Bad Boy Good Man (4 page)

Lots of people didn’t get along with their
neighbors. It wasn’t unheard of to just live next door to someone
and never interact with them. It had happened all the time when I’d
lived with Sarah and Dawn. Someone would move in, then six months
later they would be gone, and only then would we realize that we
never really knew who the person was.

There was only one reason I was so concerned
about making peace with this guy, and I really didn’t want to admit
it. I was attracted to him. Somehow, in the mild conflict and short
conversations that we’d had, I’d gotten a little crush on him. And,
while it wasn’t a mentally-pick-out-my-wedding-dress kind of crush,
it was big enough that it had altered my behavior.

It had to be the sex thing. I would totally
have gone the one-night stand route, but I didn’t feel like getting
murdered. I’d used some studies to calculate the risk, and it was
just a bit too high for my liking. But I needed that connection, no
matter how brief it might be. If it came from a boyfriend, awesome.
If it came from the neighbor, it would do.

Yeah, you burned that sex bridge when you
accused him of cheating on his non-existent wife.
I flipped my
pillow over to the cool side and pressed my burning face against
it. The only reason I had any interest in Antony was because of my
embarrassing loneliness. The cake would make me look as desperate
as I was. There was no way I was delivering my humiliation
directly.

Sunday morning greeted me with a sense of
peace and finality on the issue. I’d shut the door on the entire
thing. It was incredibly freeing. I showered, dressed, ate a piece
of the cake I was not going to be giving to hot Antony, and got
busy cleaning up. I went out for lunch with Dawn and Sarah, and I
shot down any conversation about the sex neighbor dilemma in favor
of hearing about Sarah’s all night and all day sex romp with her
very promising new dude.

I usually dreaded Sunday night—unless
The
Walking Dead
was on—but I didn’t feel my usual sense of despair
at the end of the weekend when nine p.m. rolled around. Monday
morning would be my fresh start, and I was really proud of myself
for handling the conflict. In fact, I was entitled to a bubble
bath.

My bathtub was pretty small, but I could
usually get a relaxing time out of it. It helped that the bathroom
was small as well; it steamed up so bad, I was considering wedging
a tropical plant in there. I considered some candles, but that
seemed like more of a Saturday afternoon thing. All I needed was to
relax before bed. But a glass of wine would be nice.

I started the hot water, tossed in a bath
bomb, and headed to the kitchen for the wine. I poured it into one
of my huge glasses and brought it to the bathroom with my phone,
which I put carefully on the back of the toilet tank. It was safer
there than on the edge of the tub when I wanted music. I put up my
hair and dipped a toe into the water. It was perfect.

When I sank into the bubbles, I sighed aloud.
A hot bath, some good red wine, and Bastille on Spotify. The
weekend wasn’t a total loss, after all.

The bathroom light flickered once, dimmed,
flickered again, and cut out. The crack under the door went dark,
too. Aside from the music playing on my phone, everything was
totally quiet. Then, the car horns started outside.

I should have quit while I was ahead.

I’d never experienced a New York blackout,
before. I’d gone home to Connecticut before Sandy and hadn’t
returned until the power was back on. But that had been a different
situation, and if it were just a few blocks, I would probably still
have to work in the morning. I couldn’t run away to Mom’s house
tonight.

You can do this
, I pep talked myself
as I felt for the edge of the tub and slid my glass aside.
All
you need to do is get dried off, then grab your phone and use it as
a flashlight to get safely into bed.

Cursing myself for not using those candles, I
put one hand out to feel for the toilet lid. My arm missed. I
flailed. A thing bumped another thing in the darkness, and the
delicate tinkle of breaking glass sounded on one side of me as a
hollow sploosh happened on the other. My phone screen briefly,
cruelly illuminated as it sank below the water in the toilet bowl
then flickered out and left me in total darkness again.

Okay. Plan b. You just put one foot out, and
you feel around really carefully for the glass—

“Ow! Motherfu—” I didn’t censor myself so
much as I had to press my lips together against the pain that
sliced through my heel. The shard of glass embedded in my foot had
to be the length of a pencil, at least. I tried to stay on my tippy
toes to avoid pushing it in any deeper. My still dripping body
slicked the floor beneath me as I hobbled, and I tripped, falling
headfirst through the bathroom door with a loud cry of shock and
pain.

“Ellie?”

Oh no.
No. This was humiliating enough
already—or would be when I explained it to the emergency room
doctor who had to stitch up my foot—I did not need to be further
humiliated by
him
. But sure enough, I heard his door close,
and his steps in the hallway. “Ellie?”

“No, I’m fine.” I sounded like my mom talking
on the phone to someone she was pretending to like. “I just fell
down. I’m fine, now.”

“That didn’t sound fine.”

“Well, I am. Thank you for your concern, but
like I said, I’m—ah, dammit!” I cursed as a shock of pain went up
my side. Something was bruised. It felt like something
important.

“Can you get to the door to unlock it?”
Antony asked.

“Yeah, I can run a fucking marathon!” I
snapped, grinding my teeth against the pain and probably the blood
loss.

“Look, you better give me a straight answer,
or I’m calling the fire department right now, and they can come
knock down your door and help you,” he warned.

“I—” Ugh. No point in being dishonest, now.
“I am naked and wet and covered in glass shards, and I’m probably
losing a lot of blood.”

“Shit, I’m calling the ambulance, stay right
there.”

“No!” I shouted. “No, I can get to the door.
Just… Can you go get a sheet or something before I do?”

“You sure you’re gonna be okay if we wait
that long?” he demanded. Someone down the hall yelled something
that was muffled by the door, and he shouted back, “She’s having a
medical emergency, why don’t you just go back inside, and mind your
own business?”

My face flamed. Now the whole building would
know. And, they would probably call the police, and a bunch of
firefighters really would break in and rescue naked, bleeding
me.

Normally, that thought of that would have set
off slot machine jackpot noises in my head. I must have really been
losing blood fast.

“Fine,” he acquiesced through the steel door.
“I’ll be back by the time you count to ten. Have the door unlocked,
or I’m gonna assume you’re passed out and dead.”

I didn’t bother counting to ten. I crawled to
the door and reached up for the deadbolt, unlocking it just as he
said, “You got it?”

“Yeah, but I can’t get the chain. There’s
glass in my foot, and I can’t—”

He reached through the small gap and flicked
the chain loose. “Those things aren’t worth a damn.”

My mouth fell open. Not because of the chain
thing; I knew about that already. But because he’d slipped a
flashlight into the front pocket of his jeans, and the upward beam
threw every ridge of muscle into contrast, like he was a living,
breathing art deco representation of Atlas.

So, all the sex must really bulk a body
up.

He held the promised sheet at arms’ length in
front of him, his eyes closed. “Just tell me when I’m getting
close, and I’ll throw it over you like you’re a piece of
furniture.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s very helpful,” I
snapped, but inwardly, I had to admit it was a little funny. “Just
toss it down, and I’ll get it all arranged.”

“Where’s the broken glass at?” he asked,
turning away and pulling the flashlight from his pocket to sweep
the beam around the floor.

“It’s in the bathroom.” I tied the sheet
around my chest. “Okay, I’m decent.”

He turned and shone the light on me. I
couldn’t see his face beyond the blinding brightness, but I could
hear the smug expression on it when he whistled low and said, “Wow,
you really did a number on yourself.”

“Is it that bad?” I peered down at the watery
red line slicking down my ankle. “Oh my god.”

“Are you going to pass out?” He stooped
beside me to examine the cut closer. “Wow, that’s really in
there.”

“Do you think I should go to the hospital?” I
squeaked, turning my face away.

“Are you afraid to see your own blood?” He
laughed in disbelief. “I will never understand that.”

“That people get squeamish when their vital
fluids are splashing all over the place?” I hissed at the slight
pressure he put on the glass as he examined it.

“No. I will never understand girls who can
get their period every month, no problem, but they get one little
cut and they lose their breakfast.” He stood and brushed off his
jeans. “You don’t need stitches. But you do need to get that glass
out. Come on.”

That was it. Just, “come on”, and he leaned
down to scoop me into his huge arms.

“Are you a lawyer or a lumberjack?” I tried
to mutter it so I wouldn’t sound as breathless as I was, but I
failed.

“Hey, we’re in New York, not Portland.
Longshoreman, please,” he scolded as he carried me to my bed. His
voice didn’t betray any sign of physical exertion.

Granted, it wasn’t a very long walk.

Lowering me to the bed, he murmured a
surprisingly gentle, “Easy, easy.”

“What are you giggling about?” he asked.

A full body flush of mortification swept
through me. Had I giggled? There was no way I would play it off
now, and I wasn’t good at being cool. “Nothing. Maybe it’s the
blood loss.”

“You’re not that bad off. Here.” He handed me
the flashlight and dropped to his knees beside the bed,
thoughtfully arranging the sheets around my legs. “Hold the
light…right there, that’s good.”

It
was
good. I could see every whorl
of hair on his chest—made all the more interesting by the fact that
I’d been held against that chest and had confirmation of how
rock-hard it was—but even better, I could see the concern and
concentration in his expression. To have all of that focused on me
was…

“Can you keep the light where I need it, or
are you too weak from your injury?” he snarked, reaching up to grab
my wrist and adjust it like the arm of a desk lamp. “Okay. Hold
still. It’s big enough that I can get it out without tweezers.”

“That’s what she said.” I couldn’t pass up
the opportunity, even if it didn’t make total sense.

He rolled his eyes. “How are you in a better
mood while you’re naked and bleeding?”

“What are you talking about?” He didn’t know
me well enough to say something like that. “You’ve never seen me in
a bad mood.”

“Not last night, when you accused me of
adultery? Or when you wrote your ‘I can hear you having sex, you
jerk,’ note?”

Okay, he had me there. “You forgot the
exclamation point.”

His mouth twitched.

“Look, I’m sorry. I was way out of line—” My
voice rose in pitch and volume as the shard slid from my heel.

He balled up the end of the sheet and pressed
it to the bottom of my foot to stop the bleeding. He squinted up at
me. “You can stop blinding me now and save the batteries.”

I clicked the button, plunging us into
darkness.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, his
voice softer than I’d ever heard before. “I was pretty out of line,
too.”

“You didn’t call me an adulterer,” I pointed
out.

“No, but I did get a little personal with the
masturbation comment.”

I was glad we were in the dark. My face was
so hot it probably emitted a glow around me. “Well, I’m sorry you
can hear me masturbating. I lived with roommates for years, and
they never mentioned any noise.”

“Oh, that’s new place syndrome,” Antony said,
like it all suddenly made sense. “You start living alone, and you
let yourself run wild. That’s probably why you overheard me.”

I frowned. “How long have you been living
here? You said you were here before I was.”

“About three years. It’s my first place, too.
I lived at home through college, had roommates during law school.
Then, I moved home again… That’s a whole other story.” He sounded
sad, but I had no right to pry.

Silence fell between us. It felt final, like
our visit was finished. The weird thing was, I didn’t want it to
be.

He eased up the pressure on my foot, and the
flashlight clicked back on. “It looks like this has stopped
bleeding. Do you have any Band-Aids?”

I shook my head, then remembered we were in
the dark. “No. I should probably get a first aid kit, huh?”

“You’re lucky you have an overly cautious
neighbor.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”

The moment he left the apartment, it felt so
empty. Usually, I liked being alone. Maybe the novelty of the
freedom was wearing off.

When he returned, flashlight held between his
teeth, I noticed that besides the blue plastic first aid kit, he
carried a six-pack of brown glass bottles. “This might be
presumptuous, but I have beer that’s just going to get warm in the
fridge. Maybe we could keep each other company?”

“Um, yeah.” I looked down at the sheet
wrapped around me. “I’d like to get dressed, though.”

“How about we take care of this grievous
wound, first.” He knelt in front of me, again. When he took my foot
in his hand, sharp sparks raced over my skin, traveling dangerously
upward. Those sexy tingles were immediately doused under the cold
swipe of an alcohol swab and the resulting sting.