Chapter 2
How in the hell had he run out of food? Trevor wondered as he looked in the freezer again, hoping there was something to eat hiding behind the ice cube trays.
There wasn’t.
Well, there was a box of baking soda that his Aunt Megan had thrown in there a few months ago when he’d bought the place, but he wasn’t willing to risk having his stomach pumped again. With a frustrated groan, Trevor closed the freezer door and looked out the kitchen window.
He didn’t feel like going out in this shit, but he was starving and he didn’t have any choice. Of course, he could order food, except for the fact that he was still on the banned list for most of the delivery places.
Bastards.
As tired as he was, Trevor knew that he had to move his ass if he was going to make it to the grocery store before it closed. He headed upstairs, stripping off his sweat-soaked tee-shirt, work boots, and jeans as he went, noting that it looked like every piece of clothing he owned was scattered around his apartment.
Time to do the laundry, Trevor mused as he walked into the bathroom. After he relieved himself and flushed the toilet, he could have sworn he heard a squeal. Shrugging it off, he turned the shower on and cursed up a storm at the low water pressure. He’d have to fix that, but right now, he was just glad that the water was nice and hot, helping to relieve the aches in his sore muscles.
Another loud squeak had his eyebrows arching. It wasn’t like his normally quiet tenant to blast the television, but as long it didn’t interrupt his sleep, he’d let it go. After a quick shower, Trevor pulled on a semi-clean pair of jeans and grabbed his mesh laundry bag and started collecting clothes off doors, counters, and the back of the toilet as he headed downstairs.
“What the fuck?” Trevor mumbled when he saw the mud all over his newly tiled hallway floor. Had he done that? His eyes darted to the ugly welcome mat his tenant had placed near the front door and felt his lips pull up into a shit-eating grin. A few more weeks and he’d have the damn thing completely covered.
He made his way towards the basement door, wondering why the hell she’d bought the damn thing. The inbred-looking dogs with buggy eyes gave him the fucking creeps. A few weeks ago, he’d thrown the damn thing in the trash and replaced it with a Yankee’s floor mat only to have his aunt toss his floor mat away and return that hideous fucking thing. It didn’t matter that he owned the house. His aunt thought the mat was “cute” and it was staying or she would never cook for him again.
He was really sick of women trying to control him with food. Not that he was going to bitch and risk losing out on his aunt’s chicken pot pie. He wasn’t a fucking moron after all, but it would be nice if women would stop using his weakness against him. The Bradford appetite was a disability, damn it, and should be treated as such.
It seemed that every girlfriend he’d ever had, from Jenny in the fifth grade to whatever the hell her name was last year, had all tried to control him with food once they’d discovered that it was his weakness. Although he could forgive Jenny for bribing him with candy bars to beat the shit out of her brothers, they were assholes, after all, the rest of them truly pissed him off.
Not that he could fault them for wanting to marry him, he couldn’t. He was a Bradford, after all, but he didn’t appreciate their fucking games. How many times had a woman hinted at marriage while she held a casserole under his nose or woke him up with breakfast in bed, musing about how nice it would be to do that for him every day? Then, when he didn’t drop down on one knee and propose, they’d withhold all those tasty treats they’d promised him. When a woman started the marriage bullshit, he sat them down and explained that they didn’t quite live up to his standards, which for some reason always earned him a slap and a denial for more delicious tasty treats.
When he got married, and he would one day, it would be to his perfect woman, the woman who met each and every one of his requirements. So far, no woman had ever come close.
His perfect woman would be the best cook. She’d be able to whip him up a cake at a moment’s notice. She would never deny him any of her delicious treats no matter how badly he’d pissed her off, and he probably would, every day. She’d also be tall, hot, and have a body that left him panting for more.
She’d also have to be financially well off. Not that he minded supporting his wife, he didn’t. He just didn’t want a woman too dependent on him or needy. He wasn’t interested in being anyone’s sugar daddy. He wanted a wife that could function completely without him. She wouldn’t give a damn when he made last-minute plans to go to New Hampshire for some fishing or decided to stay out late with the guys and didn’t call her. She’d also have to come from a big family so that she wouldn’t have to rely on him for too much and would have someone else to bitch to at the end of the day and leave him the hell alone.
His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that he needed to move his ass. He made his way to the laundry room, dropped his bag by the machine and ran his fingers through his damp hair, trying to push it out of his eyes. That reminded him that he needed a haircut. If he didn’t get held over tomorrow night, which wasn’t looking very likely since they were busting their asses to complete the Madison project, he’d swing by Henry’s and get his customary cut.
After dropping his quarters in the machine, Trevor removed the basket left on top of the washer and dropped it on the cement floor, not really giving it much thought. He went to pick up his bag of clothes only to realize that he was out of laundry soap. He’d have to pick some up tonight. He really didn’t feel like staying up half the night doing laundry, especially since he had to get up at six and have his ass at work by seven.
With a shrug, Trevor grabbed the laundry soap out of the basket by his feet, figuring that she’d never miss it, and poured the soap into the washing machine.
“Oops,” Trevor muttered, sighing heavily when he realized that he’d used the last of the soap. Not really caring, he tossed the now empty container back into the basket as he made a mental note to pick up another bottle for his little neighbor when he went to the grocery store later.
He quickly dumped his clothes in the washing machine, not bothering to let the water suds up since he was so damn hungry and didn’t want to wait. He made his way back upstairs just as his neighbor was stepping out of her apartment with an armful of laundry.
“How’s it going?” Trevor asked in a bored tone as he headed for his door, not really in the mood to speak with her. Not that he was a snob, he wasn’t. He just didn’t like to deal with his tenants. That’s why he had his aunt deal with all their bullshit. He owned four apartment houses and his aunt managed every one of them for him. He only made an appearance when something needed to be fixed or he found out that one of his tenants was giving his aunt shit.
When he’d bought this place, he’d planned on leaving the second unit empty until he found some time to renovate the place. He’d changed his plans after his aunt strongly recommended that one of his pain-in-the-ass cousins should move in. To keep that from happening, he’d decided to rent the other apartment out before his aunt could do it for him. He’d given his aunt a list of strict rules and this woman was the only one who’d been willing to agree to all of them without comment.
From what he heard, a lot of the people that looked at the apartment had bitched and whined over his list, but he didn’t give a fuck. This was his house and he wasn’t about to put up with any bullshit. If they wanted to have their friends over at all hours of the night, have parties, or blast their music, then they could keep fucking walking, because he wasn’t having it. After working a twelve-hour day all he wanted to do was come home to a nice, quiet house and relax.
Thankfully, this woman followed his rules, so he never had to talk with her or kick her out on her ass. He had to admit that the extra income was nice. Granted, it only covered about half his grocery bill, but hey, every little penny counted.
“Hi,” Zoe mumbled quickly as she walked past him. He paused to look over his shoulder and frowned. She was short, chubby, pale, and plain, but she was without a doubt the best tenant he’d ever had. Maybe he should make chubby and plain the requirement for all his tenants, Trevor thought with a chuckle.
He was just about to open his apartment door when a knock at the front door caught his attention. Grumbling, Trevor walked over to the door, hoping his tenant wasn’t going to make a habit of having people over after eight and opened the door. He nearly swallowed his tongue when he spotted the familiar pizza logo on the guy’s shirt.
“Is this 23 Bedford Street?” the kid asked.
Trevor nodded dumbly as his eyes took in the oversized pizza box Black Jack’s was famous for and the small cardboard box on top of it. He sniffed, allowing his Bradford senses to kick in and do its thing. In seconds, he knew that he had a “Monster” and a large order of chicken tenders within snatching distance.
