My text alert cuts through the silent apartment.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I roar the words, and it makes her jump, and then she laughs and kind of covers herself with her hands, and I laugh. I should ignore the damn phone, but I always worry a late-night call could be about my dad. Or one of the sorority needs me for something, like bail money. “I have to check that.”
She nods, and so I reach for my phone, which I had plugged into a charger earlier in the night before the food poisoning debacle. I swipe open the message.
Hey sexy. I’m thinking we need another round. Can I come over?
It’s a number I don’t recognize and didn’t program into my phone, so there’s no name. I don’t even want to try to wrack my brain to figure it out, and I certainly can’t be bothered to respond. I drop the phone back on the night table but it’s too late; she’s already pulled my T-shirt over her head. The moment is gone.
“You look hot in my shirt,” I tell her with a smile. “But not as hot as you looked out of it.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but my phone rings. My phone fucking rings. I glance at the number on the screen. It’s the same one that texted me. Internally I string together every curse word I’ve ever known. “Take it off again.”
Her eyes are on the phone as it rings on my night table. “You should answer that.”
“Nah. I’m busy.” She finally looks over at me, and I grin. “Trying to get you to take advantage of me.” The phone keeps ringing. I contemplate picking up my Himalayan salt lamp and dropping it on the phone. Repeatedly. The only reason I don’t is the same reason I don’t turn it off, either—my dad. I haven’t turned off my phone, or even the ringer, since he was diagnosed.
“Are you feeling better?”
“I was feeling pretty good when I was watching you play with yourself.” That was blunt. She flushes, and it’s so fucking beautiful.
“Should you get that?”
I don’t know if it’s the stress of the unknown stalker calling me or just my usual bad luck, but my stomach lurches again. I fight hard to ignore it. “It’s a wrong number.”
The phone finally stops ringing, but Zoey doesn’t stop looking at it, her brow furrowed. “How do you know it’s a wrong number? Is it the same person who texted you?”
I nod and repeat, “Wrong number.”
My stomach churns, and I start to feel hot. Zoey’s brow furrows deeper, and she steps closer, leaning forward to put a hand on my forehead. “You look flushed.”
I reach up and grasp her hand by the wrist and move it away from my head. “You’re the one making me hot.”
She gives me a tight little smile which is followed by a roll of her eyes. “Jude.”
I don’t know if she was going to add anything after my name, because my stomach twists painfully again, and I realize this food poisoning is far from over. I run into the bathroom and slam the door.
It’s only ten barftastic minutes later when I reemerge from the bathroom, after brushing my teeth again and rinsing with mouthwash. My stomach muscles ache, which is quite the achievement for the bad sushi, considering I do a hundred sit-ups daily without breaking a sweat, let alone causing an ache. I walk over to my dresser and pull out a pair of track pants, since I left the towel that was around my waist on the bathroom floor.
Zoey has left the bedroom, probably so she didn’t have to hear me puke. I wander out into the apartment and keep wandering till I find her. She’s in the guest bedroom, standing in the center admiring the new paint, and she’s put her dress back on, damn it. She’s facing the wall with the window across from the door, but she hears me come in and glances over her shoulder. “I think it’s going to need another coat. You might be able to get away with just touching it up by the window, though.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” I honestly don’t give a shit about the paint. “Why are you dressed?”
“Because it seemed more appropriate,” she replies, turning around to face me. “It’s late, and you’re still very sick, and the last thing you need—”
“Do not say the last thing I need is you naked, because you’re the only thing I need and the only thing that kept me from dunking my head in that toilet bowl and ending this misery.”
She smiles at that, and it’s fucking spectacular. She’s so damn breathtaking.
“Are you feeling better?”
“For now. I’m hoping it lasts this time.”
There’s a knock on my front door. It makes my heart stutter, and then it fills me with dread. I start to say a silent prayer she didn’t hear it, but I can tell by the look on her face she did.
“Is someone at the door?”
“No,” I lie. There’s another, louder, undeniable knock. She lifts an auburn eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s probably a Jehovah’s Witness or a door-to-door salesman or something.”
