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“Desperately. What’s up?”
He’s always busy these days, but credit where it’s due—he answers my calls. My sister thinks he’s a stuck-up prick. She always has, actually, but she says he’s especially braggadocious now that he’s a partner at Myles & Lee. Some days I think she might have a point. But he’s still the guy who’s always had my back—even when it was inconvenient or embarrassing to him.
“Mira’s ex-boyfriend has been bothering her. Sending threatening texts. Telling her he’s hexed her. I don’t like it.”
“Hexed her?” he asks incredulously. “Are we taking this as a serious threat?”
“I am. I don’t like the thought of him escalating. She’s already hurt, stuck at the apartment. If he knows where we live…”
“All right, I’ve got you,” he says as I hurry down the steps toward the parking garage.
“Do you think we should get her to file a restraining order?” I ask.
“I can tell you right now that the judge will laugh us out of the courtroom if we go in there talking about hexes. They’ll laugh at him too, obviously, but he’s probably used to people thinking he’s a dipshit.”
The joke’s funny, but I can’t find it in myself to laugh. I’ve been on edge ever since Mira came into the apartment two weeks ago, dressed like a pirate. If I’ve slept more than an hour at a time since then, it’s a miracle I can only credit to Benadryl and the restorative power of jerking off, because she’s set up residence in my mind. The way she felt and tasted on that elevator, so open to me. The way she looked with that towel slung over her, her hips peeking out and making promises about what lay beneath. The sight of her curled up on the furniture like a cat, her leg stretched out in front of her. The drinks she makes for me, sweating out on the kitchen island. The notes in her cursive handwriting, hearts dotting all of the I’s. The sound of her voice. Hell, even the sound of her name—Mira. She should have been dressed up like a witch instead of a pirate, because I feel like someone’s bewitched me.
In my head, Leonard reminds me this is what happens when a man tries to make a monk of himself. I’m infatuated with this woman because she let me touch her.
But I know that’s an oversimplification. I didn’t expect to like Mira Evans, but I do. I feel an…understanding between us that is rare and…
Well, the guys would probably laugh at me, but it’s fucking beautiful, like staring up at the sun for the fraction of a second it takes for your eyes to burn. It’s not often that I feel a connection like that—which, in addition to my dislike of strangers and general unwillingness to put myself in uncomfortable situations, is why I spend most of my time with the four friends I’ve had for most of my life.
A voice in my head whispers that it’s also why I was so interested in changing Daphne’s view of me—because I already knew her. Because it seemed easier than finding someone else who interested me beyond the surface-level pull of scratching an itch.
Still, that doesn’t mean I’m inclined to do anything about my pull to Mira—anything else, that is.
She hasn’t given me any reason to think she wants a repeat of what happened on the elevator. I’ve noticed her watching me a few times, and the other night she sat close enough on the couch that her side was pressed to mine—but those things could be easily misinterpreted. The only sure indication of how she’s feeling is what she tells me—and she’s told me no.
Doesn’t matter. I feel a certain…protectiveness toward her. I’m protective of all of my friends, and I have every intention of paying this Byron guy a visit he won’t forget.
I pause on the first-floor landing, because my phone doesn’t work well in the basement-level parking lot. “We can drop by his place and imply he’s going to get himself into trouble if he keeps contacting her, can’t we?”
“I’d be skirting a line, Danny,” Shane says, but I know he’s going to do it. I can tell from the way he says it, a little regretful but a little excited too, because part of him is bored as fuck in that high-brow, suit-wearing job he has. Sure enough, he adds, “You’ve got his address?”
“I do.”
It was on about half of Mira’s boxes, which I’d collapsed for her after Delia helped unpack them. Most of them were repurposed Amazon boxes, and she hadn’t bothered to use permanent marker to cross out her identifying information. I’d told her she should probably get rid of the labels, but she gave me a look that suggested I was being anal and offered up the kind of platitude a person only gives you if they have no intention of listening.
“So…want me to pick you up?” I ask after giving Shane a couple of beats to think about it. “I’ll buy you a coffee on the way home. Even one of those fancy lattes you like.”
Sometimes he has me pick him up for outings so his car’s still in the lot. It’s a game he and the other partners like to play with each other—the person who stays in the office longest wins. They’ve got everything they need there, or so he says. A gym. Assistants to grab them food. Showers.
We used to go biking every morning—a pick-me-up before settling in for a long day at our desks—but now he only comes on Saturdays, and only then every other week or so. Before Drew left for Puerto Rico, Shane would also come to our Dungeons & Dragons game nights, a tradition we’d upheld since we were in middle school, adding Leonard’s character when he was in town. We’d put those on hold, too, though—Shane’s idea.
Something told me he wouldn’t be first in line to pick them up again.
I don’t need Ruthie to tell me he’s leaving us behind. It’s happening slowly, but my specialty is in finding patterns. This one’s as obvious as code on a screen.
Still, I understand Shane in a way Ruthie didn’t, and I don’t blame him or hold it against him. He’s done this before, and he’s always come back. I know he’ll come back again.
He pauses for a second, considering, then says, “Yeah, sure, what the hell.”
“Thanks. See you soon.” I consider telling him about my wrist, but he’s already looking for an excuse to back out. If I say that, he’ll insist the Byron mission can wait, and I won’t be able to explain why it feels urgent without facing a lot of questioning.
I can stop at a pharmacy later and pick up a wrist guard—the kind of thing I’ve used before for protection against carpal tunnel.
Despite the uncomfortable ache in my wrist, I’m grinning as I make my way down to the basement. I knew Shane would come through for me—no matter how much his ambition tells him he’d be better off spending what little free time he has with people who can help him conquer the world. Not his nearly criminal buddy who’s chained—almost literally—to his desk, and his other less-than-high-flying friends.
