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God, even drunk, even slurring crazy shit I don’t understand, even when she’s talking back to me at work, she’s beautiful.
“That’s what they want you to think,” she says quietly, and her eyelids start to droop with sleep. Each blink lasts longer and longer, and I’m damn near mesmerized by the way her long lashes fan down over her cheeks.
“Yep. That’s exactly what they want you to think,” she repeats, and I blink from my trance.
“They?” Who the fuck is she talking about?
“The Wimwoms,” she says seriously. “They want you to think that I’m a frog and you’re a prince or something like that, and that our kiss could cure the world. But it can’t. I know because I’ve pictured it, and all that happens is explosions.”
“Explosions?”
“Bombs.”
“Bombs?”
“Big ones.”
Sweet Jesus, what did she drink tonight?
“Greer, did you go to a club tonight? Did someone drug you?”
“A club!” she shrieks with her eyes now closed and devolves into a fit of hysterical laughter. “No way! Just dinner with a witch, a cornball, an iPhone, and a whole bunch of delicious pickles.”
I pinch my eyebrows together in concern, and she reaches up to smooth them with just one finger.
“Green eyes,” she says. “Goddamn those goddamn green eyes.”
And then she’s out. Dead to the world and snoring just enough to confirm she’s breathing.
I shake my head and take a deep breath before looking down to my now fully hard cock.
Fuck, this is becoming a problem.
I turn her so she’s safe on her side, shove away from the bed, grab the trash can from her bathroom, and set it beside her bed before leaving.
I don’t look back, given my dick’s obvious inability to behave, and head straight for my apartment to pass out in my own bed.
It’s after midnight, and if I don’t end the day now, there’s no telling what else will happen.
I step out into the hallway quietly, being sure to lock her door behind me, and walk the five steps to my own. I grab the knob and turn…nothing.
Oh fuck.
I jiggle again; no give.
Nooooo. Are you kidding me?
I look frantically around the hall for a key that doesn’t exist. For all the unpacking and settling I did earlier this evening, not one moment of it included hiding a spare key in case I locked myself out.
And I’m still in a towel. Only a towel.
What am I going to do?
Thoughts scatter and dart through my head like rats as I try to grab ahold of one long enough to come up with a plan. By the time I do it, I’ve settled against the door of my apartment, leaned my head back, and covered my eyes with my hand to block out the light.
My dick, however, the traitor, is still hard.
Luckily, the name that comes to mind does a good job of changing that.
Quincy. Quincy is dating Emory, and Emory’s parents own the building. Surely, he can get a key to let me in with as little humiliation as possible.
Right?
Wrong.
Quincy’s laugh is downright obnoxious as he comes through the front door of our apartment building and meets me in the lobby.
I would have stayed upstairs in the hallway, but the only public phone is downstairs at the front desk. Plus, the bastard told me one a.m. delivery service goes no farther than the bottom floor.
“Wow, Turn,” he greets with a smile ten times bigger than my face is even built to accommodate. “This just keeps getting better and better.”
When I called him, I thought keeping the part about being in a towel out of the story would somehow benefit me. Evidently, I forgot that he’d have to find out anyway and that the element of surprise always makes it worse.
“Is there a new fashion trend I should be aware of?”
“Do you have a key or not?” I ask, completely ignoring his question.
“Oh, I’ve got the key,” he says cheerfully. “One I had to procure by waking my girlfriend, dragging her out of bed, taking her to her apartment to get the keys to her parents’ place, and then going there to get it.”
I wince.
“Thankfully for you, they’re on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean.”
“Listen, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but do we really have to do this now? I’ll take you to lunch one day, and you can give me the third degree.”
“Oh no. No, no, no,” Quince replies, shaking his head. “I’m not giving you any time to weasel out of this. No details, no key.”
“Jesus, Quince. When did you become this ruthless?”
“Around eleventh grade. Now, go. Details.” He snaps his fingers, and it’s only the reality that I will have to spend the rest of the night outside of my apartment with no clothes that keeps me from reaching out and slapping his slightly chubby face.
“I opened my door, stepped out in the hall, and the door shut behind me. I didn’t realize it was locked,” I paraphrase, holding out a hand for the key.
