Ryan (Mallick Brothers #2)(2)

I put the food on the counter and poured myself a scotch, sitting down at the island and eating, pretending I wasn't fucking listening for sounds across the hall like some goddamn creep.

But I was.

And my stomach didn't unclench until I heard the door open, casual, muffled voices, footsteps, and the click of the door and the slide of the locks to Dusty's apartment.

Then I maybe spent too much time wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into involving those guys. Being a shut-in didn't leave her much in the way of work unless she wrote, blogged, telemarketed, or was an artist or some shit like that. So chances were, her involvement with those guys was a source of income for her.

And, well, there weren't a whole hell of a lot of options for her to be doing.

Holding money.

Holding drugs.

Or whoring herself out.

Judging by the way that she stiffened when the Bry guy touched her, I doubted it was the latter.

Which only left the other two unsavory choices. Both of which came with a level of danger for a woman living alone with no goddamn security system or even a fucking guard dog to protect her. And if she didn't have a security system or guard dog, I doubted she had a gun.

Stupid risk.

But it wasn't my business, I reminded myself as I scraped the remainder of my plate into the garbage, put the dishes in the sink, and made my way toward my bedroom to change.

And I didn't (read: absolutely did) make sure I got home at the same exact time the following Thursday and the one after that and the one after that, to make sure that Bry and his counterpart didn't cause any trouble with my pretty little agoraphobic neighbor.

Two of those times, I caught them on the way in. The last time, I caught them on the way out, snatching a small glance at Dusty as she closed her door, noticing she seemed a lot less tense to see them go than she did to see them arrive.

I could feel her watching me as I moved to put my key in my lock and as I moved to step inside, the urge to turn back to her was almost overwhelming.

So I did.

"Hey," I said, head ducked to the side a little to find her still looking at me, her lower lip caught in her teeth for a second until she heard me.

Then she jumped back like she hadn't expected I was even capable of speech.

"Ah, hi," she said, sliding backward on her hardwood floor in her silly kitten-printed socks, and slamming the door.

Why that shit made me grin like a kid on Christmas morning, yeah, I was not analyzing that.

But it was exactly what happened.





TWO





Dusty





I watched him.

Okay, that sounded really creepy.

I never watched him watched him.

Fine.

Sometimes I did.

I wasn't some kind of crazy stalker or anything like that. But when you lived in a cage, terrified of stepping outside of it, you tended to watch everyone else move around, living the life you wish you could live as well. It wasn't like he was the only person I watched.

I also watched the lady who lived two floors below. She was a pretty, young, single mom of a freckle-faced, redheaded daughter who was always beaming at her mom. My apartment window overlooked part of the parking lot out back and the small little common area the apartment building boasted that had two picnic tables that got painted on the third of April every single year, a swings set, and a small little play gym area.

So I would watch as the mom would climb out of her car, tired from a long shift somewhere that required her to wear lilac-purple scrubs and white non-slip shoes, her red hair falling out of its high, messy bun, looking as frazzled as frazzled could. But then she would get her daughter out of the backseat and she would jump up and down, looking like she was begging to go to the play area, and her mom would agree and she would dart off to play and the mom would follow, each minute she watched or chased around her little girl seeming to take hours of stress off her shoulders.



       
         
       
        

See, I watched her because she had something I wanted and couldn't have. She had a little kid who loved her, who thought she hung the moon and stars, who could take all her worries away with a simple laugh or smile.

And I watched him because he was another thing that I wanted and couldn't have.

A man.

Love.

Affection.

Companionship.

Sex.

A relationship.

Of course, there was also the fact that he was simply immensely watchable- being the living, breathing, walking, talking equivalent of some statue come to life.

He was beautiful.

Handsome.

Perfect, really.

He had strong, masculine features with his chiseled jaw, stern brow ridge, and strong, but not oversized, nose. His hair was black and perfectly cut whenever I saw him, like he never missed a barber appointment. His face was clean shaven most of the time, though I would occasionally catch him a little scruffy, a look I found particularly appealing on his serious face.

Then, oh yeah, there were the eyes. He had these light, piercing, impossibly gorgeous blue eyes.

And he always had a suit on.

Well, not always.

Three mornings a week, he left early in the morning, so early that the sun was barely up, in black basketball shorts and a tight tee, his iPod in a holder on his bicep and would come back all sweaty from his run. And on Wednesdays, he would come home in the evening in gym clothes.

But literally any other time I had seen him, he was in a suit. And he filled them out really well.

So I watched him come and go.

He had a nice car. A really nice car to go along with his really nice suits and his really nice watches that he still used to check the time on instead of his cell; it was an old-fashioned little trait I found immensely appealing for some reason. The car was new and sleek and black and while I couldn't hear it because the windows in my living room didn't open, I just knew it didn't roar, it purred.

Speaking of purring, Rocky had just hopped up on my white mail table just inside the door, knocking off a pile of carefully organized bills in the process, and rubbing his head into my arm.

"Hey, Mr. Rochester," I said, exhaling so hard that I would swear it was a sigh as I reached out to pet his little flat orange face. As a Persian, he perpetually looked grumpy. It went with his character and his name that he in fact was perpetually in a bad mood. "You hungry?" I asked, taking his head butt as a yes as I turned away from my door.

The day before, he had said 'hey' to me.

And I about had a stroke.

See, I wasn't a freak. Until about two years before, I was a pretty normal person who had normal interactions with people (men included). I even dated and had relationships. Granted, I was always a bit on the anxious side and ran toward shy in social situations and especially in the presence of the opposite sex, but I interacted with them on a pretty daily basis. 

But ever since two years before, the only men I ever spoke to were my uncle, Bry, and his partner Carl. That was it.

So my reaction was, well, just surprise I guess.

He talked to me, in that perfect deep, smooth, shiver-inducing voice of his.

And I had made a right fool of myself.

Because that was just par for the course in my life.

It shouldn't have mattered. It wasn't like it was ever going to happen again. He had moved in a year before and that was the first time he had ever attempted conversation. The chances that he would again, especially after such an idiotic display, were slim to none.

But it still mattered.

It was just yet another thing to feel shitty about myself over. I was good at that. The overthinking, overanalyzing, over-everything-ing.

That was my specialty.

Well, that and learning how to do literally everything I needed to do from the comfort of my prison. I mean, apartment. Apartment.

It was a nice apartment too. I had spent a lot of time trying to get it to the perfect comfort-level for myself. That meant that it was generally very bright and airy. The walls were a very light sage green and I had nothing on the windows except white sheers so the sunlight could stream in from everywhere. All the wood in the space was white, from the kitchen cabinets to my coffee table and TV stand. My couch was patch-work style, all different patterns, but all the colors a bit muted, nothing loud, nothing overwhelming.

I used to like bold.

My old apartment had been a mismatch of different colors and styles and artwork and craziness. Beaded doors here, bright red walls there, huge canvas art everywhere. Nothing matched, but somehow it always worked. My clothes were always strewn about and my dishes perpetually undone.

It was chaos.

Once upon a time, I had thrived on it.

Now, nothing scared me more.

So my house was almost OCD tidy. Everything had a place and was in it. My dishes were cleaned as soon as I finished a meal. Everything worked together style-wise. My clothes were in the closet or hamper or washer/dryer combo I had installed in my coat closet after begging and pleading (via email) the super allow me to do so.

I reached into the cabinet and grabbed a can of Rocky's food, putting it into the bowl and rinsing out the tin and putting it in my recycling before moving off toward the hall that led to my bedroom.

The walls were a slightly lighter shade of sage and my bedding was all white. The nightstands on either side of the bed and the lamps on them were white as well.

Order.

Always.

I went into my closet and grabbed a robe then made my way into the bathroom that was all white when I moved in. The only difference from then to now was the fact that I had a very big, very modern, very fancy soaking tub installed. I had saved up for it for six months before I indulged.