I park by the curb in the sketchier part of town where Ana lives with her mother and two younger sisters. Four women under one roof might be why their house looks the least neglected out of the lineup. Their lawn isn’t as overgrown as their neighbors’, and no broken bottles or discarded trash litter the narrow, paved pathway to the front door.
“Goodnight, Ana. Don’t show up again, or you’ll be walking home. We’re done, understand?”
I might as well be talking to a brick wall. She stares at me with hooded eyes as her tongue peeks out, moistening her lips. She’s turned on. I’ve seen that look before.
I spent the last few minutes rejecting her, and she’s ready to vault over the middle console, pull my dick out and ride me outside her house while her sister peeks through the curtains from the second-story window.
“Don’t even think about it. Get your ass home,” I warn.
Her sultry gaze slides from my lips down my chest until the burning intensity focuses on my groin. The corner of her mouth quirks as her eyes jerk back to mine. “You’re so full of shit, baby. Your dick is hard. Doesn’t look like you’re not interested. I don’t know why you’re fighting me, but I’ll find out.”
She doesn’t wait for me to speak. I’m glad because it’s fucking pointless. She hauls herself out of the car, closes the door, then taps a goodbye against the window.
The second she steps back, I floor it, peeling out of there and tearing through Newport at too many miles an hour towardTortugo. A few drinks will help me take my mind off Ana’s accurate observation.
My dick is hard.
Though Ana is not the reason.
FIVE
Blair
CODY'S PLAYING GUITAR AGAIN.
The sound is distant, but if I sit with my ear glued to the door, I can make out the melody. It sounds like Hozier’s “Movement” today. Cody doesn’t sing, and with two doors and a hallway between us, deciphering the title is not always easy.
Still, I try. I’m growing attached to the soothing strum of his guitar. He’s played every day since he moved in, and when he didn’t last night, after taking Ana home, I was so disappointed I couldn’t sleep.
He didn’t mention Ana when I stepped out at the same time he did this morning. This time it wasn’t planned. I was pushing out a box full of clothes I decided to donate after the endless boredom drove me to reorganize my wardrobe.
I saidhi.
I promised myself I wouldn’t, but when he glancedat me over his shoulder, the word bypassed my brain and sprung out without permission.
He didn’t reply. Obviously.
He’s been giving me the silent treatment for a year now, unless he has a reason to scream like the time he kicked me out of his Halloween party.
He didn’t sayhiback. He didn’t sayfuck offorstop talking to meordo you need help...? but hedidgrab the box I was struggling with, hoping to push it all the way down the corridor, into the elevator, then outside, and somehow load it into my car.
Without a word or a backward glance, holding my box, Cody marched away. I followed, my heart beating a wild rhythm. I half expected him to toss the box—and me—down the stairs, but no.
Cody isn’t spiteful.
He holds grudges, hates me, and makes it known, but he’s notspiteful. He wouldn’t hurt me for the sake of it.
Not wanting to jinx this tiny progress, I quietly asked if he could load the box into my car, pointing out my Porsche to save him asking. I opened the trunk, and once he deposited the box inside, he walked away, without so much as a nod.
Progress is progress.
Helping me is a gesture louder thanhi, so I took it as a good omen. I also stood watching his biceps and triceps shifting and pulsing as he yanked the door to his Mustang open.
Now, with a heavy sigh, cradling a cup of hot tea in both hands, I slide down my door until my butt hits the cool marble floor. Eyes closed, I listen to the melody.
He’s good. I’ve imagined what he looks like with that guitar in hand a thousand times. I never knew he played until I moved here, but during the past week, I learned many things about Cody Hayes.
He plays guitar and he’s damn good at it.
