“I don’t think he moved an inch all night.”
“Dezi is a pretty heavy drinker when he goes out. So him getting that shit-faced is rare,” I told her. “I hope those women got home okay,” I added, suddenly worried about them. I mean, if Dezi was that wasted, I couldn’t imagine what those women were like.
“Party bus,” Dezi mumbled, making me look down at him.
“Is he talking in his sleep?” Abigail asked.
“Nah, pretty lady,” Dezi said, his eyes slitting open to look at Abigail. “Those ladies had a party bus. Someone’s brother was hanging around like a chaperone. I wouldn’t have left ‘em if it wasn’t safe,” he added, pulling up to lean back against my bed as he reached inside his crushed box for a powdered donut, looking at its smushed appearance for a second before shrugging and taking a big bite.
“You’re not hungover?” Abigail asked, shaking her head at him as she sat up in bed.
“Me? Not since I was thirteen,” Dezi said, winking at her.
“You’ve been drinking since you were thirteen?” Abs asked, eyes widening.
“Only a couple times a week. So, a place this fancy has to have a breakfast spread, right?” Dezi asked, shoving the rest of the donut into his mouth, then jumping to his feet.
“Yes,” I confirmed, shaking my head at him as he reached for another stale donut.
“I’m gonna hit it before I get back to the clubhouse. You guys want anything?” he asked, pointing between us a couple of times, fully energized and ready to go, despite the crazy night he’d just had.
Oh, to be young with the liquor tolerance of a fucking troll.
“I’m not even awake yet,” Abigail said, shaking her head.
“We will grab something on our way out,” I told him.
“Alright. Suit yourselves,” Dezi said, making his way toward the door. “I hope they have those little boxes of cereal,” he said, mostly to himself, as he made his way out.
“How does he get up and moving so fast?” Abigail asked, sighing hard as she put her feet on the floor. “I didn’t even drink last night and my head isn’t even working properly yet.”
“Dezi’s an enigma,” I said, shrugging. “What time do you want to head over to the apartment today?”
At that, her eyes brightened.
“Like five minutes ago,” she declared, hopping up, and rushing over toward the closet to grab an outfit. “Give me ten minutes,” she added, going over to the bathroom.
“Take your time. We have all day,” I reminded her as I reached for my phone to text the landlord.
Those words fell on deaf ears, though, because Abigail rushed through getting dressed so fast that she stumbled twice and dropped a bunch of shit off the counter and onto the floor in her haste.
I couldn’t help but smile at her excitement, though, as I grabbed my charger and cut.
She emerged less than five minutes later, fresh-faced with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and bright, happy eyes.
It took a lot of fucking self-preservation not to reach for her again right then. To take her back to the bed now that Dezi would be distracted, and we wouldn’t have any interruptions.
But I couldn’t.
It wasn’t right.
She needed space.
And I needed to fucking respect that.
“Ready?” I asked, tucking my wallet into my pocket.
“For a ride on your death machine? Not quite. But to check out the apartment? Totally.”
Fuck.
The bike.
Her arms holding on tight. Her breasts crushed to my back. Her thighs wrapped around mine.
Christ.
I should have taken an ice-cold shower. I should have taken matters into my own hand. Maybe then I would be able to think fucking straight.
As it was, I braced myself for the discomfort, and tried to have my head wander anywhere but to the woman nestled behind me on the bike on the short ride over to the apartment.
“Any rules about fixing shit up in there?” I asked the landlord as we stood on the street out front of the boarded-up shop his father used to run.
“Nah, man. Do whatever you want. Anything would be an improvement,” he added, wincing a bit at the admission. “Got the month left on the dumpster out back too if you need it. And, ah, shit. What else are landlords supposed to say?” he asked, clearly out of his element. “Oh, yeah. Pets,” he said, looking over at the pet store. “I don’t give a shit,” he added, shrugging. “I mean, if it wrecks the joint, you just lose your security deposit, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, nodding.
“Alright. Good. Yeah. That’s it then, right? Unless you want a tour.”
“I think we can manage,” I said, taking the key.
“Alright. Good. Good. Enjoy,” he said, giving Abigail a tight smile as she bounced on her heels, wanting to get the technical shit over so she could go and check out the place.
“Do the honors,” I invited as we went in the side entrance that had a small foyer and a staircase leading up.
I was pleased to notice the steps creaked up a fucking storm as we went up them. There was no way anyone could come up on them without making a racket. We’d hear anyone coming.
The door would need some better locks. Maybe a security system, depending on how shit went.
As for the apartment itself, it wasn’t a whole lot to write home about. There was a living space that led right into the kitchen with a small space to the side where a dining table was likely supposed to go. The appliances were dated, but not so dated that they wouldn’t work.
The short hallway had a linen closet, a full bathroom with some truly heinous green tile on the floors and walls, then one bedroom that would maybe fit a queen bed if you were willing to sacrifice one nightstand for the bigger sleep space.
“It’s amazing,” Abigail declared when we finished the short walkthrough.
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath for her opinion until it rushed out of me, sounding a lot like relief. Because, quite frankly, I wouldn’t have been surprised or offended if she declared it was hideous. Since it pretty much was.
“Yeah?” I asked, brows knitting. “Are we looking at the same apartment, love?” I added, smirking at her.
“No. I like that it’s kind of ugly, y’know? The uglier it is, the prettier it can be made, right?”
“That’s a very glass-half-full way of looking at it,” I said, nodding.
“I’ve never had a space I could decorate before,” she told me. “I mean, of course, your opinion counts more, but—“
“Nope. I’m gonna stop you right there,” I cut her off. “Your opinion is all that matters when it comes to fixing this place up.”
“No, that’s ridiculous. You’re the one paying for everything.”
“It’s your apartment. I don’t give a fuck if you want to paint it all Pepto fucking pink, love. Let your imagination run wild with it.”
“Cary…” she said, shaking her head.
“Hey,” I said, reaching out, snagging her chin, and jerking it up. “We’ve been over this, haven’t we? Don’t worry about what I think. And, while you’re at it, don’t go worrying about the cost of fixing it up either. I want to do this.”