“Do not refer to my wife as booty.” David sounds both amused and pissed, then he sighs. “My girls miss you, all three of them.”
“I miss them too.” I lean back and release a long breath. “Thank you for the talk. I needed it.”
“Thank you for calling, letting me help.”
“I feel like I should tell you I love you or some soppy shit like that.”
“Please don’t.” His grimace carries through the phone. “Talk soon?”
“Yep. Talk soon.”
Looking up at the night sky, I wonder how I even got to the middle of the city of angels, all sweaty and sticky, stinky as fuck and hurting like I got hit by a truck. Not to mention a backlog of work that’ll have me pulling all-nighters for at least a week and still wanting nothing more than to get back to the corporate loft I used to hate having to live in and seeing the girl whose smile makes it all better.
* * *
Lauren
I tiptoe into the dark loft, trying to make the least noise as possible, considering it’s almost 11 PM.
“Had a good time with the fun club?”
I squeak and clap my hand over my mouth to stifle it as if it makes a difference at this point. “God damn it, Michael. At least leave the lights on if you’re waiting up for me.”
Flicking the switch, I watch Michael as he sits up with a yawn, rubbing his eyes and rolling his shoulders and neck as if his muscles are stiff. His laptop is on the coffee table next to music sheets and a notebook full of jutty, unreadable writing.
“Sorry, Lore.” He stretches, I ogle, the same routine we’ve been going through at least three times a day since he got here. And it never gets old. “I like listening to demos in the dark. I must have dozed off.”
“All good.” Something about him is off, his almost grimace of a smile and eyes that won’t meet mine. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Perfect.”
“Convincing.”
Michael’s jaw sets, and a hard look creeps into his eyes when he looks at me. “I said I’m fine, Lauren.”
That harsh tone makes my stomach churn because this isn’t Michael. He’s gentle and fun, full of compassion and warmth.
This coldness emanating from him, spreading through the apartment, is unnerving.
I drop my bag and go to sit next to him. Close up I can see the pain and fear behind his icy gaze. Putting a pin in the thought of how weird it is that I can see all that after knowing him for only a week, give or take, I place my hand over his.
“Want to talk about it?”
Michael blinks, eyes slowly moving down to our joined hands, his brow creasing. “Uh, not really.”
“Okay. If you do, you know where to find me.” I pat his hand and then, upon further thought, peck his cheek. When I stand, he gently catches my wrist while rising off the couch and tugging me closer.
Our eyes connect, and his are soft again but still have that underlying fear in them.
“I get antsy when someone I care about is out at night,” he whispers, catching a strand of my hair and rolling it between his fingers. “I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it.”
I wasn’t going to bring it up, but since he’s skimmed on the subject more than once, I feel like he wants me to. “Is this because of what happened to your girlfriend?”
Michael nods, not seeming surprised I know about the girl he was sure he was going to marry and her terrible fate. “I figured Trista told you about Naomi, considering how much it had to do with everything that happened with Brian.”
“Is that why you barely drink?” My palm rests on his cheek, my stroking thumb matching the pace of his fingers playing with my hair. I don’t understand how things feel so intimate with him all the time, whether we’re just laughing over coffee or when we’re like this. We hardly know each other, but this connection we have is consuming, titillating, and unnerving.
“Yeah. I went on a yearlong bender. Never crossed the line to full-blown addict, but I wasn’t far.” He looks away as if ashamed of the person he was back then. “I try to keep things moderated.”