I grin and a few more moments pass of us just breathing.
“Let me in, Sugar. I need…I need to see you. Just let me give you a hug and I’ll leave.”
Another voice interrupts us and I recognize it as the girl from across the hall, a stocky rodeo chick. Whenever I see her approaching in the hall, I always give her a wide berth. “Oh, for God’s sake, open the damn door already, or I’m calling security! A person needs their sleep in this dump!”
Z huffs out a chuckle, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Fine.
I crack open the door and there he is.
He’s standing up now and he leans against my doorjamb, wearing black running gear from head to toe. There’s a serious expression on his face, and his hair is wild and flying everywhere as if it has static in it. Static hair is such a regular human thing and it’s nice to see, because honestly I was beginning to think of him as very non-human with that face and body.
“You look like a burglar who stuck his finger in a light socket,” I murmur.
He shoves a black knit hat down on his head. “You should have seen me when I had this on—cat burglar extraordinaire. I had to slip in through the side door because the girl at the front desk told me visiting hours were over for this floor.”
“Alas, I got housing so late, I have sucky hours. They call this dorm The Virgin Vault.”
His brows go up. “You trying out being a nun?”
I give him a look. “We just had sex in a garage—does that sound nunnish to you? And yes, I know that’s not a real word.”
He grins. “Let me in?”
“CHRIST, LET HIM IN!” comes from the door across the hall.
“You should definitely listen to her.”
“You’ve worn me down at this point, plus I’ve had a drink, so I’m willing to hear your apology,” I say.
I step to the side so he can brush past me. Of course my gaze follows his physique. Mr. Black Spandex is hot and every muscle in his backside ripples. I sigh—I can’t help it. He turns around and catches me checking him out. Moving with a swift athletic grace, he sweeps me up in his arms and hugs me, his voice gruff when he speaks. “See, hugging is good.”
I slide down him, my body pressed tight against his.
He frowns, looking down at my shirt. There’s a white logo on the front of a girl sliding down a pole. “You’re a stripper?”
I stiffen. I’ve learned that some people get weird when they find out where I work. I once had a professor who discovered it and pulled me aside after class one day and got a little too close when he asked what nights I worked. Just no. I was glad when that class ended. “Would it bother you if I were?”
“Fuck yeah. I don’t want anyone looking at you like that.”
I cross my arms. “As it happens, I don’t strip, but if I did, it would be fine. Mara owns BB’s and I mostly do office work and sometimes tend bar.”
His lips compress.
“What?” I ask.
He rubs his face. “Just…I don’t know. It’s not a safe place to work, even if you’re not…”
“It is. Mara runs a tight ship. We have bouncers and our place is clean. Plus, some of the girls are like family to me.”
His chest rises.
“Z, you have no right to judge where I work. Don’t even try.”
“I know, I know. Just…maybe I should come check it out.”
“I can handle myself. You have no clue how I grew up, okay? Hockey in the suburbs is your normal, and hanging out at a strip club is mine. It doesn’t mean I have questionable morals. In fact, Bennett was my first.”
He frowns and holds a hand up. “Okay, just stop and let me back up. I know you’re not a bad person. I’m just…surprised.”
“I didn’t grow up rich.”
His face softens. “And I like you the way you are. I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”
“Good.”
“Nice place,” he says as he walks toward what is obviously my side of the room since the TV is on. He takes in my white duvet and fluffy pillows.
“It’s not, but it’s all that was left. I was supposed to move in with Bennett this semester.” I move to the desk where the bottle of vodka sits. “You want a drink or a donut?”
He surveys the room, taking in my books before his eyes land on the vase of flowers. “Nah.” He picks at one of the blooms. “An admirer?”
I detect a steely glint in his eyes.
“My ex. They were here when I came home tonight.”
His nose flares. “I see.”
“He leaves gifts for me, trying to get me to talk to him.”
His shoulders stiffen. “Are you still in love with him?”
“He cheated on me. He lied.”
He stares at me. “That doesn’t mean you don’t still love him.”
I pause, thinking.
There are residual feelings of loneliness, especially hurt, but he tossed me aside to be with someone else on a whim, and that…that I can never get over no matter how many flowers he sends me.
“I don’t love him.”
“Good.”
An easy silence fills the room, as if the tension has dissipated, and his gaze washes over me. I tug at the tank I’m wearing, but really what’s the point? I’m braless and he knows what I look like.
“I have to say, it’s a nice look for you,” he murmurs. “Now we just need a stripper pole in here…”
I roll my eyes, go to my closet, pull out an HU fleece jacket, and jab my arms into it while he looks around the room.
I watch him warily as he paces around my space, taking in the bookshelves bolted to the wall and the attached desk where I have my laptop. He stops a few feet from my bed and takes in the collage of Post-it notes I’ve stuck up above it. They’re all done in hot pink and neon yellow and it’s quite garish, but I get a buzz when I read them.
He leans in over my bed. “Modern art?”
I snort. “More like modern shit.”
He plucks one of the squares of paper and stares down at it.
I shuffle my feet and take a seat on the chair next to the TV. I want to keep as much distance between him and me as I can, and I tug at the edges of my soft jacket, not quite meeting his gaze. “Those are my way of dealing with Bennett. We broke up in December, and coupled with the holidays, it was rough.”
His gaze goes to the daisies in the corner. “Bennett Walsh, lead singer of the Orange Bird band, generally a popular guy and might well be on his way to a big-time music career? Am I right?”
My mouth pops open. “You asked around about me?”
He shrugs. “After he was thrown in my face, I had to go look him up.”
I chuckle. “You can’t keep up with my stalking skills, Z.”
He looks down at the Post-it, his gaze thoughtful, and I say, “Go on, read it. It made me feel good to write those.”
He clears his throat. “Dear Future Boyfriend.” He pauses. “Is this to anyone in particular?”
“No.”
He nods, continuing. “Dear Future Boyfriend, Thank you for not taking mirror selfies of your hot bod and posting them on social media. Also thank you for not sending me the poop emoji when you text me.” He throws his head back and laughs. “He did these things?”
“The man has no boundaries.”
With an intrigued expression on his face, he plucks down another one. “Dear Future Boyfriend, Thank you for not calling me babe.” His eyes widen. “Shit, you really, really do have a thing about that.”
“Indeed.” I take a sip of my drink.
He snatches another one, glee on his face.
“Those are really personal, you know. It’s kind of a big deal to let you see them.”
“How else will I get to know my new girlfriend?”
“Fake girlfriend, and are we still together?”
“Miss Ryan, hell yes we are still together. Tonight was just a bump in the road.”
I blush. Okaaay.
He clears his throat. “Dear Future Boyfriend, You singing “I Want It That Way” to me last night at the karaoke bar was the highlight of my week. I promise you a blowjob later.” He bends over, laughing.
“What?” I say indignantly.
He grabs his stomach. “The Backstreet Boys? For real?”
I snatch the note out of his fingers. “That song is iconic. It’s got depth and love and angst and—”
“’Ain't nothin’ but a heartache,” he sings out with a hand over his heart.
“You’re mocking me, and your voice is shit.”
“You’re cute when you get mad.” He takes down another. “Dear Future Boyfriend, Thank you for binge-watching The Office with me and agreeing that Jim Halpert is the second sexiest man alive next to you.” He laughs and looks up at me.
I shrug. “All my secrets are revealed.”
“This is addicting,” he murmurs as he takes another one.
“You don’t have to read them all. There are so many.”
“But I like it. It’s like putting a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle together slowly. You’re a complicated person, Sugar.”
“Ditto.”
“Last one,” he says, looking down at the note. “Dear Future Boyfriend, Thank you for forgetting about the Super Bowl and taking a bubble bath with me instead.” He fingers the paper slowly, rubbing it softly, and his eyes are warm when they meet mine. “We can definitely do this one. I’m not a football fan—”