties on your behalf. Don’t worry. When he sees it, he’ll be pissed off at me, not you.”

I’m not sure what to say, but inside I am hoping that neither Carl nor David expects me to pay for the impromptu remodeling. The cabinet repair was part of the rental agreement, yes, but everything else wasn’t.

“Oh,” I say. “That’s cool. Thanks. But, just so you know, I’m not paying for all this.” I probably put too much emphasis on the word “not” because he raises his eyebrows and looks almost hurt.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says. “Don’t worry. Carl will be the one paying. Trust me.” The way he says it makes me wonder exactly how he is going to make Carl pay for it, but frankly, I don’t really care. Just as long as I’m not the one opening my wallet.

“You want some lunch?” I ask.

Shit. It appears that my mouth is now speaking of its own accord. But at this moment I am stuck. I tell myself the intention of my offer was to take some of the sting away from my “fuck you” comment a few moments ago, but frankly, he doesn’t appear the least bit stung. He was clearly thrilled by the whole thing.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that my kitchen is a bit of a chaotic mess at the moment. Some ass decided to take a few liberties on my behalf, and so I can’t really cook anything, but I am happy to share what I’ve got,” I say calmly. “I guess I’ll have to thank the ass for leaving my refrigerator intact.”

His face does not change. “I’m sure the ass has good intentions,” he says, looking directly into my eyes, which I am trying to keep from rolling. “And, yes, lunch would be great.”

Excellent. Now I have to give the ass lunch. I get up from the table and head back into the kitchen. As I am getting out more food, he washes his hands at the sink. While he lathers the soap, I can’t help but look at his tattoos. His arms are covered in birds. Dozens of them are delicately woven together in flight. Their wings overlapping, their tails trailing and swirling together. I am astounded by their elegance. Each bird is a different size and shape, and every feather is exquisitely detailed. They are strikingly beautiful. I want to touch them. To see the colors up close. To ask him about the person who put them there. But I don’t, because I am speechless.

As I look at his arms, I almost feel guilty. As if I have seen something that was supposed to be private. Intimate even. I only see them for a few brief moments, but they tell me more about David than I suspect he wants me to know. Anyone can see his arms, of course, but I feel as if I have exposed him somehow. As if my looking at them might make him embarrassed. Vulnerable even. But I know thousands of people have probably seen his tattoos and didn’t think twice about it.

Maybe it’s me who feels embarrassed.

The two of us together in my very small, and very demolished, kitchen is suddenly awkward, and I want to get out. I have to pass him sideways to fit between his body and the wall, and I take care not to touch him as I go by. I put the rest of the food on the table and divvy it all up. He comes around the corner drying his hands with a paper towel.

“How long ago did you move in?” he asks. “I haven’t really seen you around, so it must have been pretty recently.” I want to make a smart-aleck comment about all the moving boxes sitting around, but I decide that I’d better not.

“I’ve only been here a few days,” I answer as we both sit down. “I start my new job on Monday.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks with what might be a hint of pride in his voice. “Good for you. What’s the job?”

“It’s for the FBI,” I say. “I’m going to be investigating a con man who swindles women into paying for remodeling projects they didn’t ask for.”

And there it is. His smile. It’s not big, and he doesn’t show his teeth, but still, it’s a smile. And I smile back.

“Wow. Now that sounds like an interesting case, Emma,” he says. “I bet he’s a good-looking bastard.”

“They say he’s a conceited son of a bitch, too,” I add.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be paying for a single penny of your new kitchen.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I play poker with Carl every Tuesday night, and I have already won you your new kitchen. You want a new bathroom, too? I can have that for you by Wednesday morning.”

“Ahhh. It appears that the con man is indeed a conceited son of a bitch,” I say. “But I’m glad he’s spending his winnings so smartly. I didn’t know philanthropic con men even existed. How unexpected.”

“Con men are notorious for the unexpected,” he says, and I feel a lump in my throat. The whole time we have been talking I have been watching the birds on his arms in my peripheral vision. I suddenly feel remorseful for taking what could have been a normal conversation and turning it into a series of jokes. He is still smiling, though, which tells me he likes it.

“Unexpected is nice,” I say. Nice? That’s the best I can do? The word seems wrong.

We sit there eating without saying another word. I am looking at my food and not at him. When I glance up a few minutes later, he is looking right at me, and he’s still smiling, even as he eats.

“What?” I ask.

“Are you going to tell me what your new job really is?”

“I’m going to work for a company that designs telecommunication systems for office buildings. I’m an electrical engineer.” He actually looks pleased, and it surprises the hell out of me. “Welcome to Geek-ville,” I add as I shrug my shoulders. Oh, God.

“Geek-ville?” he asks, half laughing. “I think that shit is awesome.” I must look shocked at his reply because he shrugs his shoulders, too.

“And how long have you worked for Carl?”

“Almost two years. He owns a couple of apartment buildings, and I do all the maintenance for them in exchange for my rent.” Oh. David lives here? In this building? “It’s a pretty good deal. I just do some odd side jobs to pay for food and stuff, and I usually end up kicking ass on poker night, so I’m good. I’m really a carpenter, but I’ll do whatever the hell he needs just so I don’t have to get some nine-to-five shit union job.”

“I’m not looking forward to nine to five myself, but I think it will treat me pretty well.”

“I’m sure it will,” he says as he gets up from the table. “I’m going to get a few more things done in here, and then I’ll get going.”

He goes back into the kitchen, and I follow behind him carrying our plates. As I drop them into the sink, he hooks his tool belt around his waist and nestles it down on to his hips. I glance at the birds again, knowing that his eyes are on the belt clip and not me. They are breathtaking.

“Do you live in this building?” Really, Emma? Do you really want to go there? I curse my curiosity and tell it to go fuck itself.

“Yes,” he says. “Right above you, but two floors up.” That explains how he knew which apartment was mine and exactly where the kitchen was. It doesn’t explain why he used the door buzzer.

“Oh. Then why did you use the door buzzer this morning?” I ask.

“Because intercom introductions are my thing.” He holds his arms out in front of him and adds, “If you saw me through the peephole in your door, would you open it?”

“Yes...but only because of the tool belt.” I mean it as a joke, but I’m not sure he’s going to take it that way.

He chuckles and says, “Works every time.”

I spend two more hours in my bedroom unpacking and hooking up my computer and television gear. I hear David’s cell phone ring. He walks out of the apartment and closes the door behind him, and I wonder if he’s coming back. A few minutes later I hear the door open again. He is talking with someone, but I can’t hear what they are saying.

I walk out into the living room, and he and an older man are carrying boxes into my apartment.

“Your new kitchen tiles just arrived,” he says. “Once we get them unloaded, I’m heading out.”

“Okay,” I say, watching the other man walk back out of my apartment, presumably to fetch another box. They each make another trip outside, and then David shakes the man’s hand and sends him off. I am trying to find something to do in the living room—I want to be out here when he leaves and not in my bedroom.

I decide to open a box of books and begin stacking them one by one on to my bookshelf. As I do, David goes back into the kitchen, and I hear him taking off his tool belt and putting it on the floor. He comes back out, walks to the door, and turns to look at me.

“Thanks for lunch, Emma. I’ll be back tomorrow. And I won’t use the door buzzer this time.” He is out the door before I can say goodbye.

* * *

What the hell has happened today? I am used to people getting me fired up. I am used to being angry. I am used to my temper. But I am not used to squelching it...and I am exhausted. Was all that crap flirting or mocking? I can’t figure out if I should be pissed off or flattered. Goddamn me. Goddamn him. He’s probably going to some bar tonight where he’ll brag to his friends about the smart-ass redhead he is working for and how much he enjoys watching her squirm. I decide to be pissed off instead of flattered...which doesn’t surprise me one damn bit.

I walk back to my room to check my email, and while I am there, I check my cell phone. There is no message from Carl.

Chapter Four

Emma—Age 13

That prick Michael has taken my mom away yet again. This time for three weeks. And I am left in this house alone. Carol doesn’t come watch me anymore because Michael says he is not paying for a nanny when my brothers can keep an eye on me. I’m thirteen now and both my brothers are in college—I don’t understand exactly how that translates to “keeping an eye on me,” but it’s definitely better than having that chimney Carol here for three weeks.

Mom left a check for me on the kitchen counter. It is signed but otherwise blank. It’s what she does every time he takes her on one of his trips. He calls them “buying trips,” but I have no idea what they actually buy because they never come home with anything more than they left with. I am supposed to fill out the check for however much I want, make it out to cash, and then walk it down to the bank. How the hell do I know how much money I am going to need to live off of for three weeks? I decide to screw them both and make the check out for two thousand dollars. That should do it, right? Michael will probably kick my ass when he sees the amount, but he is a thousand miles away right now, and I don’t give a damn. He’s going to be pissed no matter how much money I take out, so I might as well make it worth it.

I spend my time going to school, which I actually like, hanging out with my friends, and playing volleyball. I’m on the girls’ team at school, and I’m actually half-decent at it.

When Saturday comes, my brother Ricky calls. I think he is drunk, and it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.

“I’m coming to get you at eight o’clock,” he says. “Michael told me to keep an eye on you while they’re gone. You can hang with me and Evan.” I feel disgusted. My brothers are practically grown men, and I have to go and hang out with them on a Saturday night. They’ll probably take me to some R-rated movie just to watch me squirm. Do they not realize that if I wanted to get into trouble, I could do it whenever I damn well please? I don’t have to wait until a Saturday night. I am thirteen and pretty much living by myself for weeks on end. The potential for trouble is slapping me in the face.

I gotta say, though, for being alone so much, I really don’t get into that much trouble. I don’t steal or drink or smoke or have sex. Not yet anyway—but I’m working on the sex part with Jack Darris. He’s a smokin’ hot tenth-grader. We’ve come close but haven’t gone all the way yet. The only trouble I actually get into is for fighting—and that’s only when I get caught, which I usually don’t. A good scrap makes me feel better. It makes me feel better about Michael, about my brothers, about life in general.

My mom says I have a hot temper, which is definitely true. What can I say? People piss me off. And when I get pissed off, I go all postal. I want to beat the crap out of them. I know that my mom has been trying to talk Michael into sending me to some shrink for my—what was the word she used? Oh, yes—rage, because I heard them talking about it one night. He said that God would fix it and that I just needed to keep going to Sunday school. Fuck him. What he doesn’t know is that every time I look at my Sunday-school teacher, it makes me want to go postal. Seeing her definitely does not fix my “rage issue.” It aggravates the hell out of it.

I hang around the house for a few more hours, make myself some dinner, and watch a couple of Law and Order reruns. A little before eight o’clock, I run upstairs and change into a better pair of jeans and a clean shirt. I decide on the one that Jack says makes me look older. I put on a little eyeliner and mascara and brush out my hair. I’m skinny, yes, but I think Jack is right. This shirt does make me look older. Sixteen, at least.

Ricky is pretty well trashed when he picks me up, but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to start a fight right now. Chances are, he’ll pass out halfway through the movie anyway, and then I’ll only have to put up with Evan, and he isn’t half as bad as Ricky. In fact, Evan’s a half-decent guy when Ricky isn’t around. It’s as if Ricky’s presence instantaneously turns Evan into some kind of stupid minion. I hate it.

As I open the car door, thinking about Ricky’s flair for brotherly manipulation, a memory comes crashing into me, one that almost keeps me from going with them. It was the summer after my mother married Michael, and my brothers and I were still pretty close. Michael had just begun to weave his way in between us. My brothers and I were playing in the creek behind the house, throwing stones and swimming. It was my turn to swing out on a rope and drop down into the water, but I was afraid and I didn’t let go in time. Instead of falling into the water, I dropped on to the ground. My leg scraped against a stump, and I knocked my head hard enough to give myself a ringing concussion. I was crying when my mother came rushing from the back porch. She knelt down beside me and brushed my hair out of my eyes, asking me if I was all right. My brothers were looking down at me, their faces streaked with worry, their fingers fidgeting.

Then I heard Michael’s voice. He was walking toward us, asking what I did this time, sighing as if my falling was the biggest hassle he’d ever faced. As soon as my brothers heard his voice, their faces changed. They stepped back away from me and tightened their expressions, replacing their worry with casual indifference. Toughening themselves up. Michael walked up to us and put a hand on each of their shoulders, telling my mother how clumsy I was, berating me for being dumb enough to forget to let go of the rope. I was scared, I told him, not dumb. When he asked my brothers if they thought that their little sister was being dumb, Ricky looked up at Michael and enthusiastically nodded his head. Then he elbowed Evan in the ribs until the pair of them were nodding and smiling at Michael like a pair of twin cronies begging for his approval. As they walked away from me and my mother, I saw Evan peek back, and for a split second, a small, sympathetic grin flashed at me. It was the first time I felt betrayed.

In the years since then, betrayal and duplicity have become second nature to my brothers, and I’ve been stung by them more times than I can count. I’ve learned to distance myself from them, to shut them out whenever possible. Tonight, however, shutting them out is not an option. Unless I want to get into a huge fight. Which I do not.

I get in the backseat and buckle up.

We stop by Evan’s apartment to pick him up, and he fist-bumps Ricky as soon as he gets into the car, then turns around and gives me a nod. I think for a few moments that maybe it will be a decent night after all. But then Ricky pulls out of the parking lot and turns left, away from the theater and toward the university. Ricky and Evan start talking, and their conversation makes it clear that we aren’t going to see a movie. We’re going to a party. A fraternity party.

Ricky looks at my reflection in the rearview mirror and starts talking to me. He says all sorts of shit about where we are going and how I am supposed to behave while we are there. I wonder what my Sunday-school teacher would think about my going to a college party. I’m silently laughing at the thought of it all when we pull up to the house.

I am going to my first fraternity party at thirteen years old. I am both nervous and excited. Ricky’s behavior lecture was pretty clear. I can drink, I can smoke, I can dance...but I cannot tease his friends. I believe his exact words were: “If you are going to flirt with my friends, then you damn well better be prepared to put out. Nobody likes a dick-tease, Emma.” Uh, I am thirteen years old, you asshole. Putting out is not on the evening’s agenda.

There are about a million people in the house. The floor is sticky, and I can barely hear myself think over the pulsating music. Evan introduces me to their friend Lainey who decides to take me under her wing. She grabs my hand and hauls me to the basement for a beer. My brothers disappear to God-knows-where. At least in the basement the music is quieter. People are playing Ping-Pong with cups of beer lined up on the table. They are shooting pool. They are bouncing quarters off the table and into full cups of beer. It is a brand-new wonderland, and I can’t stop watching them. They are all laughing and talking, and there is no awkwardness. There are no social bystanders. Only people having fun. I have been to a few high school parties with Jack, and I can tell you that they are nothing like this. High school parties are freak shows of self-consciousness. Everyone is too busy caring about what everyone else is thinking. This, though...this is different. Suddenly I cannot wait to get to college. Screw Jack Darris. I want a boy like these boys. One who doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone. One who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything but being himself.

Lainey comes back with a couple of beers and starts chattering with a bunch of other girls. I am left to my own devices in the basement of my brothers’ fraternity house, and before I know it, I am playing quarters and drunk off my ass. Nobody asks me who I am or how old I am or why I am here. They just feed me their beer and their laughter and treat me like I am their very best friend.

At three in the morning everyone starts to filter out of the house. The music has stopped, and the kegs are kicked. Through my beer-bleary eyes, I watch couples leave together. I watch groups of girls walk arm-in-arm out the door. I watch boys stagger down the front walk and out on to the street. I feel euphoric, and I don’t quite think it’s entirely due to the beer. I want to skip over the next five years of my life and get right to the good part. I want Ricky and Evan to bring me back here again.

As I stumble around trying to find them, two boys come up behind me and hook their arms into mine, one on each side. I think for a second that they might be my brothers, but then I realize they are far too cute to be Ricky and Evan. They are laughing at me, and I think it is because I am not at all walking straight. I feel sloppy and small between them. The boys take me up the stairs to where the bedrooms are. I am leaning on them hard, and my head is wagging from side to side. I try to look up, but my neck feels like jelly. When we get to the top of the steps, I see Ricky. He is standing with his arm around Lainey’s shoulder, and there is a big smile on his face. I can hear him laughing at me. Laughing at his drunk-off-her-ass thirteen-year-old sister. I want to punch him in the fucking face, but I can’t because my two escorts have turned left and are walking me down the hallway.

Then from behind me I hear: “I warned you, Emma.” And more laughing.

Chapter Five

Emma—Present Day

I wake to a scraping sound. I look around my room, bleary-eyed and blinking. The light is coming in between the blind slats, and it’s far brighter than it should be for so early in the morning. I glance at my bedside table and see my mother’s sweet face nestled tightly against my own. The picture never fails to make me smile. I can’t contain the rush of memories the image brings, and I take a moment to collect my thoughts before I check my alarm clock. Shit. It isn’t early at all. It’s nearly nine-thirty.

As I swing my feet to the floor and sit up, I hear the scraping sound again. What is that? I wipe my face with my hands, rub my eyes, and run my fingers through my hair. I can’t believe how rested I feel, and I still have the whole weekend to relax before I’m off to my new office on Monday. I stand up slowly and head to the bathroom. I desperately need to brush my teeth.

I enter the bathroom, and out of habit, I almost shut and lock the door behind me. But then I remember that I live alone now, and I don’t have to close the door if I don’t want to. I leave it open and smile at myself in the mirror. I brush my teeth, splash some warm water on my face, and sit down to have a pee. As I head to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee, I hear the scraping sound again. I stop in the hallway, and hear a series of smaller, quieter scraping sounds. They are coming from the kitchen.

Without thinking twice, I round the corner into the kitchen, and there on the floor on his hands and knees is David. What the fuck? How did he get in here? He looks over at my feet, and in what seems like slow motion, his eyes make their way up my body to my face. I can see that he is spreading some kind of thick glop on to the bare floor and scraping it out with a flat trowel. A few rows of tiles are positioned on top of the glop with little plastic X’s in between them. He looks up at me as if he wants to say something, but he doesn’t open his mouth. I think he can see my skin starting to burn.

“What the fuck, David?” I shout. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know how to fucking knock? Jesus Christ. You scared the shit out of me.”

“You couldn’t have been too scared, since you stopped for a piss on your way out.”

Oh, my fucking God! I want to kick him in the face.

“And for the record,” he says, “I did knock, but I also have a key, so when you didn’t answer, I let myself in. I’m not going to miss half a day’s work just because you sleep like a fucking rock.”

Now I really want to kick him in the face. “You have a key to my apartment? What the hell.” I swear I am going to punch Carl in the teeth the next time I see him. I am enraged. David is now sitting back on his feet with his hands on his thighs. He is calm as fuck and looking right at me.

“I can’t imagine what the hell would possess you to think it would be okay for you to come in here—without my permission—while I am sleeping!” I am screaming at him, and my skin is searing.

“I did tell you I was coming back today, Emma,” he says, barely loud enough for me to hear. “And we had lunch together and a decent conversation. I honestly didn’t think it would be a problem.” He is looking up at me, and even though he is fully collected, I can see that crazy current running through him again. Damn it. He did this on purpose. He came in here, without my permission, just to watch the fireworks. Well played, David. And, Emma, you are a fool.

I want nothing more than to tell him to fuck off, but I know that is precisely what he wants. So instead, I try to rein myself in. “Well...it is a problem, David,” I say as coolly as I can.

“Well...then I won’t do it again, Emma,” he adds, almost penitently. He is still on his knees looking at me, and all I can do is sigh and shake my head. I am furious with myself for not recognizing his game and letting him get the best of me. And I am furious with him for coming in here and making me feel this way.

I suddenly want to be by myself, to let the adrenaline run its course. I don’t want to look at the wreckage of my kitchen. Or at him. Or at those damn birds. “I’m going to take a shower, David,” I say with blatant resignation in my voice. “Please, tell me you don’t have a key for that door, too.” He smiles a wicked, closed-mouth grin, and I can tell that he has found my whole incensed reprimand quite satisfying. Bastard.

“I’m sorry, Emma. Really. I won’t come in here again without you opening the door.” I can’t believe it, but he actually loses the grin and drops his eyes to the floor as he says it. I can’t quite tell if it’s real remorse I hear in his voice or if it’s just part of the game.

I shower, dress and fix my hair and makeup, all while attempting not to lose my temper. I have so much to do this weekend, and I try to focus on creating a mental list of the items I’d like to check off. I consider adding “Ask Carl to change the door lock” to my list, but since David is his maintenance guy, he’d probably just give him a copy of the new key anyway. Eventually, I come out of the bathroom and walk toward the kitchen to get some breakfast. I smell coffee.

“I made some coffee,” David says as I turn the corner. “I just used the bag of Dunkin’ sitting next to the coffeemaker. I hope you don’t mind.” Of course I mind, you arrogant ass. This is not your apartment. That is not your coffee. You don’t even know how strong I like my Dunkin’.

“That’s very nice of you, David. Thanks.” I walk over to the coffeepot. It is sitting on a place mat on the little table in the living room. Sitting next to it are two mugs, which I do not recognize, a spoon, a cup of milk from the fridge, and a bunch of tiny packets of sugar. I don’t have any tiny packets of sugar, so I immediately wonder where they came from. “Oh, wow,” I say. “Quite the setup.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t find your mugs or your sugar, so I ran up to my place to get some.” He shrugs and then adds, “At least I waited a half hour before I broke my promise not to come into your apartment without you opening the door. I make a mean cup of coffee, though, so I think you’ll find it was worth the risk.” Ugh.

I pour a cup for each of us and notice that he takes his black. I usually do, too, but I feel strangely guilty about not using any of the sugar he went upstairs for. I tear open one of the packets and pour it into my coffee.

“Just so you know, your new cabinets and countertops are going to be delivered today,” he says. “They said we should expect them sometime this afternoon. If you’ve got shit to do, I’ll be here all day, so don’t feel like you have to stick around. I’m not going to steal anything, especially since you know where I live, and I’m not into trying on your panties or anything like that. I promise.” He puts his hands up in surrender as he says the last sentence.

“Will it only take a half hour for you to break that promise, too?” I ask. “Cause I don’t want my panties all stretched out.” The image of David wearing a pair of my panties pops into my mind, and I have to try hard not to laugh out loud.

“Very funny,” he says. “But thanks for the compliment.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh, yes, it was,” he says with an expression full of innuendo. “Look, I know you’re probably still really mad at me about this morning, and I get it. Really I do. I didn’t think about the whole woman-living-alone thing when I came in. I just want to finish your kitchen for you. I want you to be happy here, and I know how you girls like a fine-ass kitchen.”

He wants me to be happy here? Why? “A fine-ass kitchen? Is that what you’re doing in there?” I ask, pointing to the massive mess.

“Yes, Emma, it is,” he sighs. “I know you didn’t ask for all this, but I’m doing it because it’s what I am good at.”

“Okay,” is all I can think to say. “But the whole panty thing is irrelevant anyway because everything I have to do today is right here in this apartment. I don’t have anywhere to go, so you’re stuck with me all day. And, no, I will not help you with anything. But, yes, you can use my head whenever you need to.”

“Thanks,” he says.

“And thank you for the coffee.” I walk away from him and over to a box of food on the living room floor. I pull out two breakfast bars and toss one to him. He catches it and retreats to the kitchen.

* * *

I put my iPod in the dock and ask David what kind of music he would like to hear.

“Whatever you like,” he says. “It’s your place.”

I decide on Killing Heidi, a now-defunct Australian band that my college roommate was nuts about.

I spend the next hour unpacking. I empty all the boxes in the bathroom and organize my towels and toiletries in the linen closet. I hope David didn’t mean it when he said that he will make me a new bathroom after their next poker game. I like the bathroom just the way it is. I joke to myself that I’d better not let my fake grandma in here.

I am making my way out to the living room when the album ends.

“How about you pick out something you want to hear now?” I say. “You’re working here, too, and I don’t want to force you to listen to my crap all day.”

“I liked that last one. I used to listen to that album when I was living in New Orleans.”

Oh. “New Orleans, huh? What was that like?” I ask, my voice traveling through the living room wall and into the kitchen.

“A hot mess. I hated it there. Too many drunks and a fucked-up girlfriend,” he answers casually. I want to ask him more, but I don’t because I’m not sure I really want to know.

He walks out of the kitchen, pulling his iPhone out of his back pocket. I watch the birds move as he takes my iPod out of the dock and puts in his phone. After a moment, the music starts. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I don’t know who it is, but she’s one hell of a singer. David looks over at me, and I raise my eyebrows in question.

“Feist,” he says on his way back into the kitchen.

Somehow, David listening to this kind of music is amusing to me, and I am glad he is back in the kitchen. I don’t want him to see my smile.

I open the rest of the boxes in the living room and finish filling the bookcase with my favorite novels and some college textbooks I can’t bear to part with. David is still working in the kitchen when the door buzzer rings.

“Ah,” he says. “That’ll be the cupboards then. Would you mind letting them in? I’ve got my hands full of spackle in here.”

“Sure.” I head over to the intercom just as the music ends and slide the door release button. I walk over to the apartment door and open it to wait for the deliveryman, who I can hear walking up the steps. I am looking back into the apartment waiting for David to come out when I hear a voice.

“Hi, Emma.”

My head whips around, and Michael is in my face. That filthy fucker. The moment I see him, my heart drops into my gut, sinking me deep into a well of fear and rage. The sick, burning taste of bile rises up in my throat, and a surge of hate-fueled adrenaline rips through me, causing an instant rush of panic to streak across every nerve in my body. I immediately step backwards into the apartment and try to close the door on him, but his hand is sprawled out on it, holding it open. He is standing just inside the doorway.

“Nice place, Emma.” His eyes quickly scan the room. Then they examine me from head to toe, and a split second later, they land on my eyes. It makes me sick.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Michael?” I say with forced calm.

“I just wanted to see you. Did you get the boxes I sent?” His voice is cold.

“Yes.” I know he wants me to thank him for sending them, but my mouth is refusing. He wants me to say “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” But I am not a ten-year-old anymore, and he can’t make me.

“Were you going to thank me for going through all that effort?”

“No, Michael, I was not.” Oh, that is not going to make him happy. “You need to leave now.”

“But I just got here, Emma. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Michael, you are the last person I would ever invite into this apartment. Get the fuck out of here.” My skin prickles with energy, and the anger in my throat is fueling my words, making them sound far stronger than I feel. I promised myself I would knock him in the balls if he ever showed up here, but even though I am no longer a child, I can’t bring myself to do it.

Michael steps inside defiantly, closing the door behind him. He is walking toward me. “Emma, your mom told me to look out for you and your brothers after she died. How can I do that if you won’t let me in?” He pauses and looks at me with his twisted-up smile. “God, you know, you look just like her. Except you...you don’t act like your mother at all. She was a woman who knew how to be a lady. She knew when to shut up and do what she was told. You, on the other hand, you are a fighter, Emma. You never do what you’re told. You’re too strong for your own good, and I know you’re already aware of precisely what kind of trouble that can get you into.” He raises his hand and skims his fingertips down the length of my arm. It sends a wave of nausea through me. “I miss her, you know.”

“Get out.” I spit at him. I push his hand away and straighten my body.

A snarky chuckle escapes from his closed mouth, and he grabs my arm with his hand. My other hand immediately starts to claw at him as I try to pull away.

“Come on, Emma. You don’t want to fight with your dad now, do you?”

“You are not my dad, Michael. Fuck you. Let me go.” My voice is no longer steady. It’s cracked and weak. I want to scream.

Then I hear a slow clicking noise behind me. Michael looks over my shoulder and lets go of my arm immediately. I turn to see David leaning casually against the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s taken off his shirt, as if he’s ready for a fight. David is shaking his head gently and clicking his tongue as if he were softly scolding a naughty child. His dark eyes are pinned to Michael’s. There is absolute control in his every move. A smile begins to form on Michael’s lips, and I’m not quite sure what it means.

David drops his arms, steps away from the wall, cocks his head to the side, and narrows his eyes. But he doesn’t take them off of Michael’s. He stops the clicking and starts to smile himself. His moves are so deliberate and slow. I think he is calculating something.

Michael raises his eyebrows, his eyes remaining on David. “Jesus, Emma. You’ve only lived here what, three days, and already there’s a man in your apartment? Isn’t that a little quick, even for you?”

David is walking leisurely towards me, still looking only at Michael. When he reaches my side, he very slowly snakes his hand across my lower back, curling his fingers around my waist and pressing me to his side. It is a sign of possession. Michael recognizes it immediately and steps back.

“She asked you to get the fuck out,” David says, almost peacefully. “I think you should listen. And if you have half a brain in your body, you will stay the fuck away from her.”

Michael smirks in acknowledgment of David’s threat and raises his hands in capitulation. He walks to the door, opens it and steps out. He turns to David and says, “Whoever you are, young man, I want you to know that you are getting what you deserve. That girl and her stupid fucking attitude are all yours.” I can hear Michael going down the steps and out the front door.

David releases my hip and strides over to the apartment door to slam it shut. By the time he turns back around, I have dropped to my knees. My mouth is open, and I am staring at him. He is standing above me, his arms sheathed in birds and his chest nothing but bare flesh.

“Turn around,” I whisper, and he does. His entire back is covered with the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. A magnificent phoenix, with gnarled wings and a crooked body, reaches across his shoulder blades and down his sides. Its feathers are saturated with color. Its sinewy tail wraps under David’s arm and curls into the flesh at his side. Brilliant flames emerge from the waistband of his jeans and lick the bird’s talons. I have no words for the creature twisting and writhing across his skin. I stare at it, soaking it in.

David turns around to face me. I am on the floor in front of him, and I want nothing more than to weep. He reaches for my shoulders and helps me up. Once I am standing, he wraps his arms around me, lifts me up, cradling me like a child. I take my eyes off his, and my face sinks into his bare shoulder. He carries me down the hallway and lays me on the bed.

Standing next to the bed, he leans over me, his hands braced on the mattress.

“I will not let him touch you ever again.”

Chapter Six

David takes off his black work boots, and slides into bed next to me. His feet extend beyond mine, but our eyes are even. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, hugging me tight against his bare chest. He doesn’t let me go, but he pushes himself up toward my headboard, so his chin rests on the top of my head. My face sinks into his neck, and I start to cry. Relief swirls through me.

“I know all about assholes like him, Emma,” he murmurs. And I openly sob against his body. I feel sad for David. Sad that he has to know this about me. Sad about what he heard. Sad that he knows how damaged I am. I do not want his pity.

I don’t know how long I cry, but it is a cathartic, religious experience. When I finally stop, he remains frozen. I know he isn’t asleep because I can feel him swallow from time to time. But he is so still, I am afraid to move. I don’t want him to release me because I don’t know what to do next. I don’t know what he will do next. I am just so tired. I close my eyes.

* * *

I wake up to soft light outside my window. How long have I been asleep? Is it morning or evening? I glance at my alarm clock, and it says 7:30 p.m. Fuck. I slept the entire afternoon. Then I remember why I was so tired, and the memory of Michael’s hand on me makes me feel sick inside. David is gone, and I think to myself that he is probably never coming back, that Carl will have to hire someone else to finish my kitchen. I feel beat up.

But I am not sad about Michael anymore. Instead, I am furious that he came here to try to scare me. To do God knows what to me. My hate for that man crawls through me again, burning and scarring. It was splendid, though, to watch David ruffle him. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so satisfying in my life.

As I climb out of bed, I realize that I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since the breakfast bar and sugared coffee this morning. I wonder how I will navigate my kitchen floor if it is still covered in glop.

I stop in the bathroom for a pee. “Oh, man,” I sigh as I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloated and raw, and my eyeliner and mascara are smudged across my freckled cheeks. I quickly wash my face and rub some lotion around my eyes. I swipe on some ChapStick because my lips are puffed up like a harlot’s. I look like hell.

When I get to the end of the hallway, I see three massive boxes sitting in my living room. On top of them are two sections of blue countertop. There is also a large toolbox sitting there and a plastic briefcase-like thing with black clasps holding it shut. I forgot about the delivery. Shit, did I actually sleep through all this? If this kind of noise didn’t wake me, then it’s no surprise that I missed David’s knock this morning. Suddenly I regret yelling at him about it.

I can see that he’s left all his tools here, and it makes me sigh with relief. It looks as if he is coming back to finish the kitchen after all, and that makes me feel very, very happy. I owe him one hell of a thank you.

Then I notice something sitting on the table. I walk over and see two water bottles and a pizza box with a note on top. I pick it up and read.

Emma—

Shit, girl, you do sleep like a fucking rock.

I’m glad you didn’t wake when my cell phone rang,

or when I got out of bed,

or when the door buzzer sounded,

or when we unloaded the delivery,

or when I went upstairs three times to get my tools,

or when the pizza delivery guy came.

But I’m especially glad you didn’t wake when I went back into your room and tried on all your panties—because that would have been embarrassing for us both. (They are pretty hot, by the way...but not so much on me.)

I figured you would be hungry when you woke up, and you can’t walk on the kitchen floor until tomorrow, so I took yet another liberty and ordered a pizza. You’ll notice my half is already gone. I thought you might not be reading this until tomorrow—you were pretty fucking tired.

And just so you know, I’m not coming by tomorrow because I have other plans, but my cell is 230-693-2261. I want you to call or text me if you need anything at any time. And DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, LET ANYONE INTO THIS APARTMENT BUILDING WITHOUT KNOWING WHO IT IS FIRST! Use your peephole for Christ-sake!

And promise me you’ll be especially careful if it is some other guy wearing a tool belt.

Good night (or good morning?), Emma.

David

Jesus. I read it again because I can’t believe his words. For whatever reason—or maybe a bunch of them—I am wearing a shit-eating grin when I finish. He isn’t completely freaked out about the Michael thing. And, I’m pretty damned sure that this is flirting and not mocking. Was that what he was doing this whole time, and I was just too busy being angry to see it? God, I hope he is kidding about seeing my panties.

I sit down and set to work on the pizza. It is cold but delicious. Rather than open a bottle of water, I get up and hunt in one of the kitchen boxes for a bottle of wine and the corkscrew. After a brief search, I find both. I fetch David’s coffee mug and pour out the dregs, rinsing it out in the bathroom sink and smiling at myself in the mirror.

Back at the table, I pour myself a hearty mug of wine and pick up my phone. I press the text messaging icon and type in David’s cell phone number.

Emma here. Thx for the pizza...and the rescue.

I press Send and go back to my wine and pizza. Before I can even take another sip, my phone buzzes.

U r welcome. U ok?

Yes. U?

Of course. That bastard is your stepdad?

Sadly, yes.

I wanted to beat the fuck out of him.

I wanted you to beat the fuck out of him.

Next time.

Please.

R u eating?

Yes. And drinking.

What?

Wine. In your mug.

Excellent.

What r u doing?

Hanging with friends.

Where?

Upstairs.

Have fun.

Lemme know if you need anything, anytime Emma. I mean it.

Ok.

I’ll call u tomorrow about Monday.

Me and my panties will b waiting.

I cannot believe what I just typed. Several seconds go by before my phone buzzes again.

I hope they r the light blue ones with the black lace...

Shit. I think maybe he did see my panties. I run back to my bedroom and open my underwear drawer. I can’t tell if they have been disturbed or not, but on top of the pile are a pair of light blue panties with black lace trim. This should piss me off. This should make my skin burn. This should make me want to punch him in the face. But it doesn’t.

Next thing I know, I am standing by my dresser quickly taking off all my clothes. I pull the light blue panties out of the drawer and slide them up my legs. Then I put on the matching bra and plump my breasts into the cups. I go to my closet to find my favorite dark green dress and drop it down over my head, smoothing it over my hips. I am not going to wear shoes. Then I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth and hair. I hastily put on eyeliner and mascara and more ChapStick. I raise my eyebrows at my reflection and wonder what the hell I am doing.

Before I can think any more about it, I am going upstairs in my bare feet. Two floors up. Right above mine. When I get to his door, I stop. Seriously, Emma. What the fuck are you doing? You’re nuts.

And then I hear the music coming out of his apartment. It is pounding and warped, and it sounds far more like “David music” than what I heard earlier. I don’t hear any voices, though, but maybe that’s because of the music. I take a deep breath and knock on the door. I wait, but no one answers, so I knock again, a little louder this time. Still, no answer.

He came into my apartment this morning without my permission, so I decide to do the same to him. I put my hand on the knob and twist.

The door opens. I look inside, but there is no one there. He’s got two brown sofas, a coffee table, and a flat-screen TV. There is a lamp on a table in the corner, but other than that, the room is dark. The music is coming from down the hall, and it isn’t as loud as I thought. I close the door behind me and walk in. As I head down the hallway, I can hear people talking. They are in the bedroom, and the door is open. I can only hear male voices...maybe a half dozen or so, and one of them is definitely David’s. I can’t understand what they are saying, but it is clear that they are having a good time. I stand just outside his open door. It’s dark in the hallway, and there is only a bedside lamp on in his room. The five of them are sitting around the room, one on the bed and the rest on various chairs, and all but the one on the bed has his back to me. David is sitting in a wooden chair with his feet up on the end of the bed. I lean against the doorjamb and cross my arms over my chest. The music is loud but not so loud that they can’t hear each other talking. It takes a moment for the one on the bed to see me there, but once he does, he doesn’t look away.

“David,” he says, raising his chin in my direction, “you’ve got a guest.”

They all turn to look at me. I am looking right at David, and I can see that he is shocked as hell. His feet drop off the bed as his upper body turns towards me.

“Emma,” he says. Everyone else is quiet.

I drop my arms and walk toward him slowly, keeping my eyes on his. When I reach his chair, I hike my dress up over my hips and raise my leg over his thighs. I stand straddling him for a second before I sit down in his lap, snug against his body and looking right into his eyes. I slowly run my hand across his shoulder and up the side of his neck, curling my fingers into his hair. Then I put my mouth on his.

He kisses me back immediately, pushing his tongue into my mouth and holding me by my hips. I slowly push my pelvis against him, and he moves his hands down to my ass and then along my bare legs to my knees. He pulls his mouth away from mine and, looking into my eyes, shouts, “Get the fuck out!” But I know he is not talking to me.

I have no idea if everyone leaves, and frankly, right now I don’t give a fuck if they all stay. My eyes are on David. He puts his mouth back on mine, and I can taste his skin and his lips and his tongue. They taste of confidence and control. I curve into him again. This time he pushes back against me, and I feel him through his jeans. His hands move up my sides and slip softly across my neck to the back of my head. The movement sends a shiver down my spine and my entire body echoes. I feel a hint of a smile in his kiss, so I grind my hips against him again and then pull my mouth away from his. I lift off his shirt, and he begins to kiss my neck, tugging my hair gently to the side. A bead of lust runs through me, dashing through my brain and steeling my confidence. David pulls my dress up over my head and drops it on the floor. Then he unhooks my bra and slides the straps down my arms, looking at my breasts and then at my eyes. I tilt my head back, arching my spine and wordlessly begging him to touch me everywhere. I am completely exposed, but somehow, it feels right. The risk feels right.

“Emma,” he says again, as his hands slide across my body, running up my stomach and over my breasts. The fire under my skin dances and burns. He pulls me back to him and kisses me again. It is deep and purposeful.

When the kiss ends, I push his hands off me playfully and get off his lap. The music is still playing, and I see a wicked grin of belated recognition cross his lips as he looks down at the light blue panties. I drop to my knees in front of him, open his button, and pull down his zipper. His eyes are filled with surprise and anticipation and need. He is hard, and he pushes himself against my hand. I bend down and put my mouth over him, sucking hard. He continues to rock his hips forward slowly and rhythmically, forcing himself deeper into my mouth each time he moves. I can hear him breathing. I can hear his want. With each exhale, the rush of air sends a small murmur of pleasure out through his parted lips. The sound of it makes my body sing.

I can tell he is getting close, but I stop because I want more. I stand back up. He sits forward and grabs me by the hips, pulling me straight toward him. He hooks his fingers into the black lace border of my panties and slides them down, sprinkling small kisses across my lower stomach as he does. With each one of those kisses, a morsel of my self-doubt disintegrates. Everything inside me is awash with nervous energy because a man I hardly know stood up for me. A man I hardly know showed me that I am worth something. Showed me that I am worth fighting for. I straddle his lap again. He still has his jeans on and the added friction feels delicious against my skin.

He grips my waist and pushes himself into me. Our eyes align, and we kiss, his pace quickening as I curve my hips into him. I am nearly ready to burst as his hips rise hard and slow, again and again.

My mouth is just outside his ear, and I am breathing in stops and starts. When I come, my exhale releases a soft sigh, and I can feel his body tense beneath mine. My breath is heavy now, my eyes closed, and I can feel my heart pounding against my ribs. He holds me there as he quietly whispers my name against my neck.

“Again,” I say.

A second later he is standing up, gripping me by my ass. I wrap my legs around his hips. He is looking at me, still inside me, and I am sick with want. My body is vibrating with it. David walks to the wall and pushes me against it. I’m pinned there, my back sliding up and down the wall with each thrust, my arms wrapped around his back, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. He lowers his mouth to mine, and as our tongues tangle again, his pace intensifies. He tilts my hips forward. It is deeper now, and I can feel his every movement. Fuck.

“David,” I whisper. “Go.” He continues pushing into me until I shatter in waves around him. The last few remaining morsels of self-doubt have not only disintegrated, they have imploded. All because of him. I open my mouth to say something, but all that comes out is my breath. His face is against my neck, his lips on my skin, and on his last push into me, his breath stutters. I hear both wonder and reverence in the sound.

David leans into me for a moment until our bodies steady. Then, with his hands still on my hips and my legs around him, he carries me back over to the chair and sets me down. I sit there with my head bowed and my hands on my knees, still breathing roughly. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look up. His bare feet and his black jeans are in front of me, and I hear his zipper close. A second later he is kneeling on the floor before me, pushing himself between my open legs and laying his head on my lap. His arms are spread out and hanging off the sides of my hips.

The phoenix is stretched out over my lap, rising and falling as he breathes.

Chapter Seven

Sarah

I am standing on this damn bridge, and it is ridiculously cold, but David thinks this is going to be a great way to get back at my dad for being such a jerk, so here I am. David is still over at my car getting the stuff out of the trunk while I am standing here in the wind freezing my ass off. Damn me for not wearing my parka. My dad is going to completely freak out over our little stunt. I cannot wait to see the look on his face when he shows up.

David has a wicked mind and I love it. We have pulled off a lot of pranks together, but this one is going to be exceptional. It’s going to be even better than when we stole Debra Gilbert’s car from the school parking lot. Man, she was pissed, but it was one of the best moments of my life. She totally deserved it, too. The way she treats Zack is so cruel. I mean, who does she think she is to treat him like that? I told David we should have painted her car orange or something, but he thought that stealing it would be better. And he was right; it was. Watching her bawl like a little baby in the parking lot was so much more than satisfying. I think I actually even saw David smile that day, and I never see him smile.

Today’s little act of revenge is going to feel so good. I mean, when David and I got our matching falcon tattoos, it was pretty sweet, but since my dad still doesn’t know about it, I can’t say the revenge factor is as rewarding as I wanted it to be. This, though...this, my dad is going to know about, big-time. And he is going to shit a brick over it. I can’t wait.

Sometimes I cannot believe that David and I have been dating for five months now. Well, I’m not sure you would actually call what we do “dating,” per se, but still, we’ve been together since the fall. No one knows about us though, because my dad would kill me if he found out I have a boyfriend. And he would really flip out if he knew I was sneaking out my window nearly every night to meet up with him. The funny thing is that David and I don’t really actually do anything together. Mostly we just smoke cigarettes and talk about shit. He’s only kissed me a couple of times. His dad seems like a bigger asshole than mine, so sometimes I think he just wants to get the hell out of his house. Things there seem pretty out of control, and I know how much David likes to keep his life in check. His mom died when he was just a little kid, and it kind of seems as if he’s never gotten over it. I think it must have really sucked.

School is pretty shitty for me. I hate this town, I hate my teachers, I hate the principal, and I especially hate the other kids. David is the only one who matters. I met him right after I moved here. It was the end of summer, and he was hanging out with his friends on the basketball court at school. My mom and dad made me go to some stupid new student orientation, but right after they dropped me off, I left. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of the meeting before it even started. I went outside and sat on the bleachers to have a smoke. I watched them play basketball for a while, and when they were done, David came over to bum a cigarette. The rest is history.

I can’t believe how crazy this is. I look over the edge of the bridge and imagine myself doing this for real. Life would have to be really, really fucking messed up for me to do something like that, though. Even though my dad is a hard-ass and my mom is Martha Fucking Stewart, I know that it’s not going to be like this forever. I know that when I go to college, everything will change. Life will be different, and I can leave all this high school bullshit behind me.

David is really serious about pulling off our plan. As usual, he’s thought of every detail. We even stopped at the hardware store on our way over here, and he made me run in and buy a bunch of rope and some sandbags to make it look as if I’m actually going to do this. And I am trying to make myself cry, which is way harder than it seems. If it doesn’t sound real, my dad won’t believe it, and he’ll probably just stay home. For the plan to work, my dad has to come to the bridge and find me here, with the sandbags on my feet, ready to jump. I muster up some tears and lay it on thick.

“Hi, Dad. I just wanted to say goodbye,” I cry into my cell phone. “I’m on Clawsen’s Bridge right now, and I’m going to jump. Don’t bother trying to save me because you can’t. Goodbye.” By the time I hang up, I am laughing my ass off, but David is serious as stone. But then again, he always is. He needs to lighten up.

David makes me use the rope to tie the sandbags on to my own ankles. He says he’s afraid he’ll hurt me if he does it himself. Plus, when my dad comes, it has to look as if I put them on there without any help. David is going to run and hide in the bushes across the street and videotape the whole thing so we can watch it later for laughs. I finally get the rope knotted tight enough, and now we just have to wait for my dad. I only live like ten minutes from here, so he should be here really soon.

David is standing behind me now, and he is joking that he’s going to push me off. He grabs my hips and gives me a little shove. Jesus. My body bends forward, but he snatches my shoulders and pulls me back just before I fall. I punch him in the arm and tell him he’s a dickhead.

He must be really excited about this because he’s smiling. He’s got his hands on my hips again, joking that he’s going to do it for real this time. I smack his hands and tell him it isn’t fucking funny. He’s laughing softly at his little joke, and it’s starting to really piss me off. I tell him to stop it because it’s freaking me out, but he doesn’t. He keeps pushing me forward and then pulling me back at the last second. What the hell, David? I am beyond angry with him, and I try to back away from the bridge, but the bags of sand are so heavy on my feet. I am yelling at him to let me back into the car, telling him this whole plan is ridiculously stupid, and he is a sick motherfucker for teasing me like this. But he isn’t listening. There’s a gritty look in his eyes, one that tells me he’s enjoying his little power trip.

He pushes me again, but this time it’s a lot harder. I feel my body tipping forward, and when it’s nearly parallel to the water, I feel his hand swipe at my arm as if he’s trying to catch me. Only he doesn’t. Then my heavy feet leave the bridge, and again, I feel his hand grabbing at my ankle, but he misses that, too. Fuck. I am falling. My dad is going to be furious.

Chapter Eight

Emma—Present Day

David is sprawled out across my lap, and I’m not sure what to do next. I don’t know how long I’ve been watching the phoenix rise and fall, but I know that it’s been long enough. I place my hands on his back, rubbing the phoenix softly. I am afraid that such an intimate touch might freak him out somehow, but he doesn’t even move.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” I ask, with more than a touch of irony in my voice.

“No, Emma, I’m not,” he says flatly, his face still pressed against the side of my hip.

“Why not?”

“Because those bastards just saw you lift up your dress, climb on to my lap, and shove your tongue into my mouth. They would fight me to the fucking death for a crack at that.”

“Are you saying you disapprove of what I did?” I ask with a smile that I know he can’t see.

“No, Emma. Quite the opposite. I’m saying I think that everyone in the room heartily approved of what you did. Those fuckers out there will try their damndest to charm the pants off you, and I don’t even want them to have the chance. So, no, I’m not going to introduce you.”

“Then I’ll just have to introduce myself,” I say. His body lifts immediately, and he sits back on his heels, looking at me with a smirk. I have to say, he looks pretty damn fine after our tryst. His eyes are relaxed, and he seems at ease with himself...and with me.

“Very funny,” he says, still kneeling on the floor in front of me. “I’m serious. My friends are pricks. They’ll tell you lies just to get in your pants—and half of the lies will probably be about me.”

“Does that mean that half of what you say is a lie, too?” I’m only partially teasing.

“They’re my friends, Emma, but they would gouge my eyes out for a girl like you,” he says. “And, no, half of what I say isn’t a lie. None of it is. I don’t need to lie...I have the tool belt.” He shrugs, and a boyish grin tugs at his mouth. I can tell he’s proud of his little joke. I can also tell he is serious about not introducing me to his friends. I immediately think his reluctance to do so is both complimentary and possessive. And, surprisingly, I am okay with both.

“Mmm...the tool belt.” I sigh in a mock sexual thrall. “Do any of them wear a tool belt?”

“Again, very funny,” he says while standing up. He looks down at me, his eyes leisurely rolling over my entire body. It makes me feel shy and excited at the same time.

“I think I’d better go now. Would you mind seeing me out?” I say, mustering the courage to stand up fully naked and face him. He looks almost stunned. Did he think I was going to stay here chatting or screwing or whatevering all night while his friends hang out in his living room?

“Um, sure,” he says.

“Just give me a second to get dressed,” I say. He watches me intently as I put on my bra and my dress. Then I reach down, pick up my panties, and casually hang them over the back of his chair. “These you can keep,” I say. His eyebrows go up, and he grins again, but as usual, his lips remain closed. He turns and opens the bedroom door, stepping aside so I can pass.

I breeze down the hallway and out into the living room. Four of David’s friends are on the brown couches and one is sitting on the floor. David, wearing only his black jeans, is just a few steps behind me. I stride right past his friends without making eye contact. But I know they are all looking at me...and I like it.

“Bye, boys,” I say, pleased with the confidence in my voice. I stop just inside the apartment door and wait for David to catch up. Once he’s next to me, I turn and push him into the wall. I hold the back of his neck and press my mouth to his, twisting against his tongue. He pulls me towards him by my waist. We kiss hard, and for a moment, I consider staying for the screwing and whatevering, but then I remember myself and pull away.

He lets go of my waist, and I walk out.

I contemplate standing outside his door to see if I can hear what they say, but then I decide I’d rather not, just in case it isn’t very flattering. I feel pretty damned convinced that David enjoyed that as much as I did, and I don’t want to hear otherwise. I walk my confident self back down the stairs and into my apartment.

It’s only eleven, and because of my impromptu nap this afternoon, I’m not the least bit tired. I take a long shower, washing David off my skin, and get dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. I spend the rest of the evening camped out on the couch watching reruns of South Park and drinking the rest of the mug wine. I think I occasionally hear someone going down the steps and out the front door, but I’m not about to peek out the window and see. I don’t want David to know I’m still thinking about him.

* * *

The sex, wine and reruns cause me to sleep in way later than I had planned. I haven’t checked anything off my weekend to-do list yet, unless you count the few boxes I unpacked yesterday before Michael showed up. After eating a breakfast bar, I set to the task of unpacking the rest of the boxes. When I am done, the only ones remaining are those from Michael—which I shove to the back of my closet and try to forget—and the ones containing the kitchen stuff that I can’t unpack until David is finished.

I spend the rest of my Sunday doing the mundane. Since I can now walk on the kitchen floor, I make a quick trip to the grocery store for some food, beer and more wine, and make myself a late lunch as soon as I return. Part of me was hoping to run into David while I was out, but then I recalled his note saying that he had plans for the day. When I finish washing my lunch dishes, my phone buzzes. It’s him.

Hi.

Hi back.

What r u doing?

Getting my shit together.

Shit?

Unpacking and grocery store. Going to hang pictures now.

Need my tool belt?

He is flirting again. I want to be coy, but...

U left it here yesterday. I’m wearing it right now.

Is that so?

Yep. And it looks damn fine on me, too.

I’ll bet it does.

Where r u?

Boating with the boys.

Any girls?

Do I really want to know the answer to that?

None wearing a tool belt.

So what r they wearing then?

Nothing that matters to me.

What the hell does that mean? That he isn’t looking at what they are wearing because he doesn’t give a damn, or that they aren’t wearing anything at all?

Define nothing.

It means that it doesn’t matter what they r wearing, or not wearing, as the case may b.

Because...?

Because whatever it is, it isn’t u in those blue panties.

U aren’t going to let any of those girls sit on your lap r u?

No, Emma. I am not.

Because I will kick your fucking ass if u do.

I know.

I slide my phone closed and put it back in my pocket. I can’t believe it, but the thought of David on some boat with a bunch of barely dressed women makes my skin sear. Why? I don’t understand how I can be so jealous when we only spent one night together. And shit, it wasn’t even a night. It was barely an hour. But then I remember our conversation about me meeting his friends. He was jealous, too, wasn’t he? Possessive, even. I’m beginning to wonder where this is all going.

I spend the rest of the afternoon clumsily hanging pictures on the walls, ironing my work clothes for the week, and mapping out the bus route for my morning commute. I am excited and nervous about starting my new job tomorrow. As the evening rolls in, I check my cell phone occasionally to see if David texted. There is nothing, and I am highly disappointed in myself for caring so much. I feel like a damn stooge every time I look at my phone.

I make myself some pasta for dinner and finish the employment paperwork that’s due at the office tomorrow. I hate myself for it, but I’ve been listening for noise on the stairs the entire evening. What the fuck is he doing? He can’t still be on a boat; it’s pitch-dark outside. I don’t want to care about where the hell he is, and honestly, it’s none of my damn business. But I do care...and it’s driving me fucking crazy.

I walk back to my bedroom and pull my pepper spray out of my purse. I carry it back to the living room and put it on top of his tool box. Then I get a piece of paper and place the following message under the spray canister:

David—

Next time you are going to be out late with a bunch of half-naked whores, please take this with you. Feel free to use it liberally. I know where to get more.

Emma

PS. Please tell me I don’t have to kick your fucking ass...

It’s midnight now, and I go to bed.

Chapter Nine

I am up and out of the apartment by 7:05 because I suspect it will take me a good forty five minutes to get to work. I’ll have to make at least one bus transfer, and until I know the route better, I want to give myself plenty of time. Turns out it takes me a little over fifty minutes to get downtown, and by the time I walk into the office building, I only have a few minutes to spare. I like to be early, though, so I decide to be out the door by 6:50 from here on out.

My new office is just as excellent as I suspected it would be. I’m not overly enthused about sitting in a cubicle all day, but the work I’ll be doing is precisely what I was hoping for. Everyone else working here seems to be very nice—and very normal. I discovered in college that engineering is full of quiet, thoughtful men, which means that I don’t exactly fit in, but their ordinary and orderly nature always felt right to me. Plus, the logicality of the work is therapeutic. Even when I was working on a project in my college classes, my temper never got the best of me. Calculations and design and organization are predictable, which is precisely why I know I am going to be happy here.

After a morning filled with personnel introductions and discussions involving various H.R. formalities, I am assigned my first project. And my first project partner. His name is Matt, and he’s been working here for a little over two years. I have my suspicions that his job is really to keep tabs on me. I’m sure they want to make sure the new girl isn’t a complete fuck-up. But I won’t fuck up on this, or any other project, for that matter, because this...this, I am good at. This I know.

* * *

Soon enough, my first day at work has passed, and I am walking back to the bus stop. The sun is starting to sink behind some of the taller office buildings, and I’m enjoying watching the city move. It’s invigorating, really, to see all the life happening here. I love it.

On the bus ride home my iPod keeps me company. I have managed to escape thoughts of David for most of the day today, and I’m pleased with myself for it. But now I am wondering if he ever made it home last night and if he made it to my kitchen today. I wonder if he read my note.

The bus drops me at the corner, and I walk into the building and up to my apartment. The first thing I notice is the absence of the gigantic boxes in my living room. So he was here. The second thing I notice is that someone has used the vacuum cleaner. My visual of David running the sweeper while wearing his tool belt nearly makes me laugh out loud. Then I walk around the corner and into the kitchen. Oh...seriously?

I slide open my phone, touch the text messaging icon, then David’s name.

What the fuck, David.

His reply comes almost immediately.

What the fuck, what?

Seriously?

Quite.

This is crazy. Carl is going to kill u.

No he won’t.

What is this?

It’s your fine-ass kitchen, Emma.

It’s too fine for this shitty apartment.

I know.

I don’t understand. How did he do all of this in one day? He must have had help. The cabinets are hung and the countertops placed, the walls have been painted a beautiful blue, and a lovely blue-and-white backsplash of hand-painted tiles lines all the counters. And...all the appliances have been replaced. A shiny new stainless steel fridge, dishwasher, and gas range are all staring back at me. Not to mention the new light fixture and the ceramic tiles on the floor. It is indeed a fine-ass kitchen.

Are you going to come down here and teach me how to use it?

Less than a second after I press Send, there’s a knock at the door, and I know it’s him. I take a quick look out the peephole just to be sure, and then open the door.

“Emma,” he says, standing in my doorway. He looks at me carefully from head to toe. His expression is both flustered and surprised. “You look...really great.” Before I can respond, his phone buzzes in his hand. He glances at it quickly and smirks at me. “I don’t think I’m the best person to show you how to use your new kitchen. I just make them. I don’t actually use them.”

“Well, you can come in anyway,” I say. “Did you eat yet?”

“No.”

“Me neither, and I’m starving.” I close the door behind him and walk towards my new kitchen. “I just got some chops at the store yesterday—that is, as long as they were moved to my new fridge. Do you want to stay and have dinner with me?”

“Yeah. That’d be great. But you should know that I’m carrying my pepper spray, and I know how to use it.” He’s flirting again. But I am not in the mood for flirting. I’m itching to know about where he was last night. I only briefly consider my words before I speak.

“Yes, but I’m no half-naked whore, David, so you have nothing to worry about.” It comes out sounding way angrier than I intended. “And, you can rest assured that I will never sit on your lap again. At least not until I know you’re not fucking any of the half-naked whores. I don’t share.” And here I go turning a nice conversation into something else yet again. I have no reason to be, but I’m angry at him for doing whatever it is he did yesterday. But, hell, I don’t even know what exactly he did. And maybe that’s why I’m so pissed. I don’t know anything about this man, and I have already laid my cards on the table. He could be playing me so much more than I already think he is. It makes me feel vulnerable...and there’s nothing I hate more than being vulnerable.

“You’re pissed off that I did something with my friends yesterday? Jesus, do you know how wrong that sounds? We’ve known each other for four days, Emma. Four days.” He’s right and I know it.

“This from a man who wouldn’t even introduce me to his friends because they’d want—and I quote—’a crack at that’.” My skin is getting hot, and I feel a lump of rage growing in my throat. And he is standing there so calm and reasonable. It is making me want to scream.

He stares at me for a minute, and I can see that he is thinking carefully about what to say next. I suddenly realize what a clever man he is. After knowing me only four days, he has figured out that he has a choice. Either he can play his little game and say something that is going to send me over the edge, or he can say something that pulls me back from the brink. My cards really are on the table.

He catches me off guard though, because instead of making one of those choices, he walks away. He sits on the couch, facing away from me. He leans back, clasps his hands behind his head, and crosses his ankles out in front of him. What is this? Because I don’t know what to do, I decide to mimic his actions. I turn my back to him, walk into the kitchen, and start to cook.

Ten minutes later, I have the chops in the grill pan and I’m cutting up some veggies for a salad. I’m bewildered about what happened and why he is still here, sitting on my couch. Not saying a word.

Then he walks into the kitchen.

“I think maybe we’d better just run with this,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to think so much about it.” What the fuck does that mean? “I know why I don’t want to introduce you to my friends, and I know why you don’t want me around any half-naked women. Because we are two of the same, Emma. Because neither one of us likes to share. We shouldn’t have to think about it—the jealousy, I mean. We shouldn’t have to put energy into all that bullshit.”

In my mind, my jaw hits the floor. In reality, I am standing in my fine-ass kitchen holding a pair of tongs, trying to fathom what he has just said. Do I want to do this? I take exactly three seconds to decide if his words mesh with my own feelings.

I drop the tongs, grab his face, and kiss him.

He kisses me back, his hands at the back of my head, pushing my mouth to his. I hear the chops sizzling behind me, and when I smell them starting to char, I pull away and switch off the burner.

David looks at me before turning to walk out of the kitchen. With his back to me, I hear him say, “There isn’t going to be anyone else.”

Chapter Ten

Emma—Age 16

Tonight at my Sweet 16 party, I am going to have sex with Bobby Sarson. I’ve already done it with a couple of other boys, but I think it’s going to be different this time because I really like him, and I’ll bet he’s probably pretty good at it. I know he’s already had sex with Jenny Thomas because her best friend, Susan, told me. I’m on the volleyball team with Susan, and she tells me everything about the two of them. They aren’t together anymore, though, so I’m pretty sure he’ll be into me. He’s a senior and I’m a sophomore, and my brothers always told me that senior boys like sophomore girls the best. They never told me why, but I really don’t care. I can’t wait for tonight.

My mom somehow convinced Michael to let me have a party with both boys and girls for my birthday, and they actually rented a room at a fancy country club for it. All my girlfriends bought new dresses, and the boys have to wear ties and everything. There’s even going to be a DJ. Most of the kids at my school have big Sweet 16 parties, and I just cannot believe I am going to have one, too. I have no idea what my mom had to do to get Michael to agree to this.

At five o’clock, we drive over to the country club and put up some decorations. Then, at six, everyone starts to arrive. I look pretty great in my new dress. I hope Bobby likes it as much as I do. After dinner, the DJ starts, and everyone gets up to dance. I am grateful that my mom and Michael are being cool and have pretty much left us alone. Instead of chaperoning the party, they are sitting in the lobby bar drinking, which somehow doesn’t surprise me at all. Hell, I’ve been living without a chaperone since Carol stopped coming five years ago. Why do I need one now?

Now that I’m in high school, my mom and Michael are gone nearly all the time. They go all over the place on these crazy trips for Michael’s job. I’m still not sure exactly what he does, but it is totally awesome having that huge house to myself all the time. Even my brothers are gone. Evan is living out of state, so he’s completely out of the picture, and the other asshole is living with his friend downtown—he’s working in some restaurant as a waiter or something lame like that. Evan is a real fuck-up now. He makes me look like a freggin’ angel. It’s a shame, really, because he used to be such a nice guy. He moved away when Ricky decided not to pay attention to him anymore. Evan said he had better things to do than hang out with his brother anyway. Turns out those “better things” were drugs. He got busted for possession again last year, and Michael refused to bail him out. Evan was really pissed, and Mom and Michael got in a huge fight about it. Michael said two nights in jail was an appropriate punishment for Evan’s actions. I wish my punishments were two nights in jail. That would be way better than the punishments I get. When Michael is around to bust me for some bullshit thing I did wrong, my punishments are way worse. I remember when I was nine and Michael caught me stealing two dollars from my mom’s purse, he locked me up in the attic for a whole Saturday. I wasn’t allowed to have food or water the whole time. He wouldn’t even let me turn on the lights when night came. It was summer, and it was really fucking hot up there. Then there was the time I got in a fight at school with Sadie Wilkinson. She said I was looking at her boyfriend—which I was not, because her boyfriend is Ted Yingst, and he’s not even worth looking at, let alone fighting over. She got up in my face and slapped me. And I was not about to let her get away with that. When the principal called Michael about it, he came down to the school, dragged my ass to the mall, and made me stand at the entrance holding a huge sign that said “I am a terrible daughter” until it was dark outside. I have never been so humiliated in my life. Michael is a cocksucker. I hate him.

The DJ has turned down the house lights and pumped up his colored stage lights. For an older guy, he’s playing pretty good music. I am dancing with some of the girls on the volleyball team, and Susan is prodding me to go talk to Bobby. Every time I look over at him, he’s looking straight at me. And the greatest part is that he doesn’t look away when I glance over at him. He keeps looking at me, which means, of course, that he wants to have sex with me tonight. I knew he would.

By ten o’clock, the room is full of swirling lights, twisted bodies and loud music. Crazy Ava Zimmerman stole some whisky out of her dad’s stash and brought two full bottles with her. Ava is totally rowdy, and I love her. She hid the booze in the trash can in the women’s bathroom. We’ve all been taking turns dashing in there to pour some into our sodas, and I for one am pretty damned buzzed.

The party is supposed to end at eleven o’clock, so I figure if I’m going to make it with Bobby, I’d better get to it. He is sitting with some of his friends, and I walk straight over to him, grab his hand, and pull him out of the room. I have to be careful not to walk through the lobby because my mom and Michael are probably still at the bar. Instead, I drag Bobby down the back hallway and into one of the locker rooms.

I know how to give a blow job because of my brothers. I learned when I was eleven. They were always having their high school friends over to watch porn movies when my mom and Michael were away. Ricky thought it was so fucking funny for me to be there while they were watching those things. They used to tease me relentlessly about it, and most of the time, I would cover my eyes so I didn’t have to see. At the time I thought they were total sickos, but now I’m kind of glad because I know how to do lots of stuff while most of the other girls my age don’t have a clue.

Bobby and I are making out in the locker room, and when I rub up against him, I can feel how much he likes it. I unzip his pants, pull it out, and start messing with him. For some reason he isn’t trying to take off my dress or anything, he is just letting me touch him. I drop to my knees and start sucking him, and he is shaking like a leaf with his hand on the back of my head.

The next thing I know, the lights go on and I hear my mother screaming. Crap. Crap. Crap. I look up at Bobby, and his eyes are wide open. In an instant, he has tucked himself back into his pants and is rushing out of the locker room. I turn my head around after him and see that he is face-to-face with Michael.

“Don’t worry, son,” Michael says to Bobby, putting his hands on Bobby’s shoulders, “I know what a manipulative little thing she is. It’s not your fault she dragged you in here. You go ahead back to the party. We’ll be there in a minute.” But I know that it isn’t true. I will not be going back to the party. I want Bobby to stand up for me, to tell Michael that he’s wrong, but I know he’s not going to. Why would he? Even my own mother won’t.

Michael turns to her, runs his hands over his greasy hair, and shakes his head. “See? Do you see why she never deserved to have this fucking party in the first place? Do you see why I told you this was a bad idea? We have just paid two thousand dollars for that boy to get his cock sucked.” My mother is standing there doing nothing, and I can see that Michael is livid. His head is getting red, and his neck is stiff. I’m not sure exactly why my body decides to laugh, but it does. And the next thing I know, I am rolling on the floor in the men’s locker room laughing my ass off.

“Emma,” he shouts, “stand up.” But I can’t because I am laughing so hard. I am laughing at the look on Bobby’s face, at Michael’s red cheeks, at my mother’s doe-eyed obedience, at the thought of myself rolling on a locker room floor. Michael reaches down and jerks me to my feet. “Do you think this is funny? You wanna be on your knees, huh? Well then, let’s let everyone see you on your knees.” He grabs my upper arms, pulls me past my idiot mother, out the locker room door, down the hallway, and out the door of the building.

We are standing in the parking lot now, just outside the front door, and Michael pushes me on to the ground and tells me to kneel. The parking lot is unpaved, and I feel tiny pieces of gravel dig into my knees. Ah, here we go again. Michael and his fucking punishments. I am going to have to kneel here, on this sharp gravel, for the rest of the night. I’ll be kneeling as all my party guests pass by, as all their parents drive up to take them home, as all the country club employees leave for the night. I’ll be kneeling here for as long as he tells me to. For as long as he sees fit. For as long as he thinks I deserve to.

I can tell you this much, though, I am not going to cry. I am not going to give him that pleasure. I am going to keep my burn inside, just like I always do with Michael.

Chapter Eleven

Emma—Present Day

David doesn’t say another word, but I can hear him walk down the hall to the bathroom. I finish making the salads and put the chops on a plate. I set the table, putting out utensils, napkins and place mats. I want to get us something to drink, but then I realize I don’t know what David likes to drink.

“What’s your poison?” I ask him when he returns from the bathroom.

“You mean other than redheads in heels?” he asks. I immediately walk out of the kitchen and put my shoes back on. I try to do it as seductively as I can, but I think it might look more cheesy than sexy. He’s looking at me in surprise, though, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger, so I know it worked. Me and my heels walk back into the kitchen where he can’t see me smiling.

“Yes,” I say, “other than that.”

“What are you having?” he asks.

“You mean other than a good-looking, cocky bastard?”

“Yes,” he chuckles, “other than that.”

“I’m having a glass of red. But I have beer, too, if you’d rather have that.”

“Yeah, um, about that, Emma,” he says, sheepishly, “you actually don’t have the beer anymore.”

I put down the corkscrew and peek around the corner into the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa again, just like he was before. He looks over at me, and I put on my best ‘what are you talking about?’ face.

“I had to get two of my guys to help me finish your kitchen today, and I gave them those two six-packs when they left,” he says.

“Oh. Well, I guess this fine-ass kitchen was worth a couple of six-packs. Were they some of your friends from Saturday night, then?”

“Yes. But, don’t worry, I made them go up to my place to use the bathroom. I don’t want them looking at your stuff,” he says. “Ever.”

“I’m not worried one bit,” I say sarcastically, “especially now that I know we aren’t spending any energy on all that jealousy bullshit.”

“Very funny,” he says. “Seriously, I was just as worried about them stealing something as I was about them looking in your bathroom drawers.”

“I’m sure the tampons would have thrilled them,” I tease.

“That’s the truth, Emma.” He is teasing me back now. “After seeing what you did on Saturday night, those fuckers probably would have jacked off in there if they could have.”

“Someday I will have to meet these gentlemen,” I mock. “It’s a rare breed that is willing to jack off to a box of tampons. They sound like people I might like.”

“Maybe you could introduce them to your grandma,” David says in complete deadpan.

“Now there’s an idea!” I carry the full plates out of the kitchen. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m completely famished now. And my grandma died a long time ago, so your friends are out of luck. Unless they are into that, too....” I cannot believe I just said that.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” David says, in jest—I hope, anyway.

When he gets to the table, he adds, “This looks great, Emma. Thanks.”

I open the bottle of red and pour us each a glass. We sit down opposite each other and start to eat.

“So, if you weren’t here eating with me, where would you be?” I ask him out of pure curiosity.

“Probably upstairs eating a sandwich or something. I’m not much of a cook. My mom died when I was eight, and my dad pretty much raised me—if you wanna call it that. He didn’t even know how to turn on the oven, let alone cook something in it. We ate a lot of fast food.” I can’t tell if he looks sad or if it’s merely resignation on his face.

“Oh. I’m sorry about your mom. Mine’s gone, too. She died when I was eighteen, a few months after I went to college. Car accident,” I say quietly. “Is your dad still around?”

“Yeah, but he lives in Illinois, where I grew up. I haven’t seen him in years. We didn’t get along so well. Actually, he might remind you of your stepdad.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” I say, pouring on the inflection. “Michael is one hell of a fucked-up asshole. I don’t think anyone is rotten enough to deserve that comparison.” I sigh softly, then I quietly add, “I don’t know what kind of man your dad is, but he can’t possibly be like Michael.” I am hanging my head now. For some reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel ashamed of myself. Ashamed that Michael is—was—part of my life.

“What did he do, Emma?” I can hear the apprehension in David’s voice, but I can’t bring myself to look up at him. “What happened?”

There is no way in this fucking world I am going to tell David about Michael. Frankly, I have never told anyone about the extent of Michael’s depravity. About all the crap he’s done. I don’t want David’s pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity.

“He’s just a fucked-up asshole,” I say again emphatically, looking up at David. “That’s all.” He’s staring at me now, and I can tell that he wants to ask me more, but he doesn’t. He just cocks his head to the side and takes another bite of dinner.

“Well, my asshole dad was a drinker. He probably still is. And the trouble with Pops is that he was never a nice drunk. Rather belligerent, actually. Things at my house were usually completely out of hand. I just tried to stay the hell out of his way,” David says. “The only good thing he ever did for me was make me his apprentice. He’s a master carpenter and has his own construction business. Eventually I became a journeyman, and I worked for him for a couple of years before I moved to New Orleans when I was twenty-one.”

“How long did you live there?” I ask, thankful that the subject is no longer Michael.

“Almost three years,” he says, “then I moved here because I needed to get the hell out of New Orleans.”

“The fucked-up girlfriend?” I ask.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he says with a shrug, not offering anything more.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, eating and drinking. I admit that I am almost relieved to hear that his family is nearly as messed up as mine. I feel as if he’s less likely to judge me because of it, and that makes me happy.

“So, you’ve got a couple of brothers, huh?” he asks. Michael’s words from the other night bite into me. “Older or younger?”

“They’re both way older than me. Evan by six years and Ricky by eight. By the time they graduated from high school, they were a couple of complete football-playing dicks, but looking back on it, I learned a lot about life because of them, I guess. I definitely learned to stand up for myself. And they kind of taught me how to watch my back. Mostly because they never had my back, so I had to look out for myself, you know? Let’s just say they did not turn out to be protective big brother types. Quite the opposite actually.” Not for the first time, I wonder what life would have been like if Michael had never entered our family. “What about you? Brothers or sisters?”

“Nah. It was just me,” he answers. “My parents didn’t even want the one they had, so they definitely weren’t going to make any more.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. I wonder how he knows his parents didn’t want him, but I decide I’d better not ask. I probably won’t like the answer.

We both empty our plates and finish our wine, and as I carry everything into the kitchen to wash up I realize I never actually thanked him for my fine-ass kitchen.

“Thank you, David, for my new kitchen,” I say as he follows me into the kitchen. “I love it, and I know that you said that Carl is paying for it, but I know that he really isn’t. I know it’s you. I still don’t understand why, but I am grateful for it.” I turn to him, and he’s looking thoughtfully at me.

“You’re welcome, Emma,” he says, looking borderline confused. “You should know, though, that I don’t do dishes either, so you’re out of luck there, too.”

I smirk at him. “Go home, David. Your ineptitude is exhausting.” He actually looks hurt. Really? I think he’s probably kidding, but I can’t quite tell. I decide I’d better try to salvage the conversation with further explanation, “Seriously, I have to be out the door by seven tomorrow to get to work on time, and I need to get a couple of things done tonight. Trust me, I’d love for for you to stick around, but I know what will happen if you do, and I need to get some sleep.” That should do it.

He throws his hands up in a pretend surrender. “Well, okay, then,” he says with a look of absolute surprise.

“What?” I thought he would want to leave. I thought he would be thrilled to be off the hook for anything beyond a free meal.

“You’re kicking me out,” he says, “and I’m surprised how much it pisses me off.”

“Sorry.” I shrug. “I’m not kicking you out, David, I’m letting you off the hook.”

“Off the hook, huh?”

“Yes, off the hook. That’s all. Now, go.”

“I won’t see you tomorrow, you know. Tuesday is poker,” he says as he walks toward the door. “I gotta pay off that fine-ass kitchen of yours.”

“Ahh, poker with the boys.” Damn, I forgot about that. Now I’m regretting letting him off the hook. His hand is on the doorknob. “Well, if you need some extra incentive to win tomorrow night,” I add, “you can just imagine me bending over my new countertop, ass up and wearing heels.”

He doesn’t turn around, but his body visibly stiffens. “That’s not incentive for me to win at poker, Emma, that’s incentive for me to throw myself at your feet.”

“Your choice,” I say. “But I think you may want to consider doing both.”

His back is still to me, and he bows his head and sighs as his hand twists the knob and opens the door.

“Good night, Emma,” he says as he walks out.

As soon as the door closes, I grab my phone and flip it open.

Good night to u too, David. And thanks...for everything.

I get no reply.

I kick off my shoes and head to the kitchen to clean up. By the time I am finished, it is nearly ten o’clock. I am exhausted. I walk into my bedroom to change and see something small and dark sitting on my bed. When I get closer, I see that it’s a handgun. Holy shit. I am dumbfounded. Where did it come from? David enters my mind immediately. But so do his friends. And so does Michael. What the fuck am I supposed to do? And then I notice a note sitting next to it.

I pick up the note and see right away that it is from David. It is not in Michael’s handwriting, and even though I know that David and his friends were here all day and there is no way Michael could have gotten in, an enormous pulse of relief smacks at me.

Emma—

Do me a favor—keep this please. Put it in a drawer or a shoebox or something. It will make me feel better. I’ll teach you how to use it, if you want.

Male coworkers can go a little crazy around pretty girls (especially those quiet engineer-types). Not to mention stepfathers.

David

PS. It’s loaded so be careful.

PSS. Your pepper spray is on the dresser. I don’t need it because I’m not interested in any of those half-naked whores. Only you.

What am I supposed to do? Should this make me angry? He obviously put the gun and note here long before I offered to make him dinner. Before our conversation about jealousy. Before our kiss in the kitchen. But most importantly, it happened before he reminded me that we have only known each other four days. Then it hits me: He wants to protect me. Jesus, for the first time in my life, someone wants to protect me. Where the hell was he fifteen years ago when I really needed to be protected? He was protecting himself, of course, while I was busy trying to do the same. He was right; we are two of the same.

I have no clue how to use a gun, nor do I have any interest in learning how. Still, having a gun is not a bad idea. Living alone for the first time in my life does make me a little nervous. I decide not to make an issue of it and put the gun carefully in the back of the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I agree to be protected.

Chapter Twelve

My alarm goes off at six, and I’m not sure why, but I open the bottom drawer of my nightstand and look at the gun. It scares me to have it there, so close to where I sleep, just beneath the picture of my mother and me looking so very happy. I pick up the gun, sit up and turn it over in my hand. It’s heavier than I remember it being last night, and I’m a little freaked out about the fact that it is loaded. I imagine what it would be like to shoot it. The most important thing I know about guns—okay, one of the only things I know about guns—is that they have a safety feature. I look for some kind of button or something, and I see what I assume is a safety slide. I don’t dare touch it, though, and decide that I will definitely ask David to show me how to use the damn thing. I sure as shit don’t want to wind up shooting myself by accident.

I put the gun back in the drawer and push it closed. Then I climb out of bed, shower, dress, and have some toast for breakfast. I am out the door by six-fifty.

The morning proceeds quickly at work. Matt is there to hold my hand through the initial stages of the design process we are assigned. He’s nice enough, but there is no doubt in my mind that he is here to make sure I don’t fuck up. We make small talk while we work, but I’m only feigning interest in what he has to say. I think he’s trying to impress me with stories of his mountain biking trips through Utah and partially clever jokes about the office politics. I listen politely and answer his occasional questions, but it feels so fregging superficial. I wish he wasn’t trying so hard. I’m trying not to get annoyed with Matt, and I figure that if I just keep my comments to a minimum, maybe he’ll realize that I’m not interested and start being himself. Of course I consider that maybe this is being himself; maybe posturing is his thing. Good lord, I hope not. If it is, this fucking project had better be over sooner rather than later.

At lunchtime, I walk to the cafeteria downstairs to grab something to eat. I check my cell and see that there is a text from David. It was sent at eight-thirty this morning. I inhale deeply and open the message.

All it says is Hi.

I type my reply and hit Send.

Hi back.

Ten seconds pass until his reply arrives.

I’m sorry, Emma. I forgot to ask u last night how your first day went.

It was fine. Day two going good too.

Glad to hear it.

What r u doing today?

Prepping for tonight.

Poker, u mean?

Yes.

Jesus, u need to prep for that? Really?

Yes really.

Hummm. How do I get invited?

U don’t want to be.

Is there fancy food involved or something? Caviar? Shrimp cocktail?

There is no cock, or tail, involved. I promise.

I feel eyes on me as I laugh out loud in line at the salad station.

Well then, I guess I don’t want to be invited after all....

Not unless u want to lose all the money u r earning at that new job.

I wouldn’t lose a dime.

Is that so?

Yes. If I take my shirt off, no one will even notice their cards.

Now THAT would be a sight to see.

Tell me where u r going to be and u can...

Tempting...but I can’t.

Suit yourself. See u Wednesday?

Wednesday it is. I have something I want to show u after work. Can I pick u up downtown?

Yes. In front of the Union Building. 6:00. I’ll b the one in heels.

Ass up?

I’ll consider it.

When two minutes pass and I don’t get a reply, I put my phone back into my purse. I pick out my lunch and head back upstairs to eat it at my desk.

The afternoon passes uneventfully. I work with Matt for another hour or so, then I spend the rest of the day in my cubicle working out how to split a video conferencing line to forty-seven different offices. I’ve got a good grip on this project, and I feel satisfied that the whole thing is moving along perfectly. At five-thirty, I gather my things and head home. I am looking forward to an evening by myself.

When I get back to my apartment, there is a man mowing the lawn in front of the building. He looks vaguely familiar. As I am walking up to the building, digging around in my purse for my keys, he cuts the mower engine. When the silence strikes, I look over at him to see what happened, and he’s just standing there looking at me. I recognize him now. He was the one sitting on David’s bed on Saturday night. I smile a half-smile at him, and continue to search for my keys.

When I find them, I go to open the door and see that the man is standing to my left, only a few paces away.

“Hey,” he says as he continues to walk toward me, “you’re Emma, right? David’s...um, friend?” Oh, this is going to be awkward. Very, very awkward.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say tartly. He offers his right hand for me to shake, but my own hand is already occupied with the keys. He stands with his hand out for a few seconds while I open the door and prop it open with my knee. Only then do I reach across myself to offer him my hand in return.

“My name is Brad,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you. David is a friend of mine. I helped him finish your kitchen yesterday. How do you like it?”

“It’s very nice. Thank you,” I say, wanting to go inside and be by myself.

“Yeah, it turned out pretty nice,” he says lightly. “David was a fucking slave driver, though. I think he wanted us the hell out of your apartment.” He is smiling at me, and I wonder if he knows precisely how true his statement really is. A few seconds pass, and I can tell he is waiting for my reply.

“Yeah, well...” I say quietly as I shrug.

“At any rate, I’m glad you like it,” he says kindly. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, then.” I can’t tell if it is meant as a question or a statement. “I’ll tell David that I met you when I see him later tonight.”

“Oh, you’re playing poker tonight, too?” My skin prickles. He is going to see David tonight and I am not. It isn’t envy I’m feeling—I don’t know what it is. “Where do you guys play?” I ask. Hell, if David won’t tell me, maybe Brad will.

“We play in the basement of some building. The guy who owns this building, Carl, he has a couple of other places, and so we play at one of them. It’s a shithole, but it’s private,” he says.

“Would you mind giving David a message for me when you see him tonight?” I ask. This is going to be fun.

“Sure. What is it?”

I pull off my shoe. It’s one of my favorite navy blue high heels. I hand it to Brad with a smile.

“Just give him this, and tell him I’ll need it back in time for work tomorrow.”

At first he looks at me as if I am from Mars. But then something sinks in, and a smile grows on his face. I smile back at him knowing that, yes, he probably would like a crack at me. He would have to take down David first, though, and I don’t see that happening. He shakes his head slowly and lets out a near-silent laugh.

“It’ll be my pleasure,” he says as he takes my shoe by the heel. He’s a handsome guy, this Brad, and at least as far as looks go, I can see why David didn’t want to introduce me. I hope I am not inciting a riot with my little game, but we did agree to nix the jealousy bullshit. Brad looks a little too excited with this opportunity, though, so I decide I’d better set a ground rule.

“But, you have to promise me that you won’t lead him to believe that you were the one that took it off me,” I say. “Because if he thinks for even one second that you and I did anything more than say ‘Hi’...” I raise my eyebrows and trail off, figuring that Brad knows David way better than I do. I’m sure he knows precisely what David will do to him if he thinks something happened between us.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I’ll make it perfectly clear that I am nothing more than the delivery boy. He already beats my ass at poker. I don’t need him beating my ass for this, too.”

“Thanks, Brad,” I say. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” he says as he tucks the heel of my shoe into the back pocket of his jeans. After I go inside, I turn to close the door behind me and see him restarting the lawn mower, the front of my shoe dangling out of his back pocket.

* * *

The next morning, I somehow manage to wake a few minutes before my alarm. I love it when that happens, and take it as a sign that I am well rested and settling nicely into my work routine. When I turn the alarm off, I smell something. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I know it isn’t a smell that belongs here. It’s an earthy mix of turpentine and tobacco. I prop myself up on my elbows and inhale again. It’s not a bad smell, just a curious one. It’s raw and masculine.

I click on my bedside lamp. I don’t see anything unusual about my room, and I begin to think that perhaps the smell is coming in through the closed windows. I swing my feet off the side of the bed and stand up. Sitting on top of the dresser, at the foot of my bed, is the navy blue shoe I had given to Brad. Shit. It means that David was here last night. Once again, I must have slept like a rock.

I pick up the shoe and smile, thinking about what David’s reaction must have been when Brad presented it to him. I’d bet my first paycheck he was pissed off, at least initially. Obviously Brad gave David my message; otherwise my shoe wouldn’t be here right now, so at least I know that Brad had the opportunity to explain how he got it before David went crazy on him. I begin to think my little stunt went off without a hitch.

I open my dresser drawer and pull out a clean pair of panties and a bra. I already have the rest of my clothes picked out for the day, and I walk over to my closet to get them out. Suddenly I understand where the smell is coming from. There on the floor next to my bed is David. He is naked from the waist up, his T-shirt bunched up underneath his head like a makeshift pillow. He is lying on his left side, his knees curled up toward his chest and his arms splayed out in front of him. I have been to enough high school and college parties to know that he is passed out drunk. As soon as I see him there, my mind deciphers the smell. It’s the whisky coming out of his pores, mingled with sexy-man-sweat and sweet cigar smoke. I suppose I should feel lucky that he didn’t puke. At least not in here, anyway.

I bend down closer. He is in a dead sleep, and I watch his chest rise and fall a few times before I sit down on the floor next to him. The birds are there, of course, twisted around his arms. I want to touch them, to lie down next to him, but I don’t. Instead, I just watch him. This is what he looks like when he sleeps. I like his stillness, his exposure. He is strangely perfect like this, asleep on my floor curled into himself.

I don’t wake him. Instead, I get my clothes out of the closet, grab both of my navy blue heels, and head to the bathroom, closing my bedroom door quietly behind me. Once I am showered and dressed, I eat a quick breakfast. Before I rush out the door, I pull a piece of paper out of my bag, write him a note, and put it on my little table.

See you at 6:00.

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