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Horace arches a brow. “Does your bed have a headboard?”
“It’s a futon.”
“I’ll pick you up from the café this afternoon and we can stop by your flat and get what you need.”
“Okay, works for me.”
“As much as I’d love to spend the day shagging you, the stock market is in the shitter and I have hedge funds to liquidate and clients to talk off cliffs.” He kisses the end of my nose. “I programmed my number into your phone this morning, so feel free to send me naked selfies at any point during the day.”
“How’d you figure out my password?”
“One-one-one-one is the most common password in the universe.” He tweaks my nipple and grabs his suit jacket, shrugging into it. “I’ll see you tonight, love.” He winks and strides out of the bedroom.
Another minute passes before I hear the click of the door. I lie in his massive king-sized bed for a while, staring at the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. This is going to be my view every morning for the next two weeks. I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-to-infinity percent sure we’re both certifiable.
Eventually, I get out of bed and go in search of my clothes. At some point, Horace must have put them in the wash since I find them sitting on the arm of the living room couch. I pick up my shirt and frown. Clearly, he dried it on an extra hot setting since it now looks like it would fit a five year old better than it would fit me, but since I don’t have additional clothing options, it’s going to have to do.
Once I’m dressed, I decide my best plan is to do some Horace recon—otherwise known as snooping. I go through his dresser drawers, appalled by how perfectly everything is folded. I’m sure it will be quite obvious that I’ve rummaged around in there. I move on to his closet, filled with suits, suits, and more suits. And two pairs of jeans, three casual polos, and two pairs of trainers.
I move from room to room, opening drawers, looking for . . . I don’t know? A box filled with nail clippings? A severed finger? A mason jar full of the extracted teeth of his previous sexual conquests whom he went on to murder savagely? A hidden fetish room? Apart from the space being lavish, and ridiculously dust-free, it’s also very . . . normal.
There’s a small, fake Christmas tree set up in the corner of his living room, decorated in white twinkle lights, red bows, and gold balls, but otherwise, his penthouse lacks additional festive adornments.
I do happen to run across his vintage CD collection. He has every single Cure album ever recorded, including the B-sides.
When my stomach growls, I give up trying to convince myself that he’s some kind of psycho and go in search of food.
A covered silver platter and a carafe of coffee await me on the terrace, along with a note from Horace that I should ensure I’m well-hydrated and fed today, as tonight he has elaborate plans for me.
A squirrel sits on the wrought iron railing, gnawing on a walnut, eyeing me suspiciously.
I drop into one of the chairs, rocking back until the front legs leave the ground and tip my chin up, letting the sun bathe my face and the crisp morning air ruffle my hair. “Hope we didn’t keep you up last night,” I mutter.
“I took my hearing aids out when the screaming started.”
I nearly topple backwards. “What the fuck?” I glance at the squirrel, who drops the nut and bounces across the railing, hopping onto the terrace belonging to the penthouse next door.
I’m both relieved and mortified that there’s an elderly man sitting on the terrace, cigarette poised between his fingers, newspaper in hand. Relieved because it means that the squirrel didn’t speak and I haven’t lost my mind, mortified, because clearly I was that loud last night.
In my defense, it’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. Also, Horace is incredibly skilled at the sexing.
“I’m glad to see you’re alive and well. I was a little worried, if I’m going to be honest. I’m quite fond of Horace, but he’s a bit of an odd duck and I feared the worst. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell him that, though. He’s quite a sensitive lad and I wouldn’t want to offend him.” The man lowers his paper so I can see more than his greying, thinning hair and his bespectacled eyes.
Eyes the color of a blue crayon, peppered with flecks of gold. As I take in his face, I can feel the color drain from mine. It’s like I’ve used that aging app combined with the one on Snapchat that turns you into a man.
“Dad?”
6
Horace
The important thing to remember is that nobody murdered her.
There is a perfectly logical explanation as to why Reggie hasn’t shown up to her shift today without calling in sick and is currently not picking up the phone.
An obvious, one-day-we’ll-laugh-about-it-out-loud good reason.
Maybe she decided to try to max out my Chase Sapphire Reserve shopping in designer boutiques she got kicked out of previously, a-la Pretty Woman.
