No freaking way.
Desert Palms doesn’t get guys who look like they stepped out of an Instagram thirst trap. This isn’t The Strip, with its oiled-up models and fake-tough guys flexing like they’re Viking warlords but still cry if the valet scratches their Tesla. This place can’t even keep the hot water on half the time.
The first guy’s a tank—six foot something. Broad shoulders, arms like he bench-presses cars, dark brown hair, overgrown and sun-bleached at the ends, shoved back like he’s daring you to look away.
He lifts his hand. Just a casual little wave, like we’re old neighbors swapping sugar.
My hand lifts before my brain catches it. I wave back. Because apparently, I have zero survival instincts left.
My eyes keep moving. Next to him… Taller? Leaner? Hard to tell. He’s all angles. Black gear, sleeves shoved up to show forearms covered in ink I can’t read. He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at everything else.
I swallow, shift my weight, but my hand’s still up. Like a moron. My eyes slide past him, deeper into the shadows behind them.
There’s a third man. He stays half in the dark, just behind the other two, like he wants it that way. For a second, he shifts—like he’s about to pull the first guy back with him. The streetlight flickers just enough to catch the edge of his face, hair pushed back, a sharp jaw that is familiar. His eyes hit mine—
No. It can’t be. Nofreakingway.
It’s him. The guy from Jasper’s apartment.
The one I groped like a total moron at a yard sale, my hand on his— Oh, God, don’t go there. My cheeks burn, hot enough to fry an egg. I was trashed that night, chugging wine like it was water. How do I even know it’s him from this far? It’s that stance. Broad shoulders squared like he owns the night.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
I yank Gordo’s fat tail, dragging him back inside. He yowls like I just canceled his lifetime supply of tuna.
Sorry, buddy, survival first.
I slam the sliding door shut, flick the lock. Like that’s gonna stop Mr. Tall, Dark, and Groped-By-Me from kicking it in if he wants to.
My back hits the wall. I slide down it like my legs just checked out. My palms are slick. My shirt’s stuck to my spine. I can’t breathe right. Like I’ve just run a marathon in flip-flops.
No. No. Nooooooo.
Did he see me? Does he know it’s me? God.
I brace my elbows on my knees, forehead in my palms. Gordo curls up next to me like nothing’s happening.
Calm down, Mary.
Maybe I didn’t even see him. Maybe my brain’s just pulling tricks. Because really, how would I know it was him? I was so drunk that night I couldn’t even find my own shoes. For all I know, I groped a lamp and apologized to the fridge.
But… what if it’s him?
“Urgh!”
I groan into my hands. I’m stuck here on my own floor, hiding from a maybe-man I maybe-molested at Jasper’s place. Or maybe he was just a random guy, and my brain’s playing connect-the-dots.
Even so, my stupid body doesn’t care. My heart’s doing gymnastics in my chest, my palms won’t stop sweating, and every tiny creak in this apartment has me flinching like I’m about to star in my own murder documentary.
I swear I’m not moving. Not until they’re gone. Not until my soul leaves my body and relocates to a tropical island far from men with suspicious tattoos and kill-you eyes. I shift. My butt’s numb. I shift again. Pins and needles shoot down my leg. Great. Now my whole left cheek’s dead weight.
I whisper to Gordo, “Don’t you dare move. If you knock something over, I’m putting you on Craigslist.” He stretches one paw dramatically and flicks his tail across my face. Rude.
Five minutes pass. Ten. Twenty? Time doesn’t exist anymore; just my squeaky breath and my brain replaying the World’s Most Embarrassing Drunk Grope on repeat. I wiggle my toes to get the feeling back. When I’m ninety percent sure my legs won’t give out and dump me face-first onto the floor, I crawl up the wall like I’m scaling Everest.
Deep breath. I’m fine. It’s fine. They’re probably gone. Right? Probably off murdering someone else. Or getting boba. Who knows.
I crouch-walk to the sliding door like I’m a low-budget spy. I swear the floorboards creak just to betray me. I duck. Pop back up. Duck again. Gordo watches, tail twitching, definitely judging.
