As I turned on my street, I noodled on his comment briefly. Was I that transparent with my little bout of lust for her? No way. That wasn’t possible. I’d never let on that I’d had a single stray dirty thought about her. I tossed back a question, deflecting. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re you, and she’s her, and you two have that weird mind meld going on half the time we’re all together,” he said, and I breathed a sigh of relief that nothing more was obvious to him.
“Just good friends. I still have the burn marks on my back from Rose. I’m not interested in anything right now,” I said, telling the truth as I mentioned my ex. I didn’t want to be involved with anyone, and Nina was the kind of girl who didn’t do one-night stands. Plus, I didn’t think Nina and I could ever be compatible in certain other ways. She was a good girl. And I was the type of guy who corrupted good girls.
“Which means you’re keeping her warm at night with your sweet, charming personality? Got it,” he said, returning to trash talk, like he often did.
“Sweet?” I asked with a scoff. “Sweet is for candy, and I don’t care for candy. But charming? I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you very much. And I’m spending the night again because the painters aren’t done.”
“Ah, yes, more proof that you’re into her.”
“Because I don’t want to inhale fumes while I sleep?”
“You could have asked to crash at my place,” Jake answered. “But you didn’t. You’re crashing with her.”
“She’s down the hall, and you’re a mile away,” I said, pointing out the obvious.
“A mile is not that far, and I’m not personally offended that you didn’t ask. I’m just saying, actions speak louder than words, and yours say you have it bad for your neighbor.”
But if actions spoke, so did inaction. I’d never pursued anything with Nina, and therefore I was in the clear. “No, my actions say I’m a wise man, choosing to keep my commute exactly the same.”
“Yes, your commute. Of course.” I could practically hear him roll his eyes.
“And on that sarcastic note, I definitely look forward to you buying all the drinks this weekend,” I said, then we ended the call when I pulled into the building lot and headed for the elevator, shooting up to the tenth floor as I replied to the painter, letting him know that two more days was fine, but I hoped they’d be done no later. My parents were flying out next week and would be staying in the guest room.
When I reached Nina’s door, I rapped twice. I didn’t want to barge in on her. Growing up with sisters, you learned to knock on every door every time or else they’d put your head in a sling. I was bigger, taller, and stronger than my two sisters, but that didn’t matter. There was nothing, no death ray, no tractor beam, no master ninja move stronger than the headlock administered by a sister who’d been walked in on.
But Nina didn’t respond, so I took out the key and unlocked the door.
“Yoo-hoo. Honey, I’m home,” I joked, calling out when I was inside.
It had become my regular greeting the last few nights. She’d usually respond with something like “I’m just grabbing the casserole from the oven” or “Let me take my curlers out.”
But the walls echoed. She wasn’t here.
She’d probably headed out for a quick errand or to grab an Earl Grey latte at her favorite shop down the street. The woman was addicted.
I dropped my keys on the entryway table, scanning her place, as had become my custom these last few days. It was so her, so feminine but not girly. Pillows in rich royal shades of purple and blue lined her couch, and framed photos of snowfalls, autumn leaves, and sun-drenched beaches hung on the walls. Her photos, since she snapped landscapes when she wasn’t shooting bodies.
As I surveyed the scene, my eyes landed on a Post-it note on the fridge. Adam, did you know that the heat shield for the Apollo missions could sustain temperatures of up to five thousand degrees Fahrenheit? Can you even imagine how hot that is?
Smiling, I grabbed the note and folded it up, tucking it into my pocket. I opened the fridge, cracked open a beer, and scrolled through the Whole Foods app to place a dinner order for tonight, adding red, orange, and green peppers, along with carrots and chicken for the stir-fry I’d make.
As I hit send, my phone dinged with a new voicemail on my messenger app. It was from my buddy Brandon, who worked in Paris now. Ah, he must have snagged the number of a TV writer he’d been trying to track down for me, a hotshot who he thought might be perfect for one of the shows my company was helming.
I hit play as he rattled off his usual variation on a greeting—“a stunning redhead walking down the street just stopped to give me her number”—yes, his usual greetings were details of his alleged prowess with the French women.
I laughed because he was so full of shit. Well, he’d never had a problem with the ladies in college, but we both knew he wasn’t trying to get strangers to stop, drop, and get on their knees for him. He was all talk. All facade. It was how he dealt with a past he wasn’t over yet.
Someday I hoped he would be. Someday soon.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered as I laughed. “Get to the good stuff.”
He reeled off the screenwriter’s name and number so quickly I blinked, missing most of it.
Grabbing a pen, I hunted around for a sheet of paper when I spotted one of Nina’s ever-present notebooks. I crossed the distance to the kitchen counter to write down the number.
As I replayed the message, I flipped open the notebook to scratch down the digits, but the second I saw her writing on the page, the pen slipped from my fingers.
The voice on the message turned Charlie Brown–warbly.
My head swam with images.
What on earth was I looking at?
Was this what I thought it was?
This fantastic, delicious, filthy list.
In sweet, clever, brainy Nina’s handwriting.
My friend.
My neighbor.
My deliciously depraved friend and neighbor.
I shouldn’t have looked, but hell if I could tear my eyes away now.
4
Adam
Arousal kicked in as soon as I read the first item on the list. When I reached the second, I was hard as a rock. And as I finished the third, I was sure I’d be imitating a skyscraper for days.
1. Get down on my knees.
2. Beg for it.
3. Talk dirty to me.
Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I exhaled roughly.
This. List.
This filthy, fantastic list.
It didn’t end there. More items filled the page, fantasy after filthy fantasy, elaborately detailed. Numbers four, five, six, seven, eight, and then nine.
Holy hell. The last few words of nine sent the temperature in me skyrocketing. F*ck me hard, f*ck me good, f*ck me for the first time.
My eyes devoured them all, my body heating like a supernova. I was a spacecraft about to re-enter Earth’s atmosphere, tearing through the atmosphere at five thousand degrees Fahrenheit or hotter.
Could I imagine it? Hell, yes. I was living it right now.
I shook my head, like I was trying to wake myself up in case this was a dream. The red-hot, dirty dream of discovering the girl-next-door’s fantasies, all of them.
Except for one that wasn’t finished. Number eleven—it looked like she’d started something with the word watch in it, but hadn’t finished.
No matter. The rest was clear and explicit.
My skin sizzled as I read it again, my mouth watering at every item on this sexual bucket list.
Including number ten.
That one taunted me the most.
I tugged at my shirt collar.
Stepping away from the list, I paced around the kitchen. I was an explorer who’d stumbled across a precious artifact, one that had great and formidable powers.
My mind assembled the movie reel of her list, frame after debauched frame. Nina bent over
the couch, ass in the air. Nina on her knees, her wrists tied behind her back. Nina begging, pleading, crying out for my shaft.
I flinched, surprised at the ruthless immediacy of the film in my head, the shamelessly erotic way I’d spliced together all the images to add me into the credits of her fantasy cast.
I was surprised, too, at the hammering of my pulse.
The rushing of my blood.
And the relentless desire her list stirred in me. This was more than simply being turned on by an idea.
I was turned on by the idea of her, in all these positions.
I swallowed roughly, turning around, walking back to the counter. I slammed the notebook shut, the illustrated owl on the front cover staring back at me with a grin across his feathered face. Like he knew something.
Like he was trying to tell me something.
What words of advice did the owl have for me?
I nearly smacked myself.
“Get it together,” I muttered. “You’re talking to an illustrated owl.”
A wise man would have walked away. A wise man would pretend he’d never seen it and shove the list into the trunk in the back of his brain, locking it up and throwing away the key.
I’d thought I was a wise man. I’d vowed to become one after Rose pulled the wool over my trusting eyes, using me.
But right now, I didn’t feel wise, and I didn’t feel used.
I felt hungry.
Ravenous was more like it, and I wanted to devour my good friend.
Because according to this list, Nina—beautiful, sassy, captivating Nina—was a virgin.
A virgin with a naughty appetite.
And, it seemed, judging from number ten—find the man to give me this list—she was a virgin on an erotic mission.
I’d seen what happened to women who tangled with the wrong men. I’d witnessed far too much heartbreak from my sisters when they got involved with bad boys they hoped to turn into good guys. Never worked, never would.
The result was heartache and tears.
Some other man could find this list. Some other man could hurt my friend.
I couldn’t let Nina give up her virginity—my God, what a beautiful, intoxicating gift—to some random guy she found online, or in a store, or at the freaking gym.
Number ten.
There was only one answer to number ten.
Me.
That man had to be me. I had to convince her that I was the one to give her all these fantasies, and that we’d come out on the other side the way we were right now—friends and neighbors.
But first, I’d start with food, with easy conversation, with the way we were. That was how I’d want her to see my proposition for my role in the list. To see that our friendship was the perfect basis for ten filthy commandments.
5
Nina
The shot was perfect.
Miss Sheridan down the hall had mastered the warrior pose.
She showed it to me one more time on her phone, nudging me, proud of her prowess. “See? How about that? I can’t leave my twenty-two thousand, two hundred and one followers waiting. You are a doll for helping me shoot this video at last.”
“I’m happy to do it. After all, I would never want to be the one to stand between you and even one of those twenty-two thousand, two hundred and one. They need to see your warrior pose,” I said, completely serious, because this woman was a badass dame who simply needed a little tech support now and then. I was happy to provide it.
Miss Sheridan was a former showgirl and now she taught yoga classes both locally and on YouTube. She’d bought a new cell phone for the videos and had struggled to find the setting for horizontal—hence her emergency knock.
Boy, oh boy, did I know that struggle too.
“You should try my classes,” she said, folding her hands together in a namaste. She still had the curves of a showgirl, and the attitude. “Yoga for Showgirls and Seniors is getting quite the following. And yoga is good for flexibility in the you-know-what.”
I couldn’t resist the bait. I raised an innocent eyebrow. “In the butt? Is that what you mean?”
Her jaw dropped, and she cackled. “And to think I was going to say it’s good for flexibility in the bedroom.”
I laughed. “I know. Just messing with you.”
“Speaking of the bedroom, how are things with your roommate?” She wiggled her eyebrows, tipping her forehead toward the hallway.
“He’s not my roomie. He’s just using the guest room while his place is being painted.”
She made an A-OK gesture with her fingers. “Right, sure,” she said, in a way that made it clear she found my answer had holes like Swiss cheese in it.
“I swear he is,” I said, insisting, because it was true. Adam and I were friends and only friends, and that was all I wanted.
My sole focus was on business and, as of an hour ago, finding a way to eradicate the overwhelming plethora of fantasies from invading my brain nonstop during work hours. Once I knew what my clients knew, I’d be able to connect with them on another level, like I wanted.
She hummed. “But he’s a nice one. A sweet one. He fixed the door in my laundry room the other day. And just a few weeks ago, he hung some new shelves for me.”
“He’s a handy one too,” I added, keeping it light.
“And so outgoing. He’s like the sun. You can’t tell me you don’t feel chemistry with him.” She arched a brow in question.
Her skepticism pierced me, and I looked away, my eyes landing on her tabby cat lounging in a streak of early evening sun cast through the window.
The cat stretched elegantly, looking like Evangeline, at ease in her body.
Something I was not, so I asked myself the questions Miss Sheridan was hinting at.
Did I feel chemistry with Adam? Smart, charming, easygoing Adam?
Friendly chemistry, for sure.
We were pals, birds of a feather.
And empirically, Adam was attractive. There were no two ways about that. With honey-brown hair, warm hazel eyes, a square jaw, and just the right amount of scruff, the man radiated magazine-quality looks. Like Scott Eastwood, with the same touch of rugged exterior.
But Adam was good.
And even though I was a virgin, I knew what I wanted.
A dark and dirty man to work through my wish list, the one that had been percolating in my head for years, fueled by the books I read, the videos I watched, the Tumblr feeds I devoured.
A rough man, a commanding man who’d help me cross off item after unholy item.
And all I needed from that unnamed man was to shed my virginity. To fulfill these rampant fantasies and eject them out of my head.
Adam was a straight-up kind of guy. I doubted he’d pin me down, shove my face into the pillow, and tell me to suck his—
I stopped the lust train, slapping on a smile for the older lady. “We are just friends,” I told her, and that was the other reason I couldn’t entertain romantic thoughts of Adam.
We’d become close friends over the last two years. He’d helped me grow my business, offering feedback on marketing and my online presence. His wisdom was so spot-on I’d become the most sought-after boudoir photographer in Sin City at age twenty-four.
As for him, I’d become his go-to friend, the one he played trivia games and shared podcasts with. That role had been easy to fill, especially after his last relationship turned sour, and he found his girlfriend not only using, but selling opiates near college campuses. She’d stolen money from him to fund her drug empire. To say Adam was jaded on romance was a euphemism.
He was turned all the way off love.
I headed for the door. “I’m glad your video is working now, and I can’t wait to see your triangle pose,” I told Miss Sheridan, and I left, walking down the hallway to my condo at the end.
When I opened the door, Adam stood in the kitchen slicing peppers for dinner. He shot me his winning grin, the kind where his dimples shone.
Tha
t was my Adam. He was a good man, and seeing him here in my home warmed my heart.
* * *
I set down the fork, heaved a satisfied sigh, and gestured to the empty plates. “Fine, you win. My taste buds are definitely singing a rock anthem,” I said, conceding.
“Excellent,” he said, his hazel eyes twinkling. “Are we talking ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ or a ‘For Those about to Rock, We Salute You’ kind of anthem?”
“Please. This is ‘We Are the Champions’ level.”
He rubbed his fingers on his shirt then blew on them. “Damn. That’s tops. I impress myself.”
I patted his shoulder. “Don’t rest on your laurels though. One must always guard against complacency,” I said, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “Or else—”
He held up a hand, shaking his head. “Don’t say ‘pumpkin.’ Don’t even say ‘pumpkin.’”
“Pumpkin? What pumpkin? I was simply going to say you don’t want to slip to only a pop song level of success for your dishes.”
“Can’t stoop to pop. I’m a rock-anthems-or-bust kind of man,” he said.
“Don’t I know it,” I said as I picked up the dishes and brought them to the sink.
As we rinsed the plates and set them in the dishwasher, we caught up more on our workday. He told me about his two deals, and how excited he was for the shows to launch.
“I’m stoked about this new slate of shows. They’re edgy and clever. The perfect dark comedies that today’s viewers love.”
“I can’t wait to tune in when they’re on,” I said.
I loved his enthusiasm for his business. It matched my own for mine, and we’d always had that in common.
“And what about you? Did you capture some fantastic photos from your shoot?”
“I did,” I said as we finished cleaning. “The couple that was in today—Marco and Evangeline—were great subjects. The camera loved them, and they seemed to enjoy their shoot too,” I said.
“Of course they did. You’re ‘We Are the Champions’ level good at your job.”
The After Dark Collection: Books 1-3 in The Gift Series Page 12
