Page 43 of The Pleasure of Panic

“Hey,” I say, walking into his living room and dropping my bag on the floor.

“What’s up?” he asks, taking his holster off and locking his gun in a safe hidden in the wall.

“Just answer me this, OK?”

“Sure, what is it, Issy?” Now he’s walking into his bedroom, taking off his suit coat as he disappears.

“If that raid last night was real—”

He pops into the doorway again and my eyes immediately track to his fingers, which are unbuttoning his button-down shirt. “If?” he says. “If it was real?”

“Fine,” I huff. “It was real. Wouldn’t they have like… crime scene tape and shit all over my place? Am I even allowed to go back in there?”

“It’s not a murder scene.” He disappears into his bedroom again.

I wonder what he’s taking off next. But then I hear the jingle of his belt and know.

“Right, but don’t they have to send in a forensics team or something?”

He appears in the open doorway again, this time bare-chested and wearing cut-off sweat shorts. I stare a second too long, and when my eyes meet his, he’s smiling. “Someone’s been watching too many police procedurals on TV.” And then he winks. “Just change out of those clothes and try to get some sleep, OK? I’m fuckin’ tired, I gotta be up in like two hours, and I need to just forget about this day.”

I look down at my bag, thinking about what I have inside it.

“Now what?” he asks, leaving the bedroom and walking towards me. He goes into the kitchen, grabs a glass from a cupboard, and fills it with water from the fridge door.

“I’m just gonna sleep in my clothes,” I say, trying to look at anything but his naked torso. He’s very fit. Like very fit. I’m talking six-pack. I’m talking that v-line of muscle that disappears under the waist line of his sweat shorts. I’m talking—

“Why?”

“I didn’t bring… anything appropriate.”

His eyes dart to my pack, then meet mine again.

He smiles.

We both go for the bag at the same time. I’m closer, so I get to it first, but his arms are long and he snatches it away. I jump, trying to get it back, but he holds it over his head.

Have I mentioned he’s a foot taller than me?

“Give it back,” I say.

“What’d you pack?”

“None of your business. Now give it back.”

He turns his back to me and starts unzipping the bag while I desperately try to reach around his broad shoulders to no avail. “What is…”

“Give it back,” I say, pulling on the strap, and this time I succeed. Or he lets it go. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter. Because he’s holding up what I did pack.

“Dayum, woman. You were gonna wear this for me tonight?”

I close my eyes, rub my fingertips into my temples, and say, “This isn’t happening.”

“Are you into…”

“Shut up and give it back.”

“Issy.” He laughs. “You’re a kinky little bitch, you know that?”