Then, the guilt ate at me so much that I showed up at Caring Hearts Recovery Center the next day, asking for a payment plan. Because, for some reason, even though I want to hate her, I don’t.
She might not be addicted to drugs anymore, but that’s only because she isn’t capable of taking care of herself, much less going out and getting loaded.
“Right,” I breathe out. “I’ll get your money as soon as possible.”
Without even saying goodbye, Mike hangs up, and I blink back the tears threatening to spill over. I’ll never understand why he has to be such an asshole. He knows I’m trying. Hell, I pay the care facility before I settle my own rent or buy groceries.
I glance at the bag of cheese on the counter, then toss it back in the fridge. I might need to stretch my food out a little farther, so I’d better save the cheese for another time. Thank God for spices and salt. With those things, I can make any meal a freaking delight.
The timer on my phone goes off, so I strain the noodles and add a generous amount of butter. The cheap fake kind, not actual butter, because hello, I’m broke.
I’m about to find a bowl when someone knocks on my door. It’s probably Mrs. Cooley looking for her cat once again. I swear shethinksthat thing gets out three times a week. Except we almost always find him in her freaking apartment. She hasn’t realized yet that her moose of a cat is too damn lazy to go anywhere.
“Come in!” I shout as I reach for a towel to wipe my hands.
When no one walks in, I call out louder since she might not have her hearing aids in. I make my way to the door, but before I get there, it swings open. With a yelp of surprise and slight terror, I stare at someone at least twice the size of my elderly neighbor. And a hell of a lot hotter.
Goosebumps spread over my skin as I stare up, slack-jawed, at the most gorgeously sinister man I’ve ever seen. Tattoos everywhere, including some small ones on his face that might mean he’s killed a few people. I’m not totally sure about that, butI think it’s what I saw in a gangster movie. I don’t think I want to find out, but I also don’t want to stop looking at him.
“Hi,” I finally say a bit too cheerily as I give the man an awkward wave.
His gray-blue eyes darken like wet stone, and under his short, perfectly trimmed beard, his jaw flexes. “Your door shouldn’t be unlocked. That’s not safe.”
The words sound like a threat, but they send a zing of tingling to my pussy. His voice is deep and gravelly. Commanding. He’s got my attention, that’s for sure. Although he’s still a strange man, a large, muscular one standing in the doorway. And unless I plan to jump off my fourth-floor balcony, I don’t have anywhere to get away from him.
“You shouldn’t invite people to walk into your apartment. The door should be locked at all times.”
I’m starting to agree with him.
“Oh, uh, I thought you were Mrs. Cooley. She lives down the hall.” I smile widely, trying to look as sweet as possible, hoping this man isn’t going to kill me. “Can I help you with something?”
His eyes skirt over my head, which is easy since he’s at least a foot and a half taller than my five-foot-nothing height.
“Did you just move in?” he asks, running his hand over his beard as he scans my empty apartment.
Heat spreads over my cheeks, and I drop my gaze.
No.
No, Quinn.
Do not let what that asshole did embarrass you.
Swallowing down my humiliation as much as I can, I tilt my head back to look at him again. “No. I’ve been here for a couple of years.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I nervously tug on one of my French braids, which I like to wear on my days off. “Um, who are you?” I finally ask.
His perfect lips turn into a frown, and he grunts, holding out a piece of paper. “This got delivered to my apartment. I didn’t look at the address before I opened the envelope and realized it wasn’t for me.”
I move closer to take what he’s offering, and as I do, his spicy scent surrounds me. His hair looks slightly damp, like he just showered. Damn, I’d like to see this man naked and dripping water.
When I unfold the paper and see the check, my eyes go wide. “Oh, thank God. I was about to march into The Ace Bar and tell my asshole ex-boss that I wasn’t leaving until he paid me.”
Running a hand over my face, my shoulders relax slightly. Then I see the amount. Ninety dollars? What? No. It’s supposed to be an eight-hundred-dollar check.
“What the hell?” I mutter as I look over the pay stub part. They took over seven hundred dollars for missing hours? I’ve never skipped anything in my life. I work hard when I’m on a shift.
“What’s wrong?” he snaps, startling me.
