My hot neighbor’s apartment door is wide open.
Which is unusual. I barely see Hot Neighbor around the building, but when I do, he’s always hurrying around, slamming himself down the stairs like he’s late for something, and never bothers to respond when people say good morning.
He strikes me as overly private and kind of an asshole.
Definitely not the open-door type.
It’s late at night, a little after two in the morning, and I’m just getting home from working a long, exhausting shift. My feet hurt, my back aches, my head’s a knot of pressure from the loud club music, and all I want is sleep.
A normal person would shout in and see if everything’s okay before moving on. Maybe they might even call the cops or something.
Unfortunately, that’s not me.
This wide-open door drives me absolutely insane.
It hits all my buttons with a freaking sledgehammer: a place I shouldn’t enter and an unanswered question mixed with a horribly attractive and aloof man.
This stupid door was practically left here to test me.
And I’m going to fail.
When I was little, my mom says I used to get in things all the time. Like I’d crawl into the pantry and start pulling down the flour or I’d dig my way into a full hamper just to see what was at the bottom. I mapped and explored every inch of our ratty apartment by the time I was two-and-a-half.
One afternoon, I got lost in the park because I had to see the inside of a bush and then couldn’t find my way back out. I was three years old. I got kicked out of a Target at six when I went rooting around in the back, just to see what it was like. I broke my wrist at thirteen falling off a fire escape trying to climb into an abandoned warehouse because I saw a bit of graffiti I thought looked cool through a window.
Mom always says I was the most curious little kid she’s ever met.
And she doesn’t mean that in a good way.
It’s only gotten worse over the years, and Baltimore has no end of nooks, crannies, and stupidly dangerous places to explore.
It’s a disease, really.
The disease of curiosity.
Which is why that door is a nightmare for a girl like me.
“Just go home, Lena,” I whisper to myself as I cautiously approach. “Don’t be stupid. Just take one little peek, then go home.” I clear my throat on the threshold. “Hello?” I call out.
The entryway is cluttered with shoes and a table that looks like it was thrown onto its side. Glass glitters on the hardwood.
My heart quickens. Something bad happened here.
This is when a sane person would turn and walk right out. Except instead of fear, excitement and a deep obsessive yearning to keep going fills my body like a lightning storm.
“Hello?” I call again, and there’s still no answer.
I step forward into the apartment. My heels crunch on the glass and I teeter slightly. I’m definitely not dressed for exploration right now, but that’s never stopped me before. I tug my jacket tighter, trying to cover my obscenely short skirt and my see-through mesh top over a very unsubtle lacy bra.
Bottle girls at Club Shade work for tips, and drunk guys tip better when I look like I’m for sale.
“Hello? Anyone? If you’re a robber, please let me know. I’m just an innocent bystander, nothing to worry about. If you’re dying and bleeding out, just groan a little so I can find you.”
Nothing, still quiet. Just the sound of my heels crunching over the remains of a shattered mirror and my heart hammering in my ears.
“Screw it,” I mutter and go deeper into the apartment.
It’s just like ours. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, living room, kitchen. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. Except my home is decorated. Mom’s obsessed with junk shops and thrift stores—at least, she was before she got sick—and our place is filled with all her little treasures.
Hot Neighbor’s place is barren. Like, serial-killer empty. And what’s around is utterly destroyed.
The couch looks like someone went at it with a knife. Plates are smashed on the kitchen floor. There’s debris everywhere. A dying plant wrecked in the corner. Movies ripped from their plastic boxes. The TV is shattered and lying at an angle.
But nothing on the walls. No photographs, no personality. Some books, mostly thrillers, a few grocery store romances, stuff like that, but nothing personal.
It feels like this place was staged by a realtor or something.
The refrigerator is empty. Totally barren. The only food is a box of cereal smashed in the sink.
As I move toward the back hallway, something catches my eye. It’s black and metal. I reach inside an upturned drawer, biting my tongue, and pull it out.
It’s a gun.
I stare at the weapon. I keep thinking it’s not real, but the thing’s heavy. Like it’s made from actual metal.
I put it back, hand shaking.
Yep, something very bad happened in this apartment.
“Okay, Lena, now you really, really should go.”
The hallway to the bedrooms is a minefield of strewn clothes, tossed books, a mattress slit in half, and money.
Lots and lots of money.
It almost doesn’t make sense, all those loose bills. I stare at the cash, trying to count it all. Hundreds and twenties are strewn all over, some of them torn to pieces like confetti. My mouth waters at the thought of scooping them up and my brain goes haywire.
Would Hot Neighbor notice if some went missing?
Assuming he’s even still alive.
What the hell happened here, anyway?
If this was a robbery, they must’ve been after something extremely specific.
I kneel down, heart racing. I feel sick and terrified and so deeply curious I can’t stop myself. Who would do something like this? And who would leave the door hanging open when they were done?
I run my fingers through the cash and feel something underneath. It’s soft and pliable, and when I pull it out, a little laugh catches in the back of my throat.
Boxer briefs. Black cotton boxer briefs. Fruit of the Loom and big. I stare at the underwear and hold them up, nerves and terror making me giddy and stupid.
I picture Hot Neighbor wearing nothing but these and get a little thrill.
I’m not normally an underwear girl. I mean, there’s nothing sexy about these things. I’m running on pure adrenaline right now and not thinking straight, because I’m wondering what they smell like, but I am not a total creep. I’m not like a weird boxer sniffer or something. Normally, at least.
Then there’s a sound behind me and I whirl around.
A man stands near the entry hall. He’s staring at me with narrowed eyes and a hard look on his face.
He’s got a gun pointed at my face.
It’s him. It’s Hot Neighbor. He’s wearing jeans, a dark shirt, and his thick black hair’s pushed back in a careless curly wave.
I’m relieved he’s not dead. A big part of me assumed I was going to find his body.
Hot Neighbor’s still handsome as sin, even looking like he’s about to blow my skull off. The guy’s big and muscular, athletic and gorgeous, with full lips and tan skin.
Despite the clear threat in his expression, he’s otherworldly.
Slowly, I raise my hands up in the air. I open my mouth to speak but I can’t find words. I’m scared, aroused, terrified, mostly confused and emotionally wrecked.
His eyebrows raise.
“Are those my underwear?” he asks.
My mouth falls open.
I’ve still got his boxer briefs clutched in my left hand.
That finally breaks the traffic jam in my skull. “I can explain,” I say as my cheeks turn bright red.
Am I seriously embarrassed right now? The guy’s still pointing a gun at my head and I’m worried about underwear?
“Did you break in here to steal my clothes?” he asks, a little smirk on his lips.
Holy shit. Is he seriously joking around with me?
“The door was open.” I let the undies fall from my hand, beyond mortified. Somehow the embarrassment overwhelms the fear and my head starts working again. Partially, anyway. “I called in and nobody answered and I was looking around—”
“And you thought my underwear was interesting?”
Yep, definitely fucking with me. Who the hell is this gorgeous asshole and how is he acting so smooth?
“It was under all the money.”
He glances down at my feet, frowning. The gun never wavers from my chest as he looks back up. “You’re that girl.”
“I’m definitely a girl.”
“The neighbor. I’ve seen you around.”
He noticed me? Hot Neighbor actually noticed me?
Oh my God, Lena, this is not the time.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to come in here, it’s just that the door was open.”
“You said that already.”
“I was trying to make sure nobody got hurt.” I clear my throat and look around. That seems believable, right? Just an innocent bystander trying to do right by a neighbor, that’s me. “What happened in here, anyway? Not that it’s my business, but—”
But I can’t keep my stupid mouth shut and just had to ask.
Slowly, the gun lowers. He’s staring like he’s not sure what to do with me, and I get the feeling he’s caught between normal violence and extremely grisly and painful violence.
I’m leaning toward normal, but that’s just me.
Getting murdered doesn’t sound all that appealing at the moment. Since I have no clue what to do in a situation like this, I decide the only way out is through sheer force of will.
Otherwise, he’s going to blow my brains out, and that would be bad.
I like my brains. I’ve got wonderful brains.
He looks at the floor and kicks at some debris. “I’m not sure yet. I just got back.”
“I can help you clean up,” I say brightly, like I’m just a friendly girl willing to do her super-sexy neighbor a solid, and nudge the underwear away with my foot before walking into the kitchen. “Do you have a broom or something? I can grab trash bags—”
Just keep going. Push forward. Don’t give him time to decide I’m better off with my brains painting the wall.
“No,” he says and when I look over, the gun’s gone. That’s a huge relief. I’m sweating and my heart’s on fire and all I want to do is run the hell away from here, but the guy could still pop my skull with his hands like a balloon if he wanted.
This is exactly how I felt the last time I went urban exploring and the cops showed up. Well, this is probably worse. The cops were just going to arrest me.
This guy might snap my spine in half.
Curiosity never works out great for me.
“No to which? The broom or the trash bags?” I’m babbling but I can’t help myself. “Don’t worry either way. I can go grab some stuff and—”
“No, you’re not going to help.”
“Really, it’s no trouble. I don’t know what happened here and it’s definitely none of my business, but you have a long night ahead of you and it’s already late. I’m happy to pitch in.”
There’s a moment when I think he’s going to pull the gun again. We stare at each other across the kitchen counter, and he slowly leans into the space between us. I’m beaming like a moron and trying to exude positivity. Totally normal, everything’s absolutely fine, no reason to think I’m a threat. I’m struck again at how insanely attractive he is, and the thought of him flexing and lifting and getting all sweaty as he cleans gets my knees shaking. Not with fear this time. And that’s how I know I’m a very deeply damaged individual.
“Are you trying to see the rest of my underwear drawer?” he asks very softly, with a smile on his face.
A joke. He’s making another joke.
It takes a second to process.
“It’s not like that,” I say quickly, even though it’s obvious he’s only messing with me.
“You sure? I can save you the trouble and show you where my socks are.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Your socks?”
“I assume you’re into a wide range of kinks.”
“Are you implying that I have a foot fetish right now?”
“If the shoe fits.”
Oh my god. He’s making puns.
“You’re a monster. I wish you’d just point that gun at me again.”
“We can do that too if you want.”
I laugh, not because I’m finding this particularly funny, but because it defuses the tension. He’s smirking at me, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was flirting.
But normal men don’t flirt with underwear thieves.
Which is me, apparently.
“Just let me help straighten up. It won’t take that long.”
“You really don’t need to.”
I find a broom and a dustpan in the pantry, plus a few empty trash bags in a closet. There’s not much else around, which is odd. Does the guy actually live here? Because it doesn’t feel like anyone possibly could.
He wordlessly accepts a bag, and we start collecting the shards of broken plates.
I’m not sure what I’m doing. Helping some random guy that was just pointing a gun at me and accusing me of being into feet isn’t exactly how I pictured the end of tonight going. Mom will be wake early, and I want to be up to see her before she goes to her doctor’s appointment, but if I’m not in bed soon, I’m going to sleep too late.
“What’s your name?” he asks as he sweeps and I gather.
“Lena. What about you?”
“Arsen.”
“Nice to meet you, I guess.”
“It’s strange the way you can live around people but never really know them at all.”
No kidding. Tonight I learned I have a psycho terrifying monster living down the hall.,
“That’s pretty normal, right?” I laugh awkwardly. “:We’ve all got our own little bubbles.”
“My bubble feels too big right about now,” he murmurs and catches my eyes.
My heart goes wild.
One look and the man makes me want to melt into him.
Put that gun against my head and take me, scary neighbor man.
I’m particularly deranged this evening it seems.
I can’t make myself leave. We move into the living room. I want to ask him why he’s not calling the cops or acting like this is even a big deal, but he seems intent on not talking about the reason we’re cleaning his place. The big old messy elephant in the room. I help him trash the couch stuffing and toss the shards of some pottery.
“Didn’t take care of this very well,” he says, holding up the dried husk of what I think was once a snake plant.
“No judgment here. I could kill sand if given the opportunity.”
“That’s a real skill.”
“Tell me about it. My mom got me sea monkeys one time when I was little, and I drank them after like a day.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You drank sea monkeys?”
“Yep, I couldn’t help myself. I really wanted to know what they tasted like.”
“And?”
“Salty.” I shrug at the memory. Mom went ballistic, terrified that I was going to get sick. But I was fine. They’re just like tiny shrimp. “Nothing special.”
He laughs to himself. “Do you get in trouble a lot?”
“Depends what you mean by that.”
“Well, you drank sea monkeys and broke into my apartment.” His eyes move to my jacket, now hanging open, and rake along my exposed skin before meeting my gaze again. A thrill shivers between my legs. No mistaking that look. I’ve seen it before, but never from a man like him. “And you look like that.”
My mouth opens, not sure what he’s implying. Coming from anyone else, and I might feel pissed off right now. But from him? From that mouth and with that tone?
He could tell me I look like a hooker straight up, and I’d still wrap my legs around his face.
“I’m just the kind of girl that helps out her neighbors, that’s all.”
“Right, you’ve got a big heart.”
“I’m a gentle spirit, really.”
“Then why were you fondling my undergarments?”
“I wasn’t fondling anything.” I lightly slap his arm and have to pull my hand back quickly when it’s like hitting pure steel. “And who uses the word undergarments?”
“Don’t change the subject.” His eyes are shining with amusement. We’re standing very close together. “I caught you going through my stuff.”
“And I’m making it up to you by helping you clean.” I stoop down and start gathering cash. “Who has all this money lying around, anyway?”
“Emergency fund.” He gently moves me away and takes over. I could linger a little longer under that touch. “Everyone should have one.”
“Must be nice,” I mutter, frowning at the stacks he makes. There must be enough there to pay our rent for two years. And that’s his emergency money.
We move into the bedrooms. Only one of them is furnished. The other two are mainly barren. Everything’s wrecked, including the bed frame, and it takes an hour before we manage to make the place at least semi-presentable in the sense that I could walk around barefoot without cutting my toes. It’s still a wreck though.
When we’re done, he sits next to me on the edge of the bed, and I’m feeling both exhausted and wired.
It’s a bad combination. I’m loopy and dreamy, and I keep staring at his lips, wondering what they feel like.
Would they taste sharp and metallic? Like the barrel of his gun?
Mom always said I’m too curious for my own good.
Right now, I’m starting to think she was right.
“I keep waiting for you to ask again,” he says softly, staring across the room at the door.
“Ask what?” But I know. The one thing we decided not to talk about.
He gestures all around us.
“Oh, right.” I lean back on my hands. My jacket shifts open more and falls slightly down my shoulders. I should adjust it, but choose not to. His eyes move down my body again, and another tingle shudders between my legs. I like the way he looks at me. I like the way he sits close to me. I like his mouth, the way he teases me, his voice, his sense of humor. I even like the way he smells.
Not his underwear. Him. I didn’t smell his underwear.
“You don’t want to know,” he says after a long, tension-filled pause. “Trust me, it’s better if you act like you never saw this.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Really?”
No, not really, not remotely really, but what else can I say?
I’m dying to know why this happened, but it’s very obvious that this guy is big trouble, and it’s better for my health if I don’t find out.
Even though it’s killing me.
“Sure. Really.”
He laughs softly. This time it’s a low chuckle. “You’re not very good at lying.”
“I’m a wonderful liar. Here, watch this.” I compose myself and meet his eye. “This is totally normal, and I’m having a great time. See? Fantastic.”
“You’re not supposed to admit that’s something you do.”
“Got me there.”
“Let’s pretend tonight never happened. You go back to your place, go to bed, and in the morning, it’s like you never came in here.”
“That’s going to be hard for me.”
“But better for you in the long run.” His smile fades away. Something dark and haunted replaces it. Which only makes me want to ask a dozen questions. “You don’t want to know me.”
“Are you sure?” I tilt my chin toward him. My lips part slightly, and god, I’m practically begging him to come closer.
I know he’s right. The whole gun thing made it pretty obvious. I should get up and go. I should run like my life depends on it.
But I have to know more.
I need to know more.
This man’s a mystery, a gorgeous freaking mystery, and I’m not the kind of person that can ignore so many unanswered questions.
Like, why does he keep looking at me like he wants to tear my body to pieces?
“I’m positive,” he says, eyes locked on me.
Then I do something stupid. I’m not even sure why. But my mouth opens, and I say something very, very stupid.
“If tonight’s not happening, then what if you didn’t kiss me?” I blurt out.
His eyes widen slightly. My heart’s beating right up into my throat. I don’t know what made me say that or why I’m being so bold, but if I’m not going to get what I need, at least I can get what I want.
And I really, really want this man.
Yep, I’m definitely a disturbed individual.
“What if I didn’t stop at kissing you?” he asks in that low, sensual voice. “What if I ran a hand through your hair, held it tight, and didn’t let go until I was finished with you?”
Oh, fuck.
“Then that wouldn’t happen, which would be totally fine” I say, basically whimpering at this guy. “At least, not by tomorrow morning. Right now—”
He leans forward, one hand gripping the back of my neck, and crushes my mouth with his.
