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7
When I walk into my building, I automatically check the counter, praying that I’ll see a familiar, sympathetic face there. Instead, Paul just waves at me, a bored smile on his face as he buzzes the door open. I grimace and walk past him, trying not to think too much about why I’m already so anxious to see Zayne.
Plus, part of me is thinking about this photo already. About what it means. About who had access to it… Because I only ever sent it to one person. But I don’t want to think that. I don’t want to believe it.
It couldn’t be him. Could it? Maybe someone stole his phone. Hacked his account. Or maybe my phone got hacked—I sent the pic to him over bar wifi. That’s not the most secure connection.
Just as I step across the threshold into my apartment, my phone rings. I glance down at the caller ID, breath held. Celeste. Thank god. I answer it right away, say hello in a strained voice.
"Oh god, Clove honey, I just saw."
"I don't know what happened." My eyes sting. "How could somebody do this? Why? And who would want to?"
"Slow down, slow down. First question first. How? Who took this picture?"
I swallow hard, to calm my racing heart. "I did."
"Okay. On your phone?"
"Of course, Celeste. I didn't hire a professional photographer or anything. Obviously." I choke out a hollow laugh.
She sighs. "But your phone is still on you. Nobody stole it, you didn't leave it unlocked anywhere."
"No of course not."
"So, who did you share this picture with?"
I blink. Stare at the wall across from me in blank shock. "I... only one person."
He's the one I took it for after all. The one I trusted with a half-naked selfie, when I'd barely ever trusted anyone with something like that before.
How could I have been so stupid?
"Zayne," I whisper, my throat aching with the single word.
"Who?" I can practically hear the disdain from here. The fury.
"A guy that I..." I close my eyes. I can't tell her the whole story. It's too idiotic. I knew this was a bad idea, knew I shouldn't get involved with someone from my building, someone so close to home. All men are the same, and now I have an asshole right on my doorstep who I'll have to walk past for the rest of my life. An asshole who might have just ruined my life.
If it was him. If.
Part of me still doesn't want to believe it. Refuses to. Not after this weekend. Not after how we felt together.
But what other explanation is there? Unless maybe someone stole it from him, stole it from his phone... my brow furrows.
"Hello? Earth to planet Clove. Come in Clove."
I blink and shake my head. "What did you say?"
"You're the one who trailed off mid-sentence. A guy that you what, met on that app? Did you meet him in person at all or did you skip straight to handing him damning blackmail evidence?"
I wince. "We met. We... we went out a few times." Well. We were technically outside of his apartment once, anyway. "It went really well actually. I can't imagine he'd do this."
"If he did, I swear I'll skin him alive," she mutters through gritted teeth. "You need to talk to him. Ask him what the fuck happened. He might know something even if it wasn’t him. And if it was, you just give me his address and let me at him, you hear?"
I can feel myself nodding even though I know she can't see that. And of course I wouldn’t let her actually kill the guy. "I will. Thanks, Celeste. Look, I have to run now, but—"
"Yeah, don't worry, I'll be around anytime you need me. And if you do need me to murder him, just ring beforehand okay, so I can pull all my supplies together?"
Something in her voice tells me she really isn't joking. I'm reassured by that, at least a little bit, even as I hang up the phone. It rings again almost immediately. It’s a number I don't recognize. But maybe it's Celeste calling back.
Or Zayne. It could be Zayne. What if someone stole his phone, found my photo on it? I’d much rather believe that than that he’d stab me in the back like this. Maybe someone took his cell and this is his new phone.
I hit answer. "Hello?"
"Hey, is this the hot chick we're supposed to call for a titty-fuck?" The voice on the other end sounds about 15-years-old and every bit as mature.
"Only if you want me to rip your dick off." I scowl and hang up.
It buzzes again. Same number. I hit ignore.
Now a text message appears. New number this time.
Lookin' to party wit u bee-yoo-tee-full.
I delete it.
Another one follows hard on its heels.
Gawd girl them tits are fine as hell.
And more. And more. And more. Pretty soon it's all I can do to type anything between hitting ignore on calls and deleting text messages. Finally, I manage to make my own outgoing call, to Zayne.
I press the phone to my ear, ignore the buzz that lets me know I'm missing other incoming calls in the meantime.
On his end, it just rings and rings. I grit my teeth, dig my nails into my palms and pray with every ounce of energy I have.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"What's up? This is Zayne, leave me one—"
I hang up before his sexy baritone voice even finishes the voicemail message. Screw him.
You did, my helpful subconscious reminds me. Over and over and over again. Hell, if I clench my pussy tight enough, I can still feel the sweet, deep ache where his clock was just this morning when we had one last quickie before I headed into work. When he kissed me on the lips and I felt like I could conquer the whole world with him beside me.
He didn't do this. He wouldn't. I know him. Maybe not well, maybe not for a long time, but enough to know this isn't his style. If he just wanted to humiliate me, he got this photo way back on Friday night. He had all weekend to ruin my life. He didn't need to spend the whole weekend fucking me senseless in the meantime.
I manage to try him again in between the ongoing deluge of creeper calls. It goes to voicemail, again. After many rings, too. So he’s either seeing my call and dodging it, not hitting the ignore button either, so I won’t know he’s there, or he’s honestly away from the phone. I’m guessing the latter, since if he did something like this on purpose, he wouldn’t care about my feelings being hurt if he sent my phone call straight to voicemail.
Crap.
He was supposed to be at work, but when I passed the reception desk earlier, Paul was on. Maybe he took off for some reason, or had to run an errand? Maybe he’s back at the desk by now?
I can’t recall exactly when the shifts change here, and screw it, this is important. I p
ocket my phone, grab my wallet and my keys, and charge for the elevator. I head up to his apartment first, figuring if he hasn’t started work yet, he might still be up there getting ready.
My pussy tightens as the elevator slows to a halt on his floor. One weekend and my body has already gotten accustomed to anticipating sex when I reach this spot. Already, my mind fills with memories—him pinning me against the front door after I returned from an errand downstairs to my apartment. He couldn’t even wait to drag me inside—he stripped me right there, and fucked me against the door, my legs around his waist, our hips digging into one another.
Then, of course, there was later that night, in the kitchen just off his hallway, as we tried to cook together but kept getting distracted by the brush of our arms as we reached around one another for supplies, and the way the heat from the stove made him smell even more delicious, practically edible… I’d bent over to pull some extra veggies from the fridge when he grabbed me from behind and flipped up my skirt. The sensation had been unique to say the least—the cool air from the fridge spilling over my shoulders as he gripped my hips and slid into me from behind, fucking me right there in the middle of dinner prep.
I’m breathing hard by the time I reach his front door, even though it’s only a few steps from the elevator. Get ahold of yourself, I order, trying to slow my breathing, calm my frayed nerves. This visit isn’t about sex. This is about something so much more important. It’s about my career, my future, my work… My whole life hinges on figuring out who is trying to ruin me and why.
I hit the buzzer.
Then I wait. And wait. And wait.
I check my phone to be sure I’m not imagining it, because it feels like time is crawling. I hit the buzzer one more time, just to be sure. Maybe he was in the shower and didn’t hear it, or maybe he’s listening to music. But the bell goes off, loud as ever, loud enough that I can hear it all the way from out here in the hallway. And from within Zayne’s apartment, I only hear silence in response.
