The Offer(28)
I also can tell the girls aren’t faking it, which means Bram is pretty damn good at what he does. Their cries in the heat of passion all sound surprised, like they can’t believe such pleasure could happen to them. I guess the mottos about him are true – one night in his bed and your legs are forever spread.
Meanwhile there’s me, who isn’t seeing anyone and the last time I got off was in the shower a few days ago with my BOB, my Battery Operated Boyfriend. He’s the closest thing to a sexual relationship I’ve got at the moment and I’m starting to like his dependability.
I get the paper from the mailbox in the lobby and then head back upstairs. While I’m approaching my apartment, I see the door to Bram’s open. My heart stills for a moment – I don’t know why – but then I see a girl with a dramatic bob exit. She’s wearing a black leather miniskirt that I can tell is faux leather, a crop top that looks like the glitter fairy vomited all over it and is carrying her Valentino knock-offs in her hands. She’s got day-old mascara under her eyes.
Good ol’ walk of shame.
She sees me and smiles sheepishly. “Hi.”
“Hello,” I say to her as I open my door. “I like your shoes.” I mean, that’s not entirely true, but I do like the real versions.
“Oh.” She eyes them, flustered. “Thanks.”
I watch as she walks quickly down the hall and disappears into the stairwell, as if she’s fleeing the scene of a crime.
Suddenly Bram’s door reopens and he pokes his head out, his dark hair tussled, the definition of bedhead. He’s looking down the empty hall and then he notices me and gives me a cocksure smile. “Is she gone?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “Like a bat out of hell.”
“Excellent album,” he says. Then adds, “Meatloaf. The singer.”
“I know who Meatloaf is,” I tell him, moving to go inside my own apartment.
“Hey,” he says quickly, and steps out from behind his door. He’s just wearing a t-shirt and his boxer briefs. They are grey. They are David Beckham’s. They are that close that I can read the label. And they seem a size too small for all the junk he’s packing in there.
“Oh my God,” I say, covering my eyes and turning away. “Can you please put on some pants?”
“Prude,” he says with a sniff. “There’s nothing obscene about underwear.”
Maybe not for the average man, but for you, yeah there is, I think. But don’t dare say that, lest I add to his already over-inflated ego. I can’t help but think what both Steph and Kayla had said about Linden being well-hung and I can deduce that it certainly runs in the family.
“I just wanted to ask you something,” he goes on and he sounds just serious enough that I turn around and look at him, keeping my eyes trained up there and nowhere else. I’m not even sure if I’m blinking. “Two things actually.”
“What?” I sound impatient. I just want to go back inside.
“I hope we weren’t too loud,” he says. “You know, I never asked the previous tenants if they could hear my, erm, antics in the bedroom. And every room. You know how it goes. But I can ask you.”
“What makes you think you can ask me that?”
He shrugs. “I’m going to assume now that you can hear me.”
“I use earplugs,” I tell him. Which is true. I use them every night and shove them so far down I’m pretty sure they might come out my nose one day. As soon as I get more money, I think I’m going to take stock in an earplug company.
“Too bad, you’re missing quite the show.”
I give him a dirty look. “Did anyone ever tell you how inappropriate you are?”
“Yes, many times.” He jerks his chin at me. “But knowing your wall is just as thin, don’t feel like you have to be quiet when – if – you ever bring a man over. I don’t mind. I like to listen.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Why is it so hard for you to stay decent?”
“Must be in my genes,” he muses, leaning against the doorframe, jutting out his pelvis just so. I refuse to look even though I agree with his statement.
“Do I dare ask what the other thing is?” I say. I don’t even know why I’m humoring him and not shutting the door in his face. I’d hate to think I find something fun and amusing about our little interactions. He’s kind of like the kid in grade school who used to pull your hair.
“Ah, yes,” he says with a wicked grin. “Given the lack of sexual activity in your apartment and your refusal to take even one peek at my knickers, I’m curious if you’ve ever had sex before. I mean, I know you have a daughter but you hear about these virgin births all the time.”