by Marie James
“I didn’t order this shit!” I snap, giving up on ever getting the fake dick away from Flynn.
I take a step back from the table, running my hands over my head and regretting ever showing up today. It’s Sunday for fuck’s sake. I should be playing video games in my underwear, waiting for food to be delivered to my damn door, not dealing with this shit.
“Like hell,” Brooks chuckles as he holds up the box, reading the label much like I did just moments ago. “It says right here that it was delivered to W. Nelson. Apartment number 913.”
“I’m in apartment 1213, dick.” I snatch the box from his hands, examining the label because after seeing the name and realizing it matched mine, I didn’t bother to examine it further. “They gave me the wrong box.”
I feel a small sense of victory because even as awkward as this situation is, I really want those speakers.
“Are you sure?” Ignacio moves the other items around on the table, spreading them out so everyone can see. “I’m sure you can find uses for this ball gag.”
“Use it on the fucking bird,” Deacon mutters, hinting that his irritation is still right under the surface.
“Or this feather tickler,” Ignacio continues.
Yep, I’ve opened Pandora’s box, but instead of dark magic, I’ll be suffering in my own sort of hell because these guys are never going to let me live down the day I came in with a huge box of sex toys.
“I’ve used that lube before, but the cherry flavored is better,” Brooks adds.
“If you need lube—” Gaige begins, but Brooks throws a butt plug at him, pegging him in the chest.
“Don’t judge me. This is about Wren.”
Only it’s not, I want to argue, but at this point slinking away would probably be better.
Without a word, I leave them—and the box of toys—in the break room, heading to my office. I’ll be able to get to the bottom of this in no time. I know clearing my name won’t stop the jabs, but hopefully it’ll give them something else to focus on.
My fingers fly over the keys, pulling up information quickly.
“What are you looking for?” Ignacio asks from the doorway, and I’m not at all surprised that they all followed me in here.
“Doesn’t matter to me at this point,” Gaige says with a laugh. “I’m already invested.”
“Is this real life?” I mutter when the smiling face of the woman who lives in apartment 913 fills the biggest screen in my office.
She’s absolute perfection, very similar to the character that has participated in more of my fantasies than I’m comfortable admitting even in my head.
“Major has great tits!” Puff Daddy squawks. Leave it to the damn bird to call me out right now.
“Major?” Brooks asks.
I don’t pull my gaze from the purple-haired woman in front of me. How have I lived in that apartment complex and not run in to this beauty before?
“A character from Ghost in the Shell,” Jude explains.
When in the hell did his ass show up to the party?
“You into anime porn, too?” I ask, hopeful I’m not alone in my kink.
“I’m into Scarlett Johansson, not anime,” Jude amends, and my face falls.
Johansson played Major in the live-action movie.
“Can we get back to what’s really important?” Finnegan prods. “Who is that chick?”
“Whitney Nelson,” I explain. “The W. Nelson in apartment 913. They gave me her box of stuff.”
“You have to return it,” Deacon says, ever the one to take the moral high road.
The guys all laugh when I turn to look at him. He can’t be serious.
Chapter 2
Whitney
“This is Satan’s work,” I mutter, my foot tapping with irritation as I wait for the elevator to arrive.
I stare at the metal doors as if I can use mind power to make the car arrive any faster. An eternity passes before I realize I’ve been standing here for more than five minutes.
“Great,” I hiss. “Just awesome.”
I turn toward the door to the stairs, angry with having to even get out of bed this morning, but sometimes being an adult is hard. Being an adult who spends fourteen plus hours a day on a computer is even worse. I blame my high school PE teacher for today’s problems. If he never told me most people with high metabolisms in their teens end up fat, I wouldn’t be up at the ass crack of dawn heading to the gym. Well, maybe most don’t consider ten in the morning even close to dawn, but it is for me since I was still working at three this morning.
As I descend the stairs, I also blame my love for pasta and any form of Mexican food for having to roll out of bed at such an ungodly hour. I’m four flights of six down when I start to bargain with myself that taking the stairs should count as my exercise for the day.
Thankfully, the gym is nearly empty, and I’ve found the angry old man lifting hand weights like he’s carrying a hundred pound bag of dog food on his back is just as resistant to social interaction as I’ve grown in the last two years since graduating college.
This complex has all the things I could ask for, considering I hate people for the most part. Of course I have friends, but no one local. The people I associate with live in my computer. I mean, not technically. I’m not a head case or anything. I just prefer to make friends with people online. Ones I don’t have to worry about knocking on my door on a Friday evening, insisting I go to a bar or club with them. No, my friends are much like me. They stay at home, have food delivered, and play games until the sun starts to come up over the horizon.
Most work from home, also like me, and rely on energy drinks more than what can be considered healthy.
I eye the treadmill like it’s a venomous snake ready to strike, but I climb on anyway. I told myself I’d make it forty-five minutes today, but I’m only doing thirty since I had to take the stairs. Granted, the two-minute walk doesn’t come close to the time I’m cutting off, but I run my life, not this stupid machine.
Setting a timer on my phone, I take my sweet ass time putting in my headphones and connecting my Bluetooth to the television on the wall. I hate watching the news, but the angry old man seems to be enjoying the bullshit they’re spewing this morning, so I’ll martyr myself and just deal with it.
A slow walk transforms into a slow jog, and I know without even looking at my timer that I’ve been at this mess for well over an hour. At least that’s how my body feels.
The gods must be on my side today because my phone rings, the sound echoing in my ear so loudly that I nearly trip and eat the rubber under my feet. I struggle so long to get my balance and turn off the machine, that by the time I answer the phone, it’s already gone to voicemail.
Having barely escaped death, I step off the machine and power it down. The old man across the room is glaring at me as if my almost demise is putting a damper on his ability to lift the three-pound weights in his hands. His face screws up, and it’s clear he’s seconds away from pointing to the NO PHONE CALLS sign hanging on the wall, so I do the only thing I can manage which is giving him a weak smile, a half-assed wave, and I walk out of the gym.
I call my bestie Sarah back. When she answers, instead of saying hello, I say “You just made an old man hate me.”
“How is that possible? Everyone loves you.” If I had to guess, I imagine her rolling her eyes.
She is a loveable person. One of the very few friends I have that actually has a social life outside of her computer. Thank God she lives in California because if she were closer, she’d be one of the friends showing up on Friday nights that I’d have to avoid.
“This old man hates everyone,” I grumble.
I don’t know this for a fact, but he doesn’t seem like he’s had a pleasant experience in his life from the scowl stuck on his wrinkled face each time I’ve seen him.
“Why are you up so early?”
“It’s not early. It’s after ten.”
“After eight,” I mock as I collapse on a
bench in the hallway.
“I know you’re not a morning person, but you were on my to-do list this morning.”
“I’m on a list?” I mean, I’m sure I’m on numerous lists, but Sarah isn’t the type to come after me for uncovering information people don’t want me to find.
“I made a note late yesterday to reach out to you about the package.”
And that’s not the least bit vague. “The package?”
“The one I sent you?” She snickers, and even after my half-hearted attempt at exercise today, it’s still too early to deal with her perkiness. She better be glad I love her so much.
“I didn’t get a package.”
“It says delivered yesterday morning. Don’t they call you when something arrives?”
“They do,” I hedge.
My apartment complex is very efficient. At least that’s what they call themselves when they notify me of something arriving that won’t fit into my small mailbox. I’m certain it has more to do with their annoyance of something not belonging to them taking up space behind the front desk, but I tend to lean toward the cynical side of life.
“And they didn’t?”
“Didn’t what?”
I wipe my hand over my face, surprised to pull it away damp. Sweat means hard work, so I refuse to feel guilty about my workout being cut short. Sweat means tacos for dinner, and I live for the chance to devour half a dozen or so.
“They didn’t notify you?”
“Nope.”
Knowing she isn’t going to let it go, I jump on the elevator to head to the front desk even though it’s only two flights of stairs down. I already did the stairs once today and I’ll wait until the second coming of Christ before I do it twice in one day.
“I’m going to check,” I assure her as I climb off the elevator and head in the direction of a smiling girl I don’t recognize.
Where’s Adrian? Adrian is nice and mostly pleasant to deal with.
The counter girl giggles like a middle-schooler at the guy standing in front of her, and it’s clear she’s in no hurry to wrap up her flirting to see what I need.
At least Adrian would hurry up to help me. Granted, he’d talk to my tits rather than my face, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“You’re going to love it,” Sarah says.
My eyes cut toward the AirPod in my right ear, as if looking in that direction would help me evaluate the misplaced cheer in her tone.
“What did you send me?” I’m already suspicious. This wouldn’t be the first time she’s sent me something. We send each other stuff all the time, but if memory serves correctly, this is the very first time she has called to verify receipt of a delivery.
“You’ll see,” she singsongs, and I’m seconds away from going back upstairs and refusing to take delivery of my package when the girl behind the counter rudely clears her throat and glares at me.
“Can I help you?”
My head snaps back at the irritation in her voice. Excuse me for interrupting your flirting and forcing you to actually do your job.
The guy at the counter winks at me as he walks past, but I ignore him. Do guys think that actually works? Gross.
“I had a package delivered.”
She tilts her head to the side as if I’ve spoken in a different language.
“Whitney Nelson, apartment 913.” She continues to stare like I’ve grown an additional head in the last sixty seconds. “Too big to fit in my box. Delivered yesterday. Adrian usually holds them behind the desk.”
“Adrian doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Can you check for my package?”
She huffs, scrunching her nose up. “I guess.”
“Thank you,” I grind out.
“I’d slap that girl if I were there.”
I jolt in surprise, having completely forgotten that I was still on the phone with Sarah.
“I’m turning over a new leaf.”
The girl, her name tag reading TORI, pops her head above the counter. “Excuse me?”
I point to the Pod in my ear. “I’m on the phone.”
“It’s rude to be on the phone when you’re at the service desk.”
“It’s rude to be stupid, but here we are,” Sarah whispers.
I give the girl a small grin, refusing to apologize for rude behavior when I’ve been met with the very same from her.
“My package?”
“There’s nothing back here for Rachel Wilton.”
“Whitney Nelson,” I correct. “My name is Whitney Nelson.”
Tori scoffs again before dipping her head behind the counter. “Here it is!”
She pops up, a medium-sized box in her hands, and a jubilant smile on her face as if finding the box cured world hunger or something.
“Thank you,” I say without feeling an ounce of gratitude as I take the box. “Wait.”
I look down at the label.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asks, but I’ll deal with my friend after dealing with the cranky girl in front of me.
“This isn’t mine.” I slide the box back across the counter.
“It says W. Nelson. Last I checked, Whitney started with a W.”
“It also says apartment 1213.” I point to the label, take a deep breath, and count to ten in my head. “I live in apartment 913.”
“I sent it to the right place,” Sarah assures me.
“I know you did. This happens all the time,” I tell her.
I haven’t met who ever W. Nelson is in apartment 1213, but I’ve learned to double-check my deliveries.
“I don’t make mistakes,” Tori snaps.
“I’m sure you don’t.” I give her a smile that I know doesn’t reach my eyes. “But this package isn’t mine. Is there another package back there for apartment 913?”
“No.”
Tori doesn’t even bother to check.
“What time do you get off?”
Her eyes narrow. “Three. Why?”
“No reason,” I tell her before walking away.
“You have the patience of a saint,” Sarah says as I climb back on the elevator, ready to hole away in my apartment for the day because I’ve had enough of people.
“I really don’t,” I promise, because it’s only going to take me about five minutes on my computer to cause some major inconveniences for that girl. I sure hope she brought a little cash to work and packed her own lunch because it’s going to be impossible for her to use any of her credit cards for the rest of the day when I’m done with her.
“Listen, I have to finish getting ready for work. I’ll try to figure out what happened to the package on my end. Call me if you get it.”
“What’s in the box?”
“Talk soon!”
She hangs up before answering the question, and I’m left extremely curious and apprehensive at the same time.
The bellow comes from deep inside my apartment the second I push open the door.
“Hush,” I insist, rushing to close the door behind me.
The cat bellows again.
“Seriously? You know you aren’t supposed to be in here.”
Simon, the stray cat I secretly hid in a backpack and smuggled into my apartment six months ago, doesn’t care that he isn’t allowed here. All the orange tabby cares about is that he’s hungry. He’d risk exposure for a bowl of food.
“If you get us kicked out of this apartment, I’m not going to be very happy with you,” I warn, but like the well-trained human I am, I head straight for the pantry to fill his bowl.
Most might think it’s crazy to leave an apartment you love because an animal you never had any intentions of keeping is discovered, but I’d never give him away or relinquish him to a shelter. Where Simon goes; I go, plain and simple.
“Now I have to start work early this morning,” I tell him. “So, I need you to be quiet.”
As if already planning to thwart my plans, Simon drops his head to the bowl I just filled and begins to purr loudly while he eats.<
br />
“I’m serious, Simon. The job I start today is serious, and the boss seems like a real stickler for timely work. I can’t have you caterwauling all over the place like normal.”
I think the creature knows that he’s not supposed to be here because he demands attention and if his requests aren’t met with immediate love and affection, he runs all over the place screaming at the top of his lungs like I’m trying to beat him.
Needless to say, my cat runs my life, not the other way around.
Chapter 3
Wren
“Creep!”
“I’ll leave you here tonight if you don’t keep your damn beak closed,” I threaten.
“I like it here,” Puff counters. “Try me, sucka!”
I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the screen in front of me.
There are a million things that could distract me, work being one of them, but there’s something about this girl that keeps me from staying away very long.
You’d think after several days of cyberstalking, I’d be tired of her already, but here I am watching the scowl on her face as she runs on the treadmill in our apartment complex gym.
“Loser!” the bird snaps. “Get a life!”
Her life seems as isolated as mine, and maybe some of that is the appeal. She hardly ever leaves the building, having her groceries delivered right to her door. I should be concerned with the amount of Taco Bell she has delivered since I’ve tapped into the apartment security system and have seen Taco Bell delivered four times—twice yesterday, by a girl in a Door Dash uniform—I’m well aware of her love of Mexican food.
I’m not a total creep. I haven’t accessed her credit card purchases, but I do know that she’s only eight months into her two-year lease in apartment 913. I’m also pretty certain that she has an animal hidden away inside because she always shuffles her feet when she opens the door as if she’s trying to prevent something from escaping.
Not only does she have kinky boxes of sex toys delivered, but she’s also a rule breaker of sorts. Considering what I do for a living and my penchant for kinky things myself, these things appeal to me greatly.
