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The sunlight is filtering through wooden blinds that don’t quite close the full way. Not at home then. Wrinkling my nose, I blink into wakefulness and grin. Oh yeah. Merch’sapartment. He’s never brought me here before.
Rolling over, I encounter an empty bed. Okay. Sitting up, the sheet falls to my waist, and I automatically tug it back up. Naked. Naked in Merch’s bed. My grin is almost goofy as pleasurable memories of last night roll through my mind.
My memory wheel cycles back through the orgasms and the sex and the blow jobs, and my eyebrows snap together as I rememberhowI got here in the first place. That’s right. Merch was being a fucking asshole.
Shoving out of bed, I look around the floor. No clothes. Damn it. Dropping to my knees, I wince. The carpet here is nowhere near as plush as I’m used to. I peek under the bed, but there’s nothing but dust bunnies. Ugh. He needs to have a word with his cleaning service.
The smallish closet doesn’t have my clothes, but I find a pair of boxer briefs and a sweatshirt I’m not drowning in, tugging them on. I roll the pants at the waist, and the shirt almost comes to my knees. They’ll have to do for now. I can’t remember if Merch stripped my clothes off before orafterwe got to the bedroom, so maybe they’re still out there.
There’s no master bathroom, so I let myself out of the room. I duck into the bathroom on my way, washing my face and everything, snooping in his cabinets. There’s a box of condoms that is half empty, shaving stuff, toothpaste and toothbrush, a comb, and not a lot else. His shower has a body wash and shampoo.
I walk out to the living area, which fits the three-seater couch, a square coffee table, and an armchair. Most of the space is taken up by the massive TV unit.
My clothes aren’t here, so I keep snooping through the breakfast nook – which may be the entire dining room – with its small square table with four chairs and into the kitchen.
My eyebrows shoot up. My ensuite bathroom is bigger than this kitchen. At least there’s a coffee machine with a mug in front of it. The coffee smells fresh, and the mug is unused, so I pour myself a cup and open the fridge. Hello, bachelor pad.
Leftovers and beer dominate the space, though there is a milk carton. Grabbing that, I add it to my coffee and shuffle back to the living room. Still no clothes.
A quick peek in the spare bedroom with a treadmill, a boxing bag, and a weight stand doesn’t bring me luck. No clothes. No Merch. Maybe he had to go to work.
I have no idea what he does for a living. I never asked. Maybe I should Google it. I remember an auto garage at the clubhouse. Perhaps he’s a mechanic. That’s kind of sexy.
My lack of clothes doesn’t bother me. What really annoys me is that I can’t find my purse. There didn’t seem to be a landline phone in my snooping. Ugh.
I look down at my outfit. I have no shoes. I definitely look like I’m going to do a walk of shame. Sophie used to giggle and call it astride of pride, but I think that only counted if you were still wearing your two thousand dollar dress from the night before. Not if you’re swimming in a sweatshirt with no shoes.
Whatever. No shoes. I’m in San Remo. In Downtown, sure, but kind of on the South Side. I’m sure I won’t stick out too much. I only need to get to Lisa’s apartment and borrow her phone to call Merch. He can tell me what the hell he did with my stuff.
Finishing my coffee, I wash the mug in the sink and duck into the bathroom, using a spare toothbrush from his cabinet to brush my teeth. That will have to do. Smirking, I drop the toothbrush into his holder beside his. I know we’re “just fucking”, but he abandoned me without my purse, and he crashed my date. He can sweat it out over this small detail. Ha.
Crossing to the door, I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m about to walk in public without shoes, and it’s not the beach or a pool. Squaring my shoulders, I psych myself up and twist the handle. Nothing. Turning it again, I frown. I rattle the handle using both hands, just in case it’s stuck. Nope. It’s locked. I’m locked in Merch’s apartment.
Crouching down, I look to see if there’s a release button or something.
“You’ve got to be fuckingjoking!” I mutter under my breath. It’s a key lock only. Who the fuck only has a key lock front door? Isn’t this against fire safety standards or something?
Groaning, I hurry back to the kitchen, opening all his drawers and sifting through cutlery, cooking utensils, and pens. No keys.
“Jesus, Merch!” I curse, slamming the last drawer shut.
I systematically work my way through his whole apartment, opening every cupboard, cabinet, and drawer I can find. Not a single fucking key. Well, there’s a key to a Chevy truck, but that doesn’t help me right now.
I guess I’m stuck here until he comes back. He better have only ducked out for coffee or something. Stomping back to the kitchen, I grab some bread I saw in my key search, toasting it and pouring another mug of coffee. Crunching on my toast, I float back through to the living room.
The leather couch is comfortable, and I sink into it, snatching up the remote and flicking through the channels. He mainly has cable for sports, but I eventually find some movie channels. This will have to do until Merch gets back.
When he does, we’ll have to talk about being conscientious about having house guests. He probably locked up without thinking this morning – like he always does – and it didn’t even occur that I’d be stuck here. God.Men.
MERCH
My footsteps drag as I approach the door to my apartment. How bad could it be? Just how pissed off could Shelley get? She looked gorgeous when I left her naked and sleeping in my bed this morning. But she’s had about nine hours to get nice and furious at me.
Maybe it was childish to lock her in the apartment, but if she was able to leave… it might not be easy to get her back here again. She might go on another damn date. That’s not happening. Shelley needs to understand that only I touch her. I’ll let her out when she manages to grasp that fact.
Sliding my key into the lock, I open the door, tensing. Nothing comes flying at me, so that’s a bonus. Stepping into the living room, I quickly shut and lock the door behind me, pocketing the key.
No pots or plates have been thrown at my head, and it’s silent except for the TV. Richard Gere is climbing a fire escape. Turning slowly, I face the couch. Shelley is curled up in the middle of it, cuddling one of the pillows from the bed, swimming in one of my sweatshirts. Her eyes are glued to the TV but flicker over me as I drop the duffel bag beside the front door.
