I don’t want to complicate this living situation, regardless of how temporary it is. The last thing I need is for it to be awkward.
Monty doesn’t appear, and I watch the stairs, chewing my lip. Maybe I crossed a line when I went through her stuff. The photograph clearly means a lot to her, and it’s a small insight into who she is. Gable told me no one knows a thing about Monty, her real name, her age, or if she’s even actually English, so maybe me stumbling upon a real fragment of her life has unnerved her.
Then she appears, and I wish she hadn’t.
She’s in an ankle-length, figure-hugging nightgown.It’s midnight black with white lace around the square neck, thin straps holding it up. She looks like a fucking dream, especially now her hair is blow-dried and set in waves over her shoulders.
I swallow and tell my dick to calm the fuck down. “I ordered pizza.”
“Perfect.” She saunters into the kitchen as if she’s always been here. “What do you have to drink?”
“Beer. Want one?” She nods, and I go to the fridge. After uncapping us each a bottle, I say, “You were up there a while.”
“This doesn’t take five minutes.” She gestures at herself. “And I was masturbating.” I choke on my beer, suds spitting across the kitchen. I cough into my fist, my eyes watering, and she laughs at me. “A good-looking man like yourself can’t cuff me and rub up on me and expect me not to finish what he started.”
“I didn’t … I did not rub on you; you rubbed on me.”
“Potato, po-tah-to. I enjoyed the rubbing. A lot.” She grins and swigs more beer. “I didn’t even have to use a toy.” I gape at her, and the doorbell rings. “Ooh, pizza!”
As Monty answers the door and flirts with the delivery guy, I adjust my dick. This is day one. Day fucking one.
We sit on the couch and eat pizza. Monty devours the vegetarian one, eyes glued to the television, while I watch her. It’s unnerving how little I know, or anyone knows, about this woman. When I first met her, it was to interview her after Asher had died, and she’d been more than happy to provide prints and DNA for us to check her records. Nothing came up. Not a damn thing.
How can a person wear such a convincing mask?
Wanting justice is only a small part of why I became a cop. My first wife called me the most curiousman she knew, and I’m still that way. I want to solve things, solve people, and right now, Monty is a puzzle with the pieces scattered at my feet.
“You ever been married?” I ask, taking another bite of my pizza.
She gestures at the television. “This is wild. You Americans call this football, but when does your foot touch the ball? And then you have the audacity to call actual football ‘soccer’! Make it make sense.” She shakes her head and bites into her pizza, chewing as she continues watching.
I hum in response. “Got any kids?”
“I mean, this is just rugby with a hell of a lot of kit. Back home, we?—”
“Monty.”
She looks at me. “What?”
“What’s your real name?”
“Madison.”
I blanch. “Really?”
“No. Can we watch something else?”
I frown. “Can we talk?”
She rolls her eyes and closes her pizza box, placing it on the coffee table. “Why do people always want to talk about me? I’m not interesting, really. And whatever I say will be a lie, so give it up.”
I move aside my own empty box. “Okay, then answer me this. Why do you lie?”
For once, she considers my question instead of giving me quickfire bullshit, and I hold onto pathetic hope that I’ll get an honest answer.
She crawls over to me, and I let out an exasperated sigh, turning my face away as she straddles me. She looks delighted, however, and plays with the collar of my T-shirt.
“You want to know why I lie?” she asks, and I exhaledeeply as I face her. “Because then I can be whoever I want to be.”
