“Mmhm, Yep.”
“You hooked up with a guy, At. The. Bar? Like, in the bathroom?” he asks, confusion is clear in his tone.
Shit. I realize the error in my story, but it’s too late to turn back now.
“Yes. That is what I said,” I press my eyes shut, shaking my head at my stupidity.
“Uh…ok,” Kit says after a beat. “So, you want to hang out?”
“I’m starving. Let’s meet at Deliah’s,” I say, thankful for the change in topic.
Five minutes later, I’m in the shower. I wash my long hair and let the water run down my body, washing away whatever the hell I spent last night doing. I adjust the temperature several times, but nothing seems to change- lukewarm it is. I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a plush bath towel, combing my hair quickly before heading toward the closet on the bedroom side of my studio. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and my feet freeze on the hardwood. The familiar sensation of being watched prickles my skin. My stomach drops at the thought, and I immediately regret not turning on any lights before showering.
I spin around quickly, tightening my grip on the towel wrapped around my chest. My eyes dart around the room, stopping at the kitchen, or more accurately, the man now standing in my kitchen. I swallow hard, lost for words as I stare at the shadowed stranger casually leaning against the counter, drinking what appears to be a beer. His eyes are bright, like polished silver. Even in the moonlit room, I can see them locked on mine for a second, boring into me intensely. Then they shift lower, scanning my wet, barely covered body.
My own eyes snap to the switch on the wall beside him. The switch that turns on the overhead light. It doesn’t make any sense, the desperate need I feel to have the room lit up. I mean, I’m in a towel; if anything, it will make this man’s view clearer, but there is something familiar about his shape, the way he holds his beer, my beer, I realize. Whatever the reason, I need to see his face. My attention moves back to his silhouette. His body shifts slightly, and the light turns on.
“Ahhg!” I shout. My eyes begin to burn beneath the light, and I snap them shut, covering them with the hand not clutching my towel for good measure. “What the fuck!”
“You wanted the light on,” he says. His voice is low and velvety like smooth dark chocolate with just a hint of bitterness.
“What, are you a mind reader or something?” I ask, peppering my words with cold sarcasm. The burning in my eyes has subsided, but I know the light is still on. I can practically smell the heat radiating from the bulb.
“No, but you were staring at the light switch, so It seemed like a solid deduction,” he chuckles lightly.
With my eyes shut, I can feel my other sense picking up the slack. I hear him raise the bottle to his mouth, take a short sip, and slowly lick his lips. I breathe in a spicy scent I didn’t notice a moment ago- the perfect balance of cinnamon and sandalwood, his scent. My breaths are shallow, and my heart is racing, I should be scared. This guy broke into my apartment after all, but I’m not afraid. I’m curious, intrigued even.
“Well, are you going to turn it the hell off?” I snap.
“Sure, since you asked so nicely,” he says. Something about his voice is intoxicating in a way I’ve never experienced before. Part of me wants him to keep talking just so I can listen to the honey in his tone. The rest of me knows that’s seriously weird. I should be terrified of the strange man who broke into my apartment for god knows what reason, and I can’t help but wonder why I’m not. I’ve never been particularly afraid of dying, I guess that’s one of the perks of being a damaged, ex-drug addict. I’ve already hit rock bottom, almost died, and made a pretty impressive comeback, so every day at this point is a bonus, right? My lack of self-preservation instincts aside, I would like to know why he broke into my apartment, I assume it wasn’t solely for the overpriced organic beer he stole from my fridge.
Click, I hear the light switch off, and the sizzling hot scent from the bulb dulls, clearing as soon as I open my eyes. I blink to clear my vision, and I’m surprised to find that I can see him clearly now even though the room has returned to darkness. The light is off, and the thin cotton curtains are mostly closed, only letting a small amount of moonlight in. I stare into his icy gray eyes before searching his face, for what, I have no idea. Something about this guy is familiar, I’ve definitely seen him before, but the when and where are unclear.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?” I ask. My anger is growing by the second, and I feel an intense heat traveling through my body, like the warmth from a shot of whiskey, only hotter and faster.
“I would hardly call this an apartment, dear. I can touch your refrigerator and bed at the same time,” he scoffs.
“Rude!” I exclaim. “This apartment is in a fantastic location, and I’m a pretty low key person. I don’t need a ton of space. And why am I justifying my living arrangements to you?” I narrow my eyes and bite down on my molars, huffing out a frustrated breath. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m hurt,” he says. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I thought we really connected last night.” The words slip through his perfect teeth and crooked smile, and my memory sparks, catching like wildfire after a long, dry summer.
Kit and I are standing at the bar, he leans his bare forearms on its weathered wooden surface. My eyes are drawn to the corded muscles that travel up his arms to the snug cuffs of his casual t-shirt. How is he still single? I wonder. The boy is like family, but I’m not blind. I know Kit is a good looking guy, and his toned, lean muscles are the cherry on top of the golden boy cake. Rich, gorgeous, stable. No brainer, right? Unfortunately for me, even if he wasn’t off-limits for complicated reasons, he’s not my type. I like my guys tall, dark and damaged, and trust me. I can spot the really broken ones from a mile away. The bartender slides eight shots and two empty glasses toward Kit, he drops a one hundred dollar bill on the bar with a wink. I roll my eyes dramatically as he passes four shots and a glass my way.
“Sure you’re up for this?” he asks. His brown eyes light up with challenge, and I comb my long chestnut hair back with my fingers, flipping it over my shoulder and out of the way.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I flash him a quick smile, and he nods. Game on. I pour four shots into my empty glass and look up in time to see Kit finish at the same time. We each slap the bar and shout, “The four horseman!”
I down my shots in three gulps, slamming my glass onto the bar. A few seconds later, Kit places his glass on the bar beside mine. He shakes his head and smiles.
“I thought I had you for a second.”
“Never,” I laugh.
We both know I started downing shots long before he ever broke curfew, and aside from a few slip-ups, I’ve never lost this game. I’m a seasoned pro, but our Saturday night tradition is one of my favorite parts of the week. Starting the night with Jim, Jack, Johnnie, and James is also a great way to kick off a night with a solid buzz.
“Always,” Kit says. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the bartender leans across the bar, playfully grabbing his broad shoulder. She tilts her head toward the back of the room, raising her eyebrows. He glances at me like he’s waiting for me to weigh in on her offer. I shrug and arch a brow in response.