Do Not Disturb

“What happened to good night?” I ask, my feet still in the hall, my arms crossed as I watch him wait, his hand impatiently holding the door open for me.

“Get in, please. Before that piece of shit comes back.”

I grin at his tone, which is more of a growl than enunciated speech, enjoying the pained look on his face and move past him, tossing my bag to the side, enjoying the look of it falling to the floor. I am normal. I go out and come home and toss my purse casually on the floor.

“And stop looking so happy,” he continues. “That punk is dangerous.”

“Happy is not a bad thing. And Simon is harmless. He’s not going to bite the hand that feeds him.”

“He didn’t know what you looked like before.”

I shrug, sitting on my bed, and unstrap my heels, my feet aching. I watch him, facing the door as if he expects it to open, a frown on his face. “Your protectiveness is cute, but I’ll be fine.” More than fine. In fact, I am fingers-crossed hoping Simon will walk back down the hall and knock on my door before he locks me in, will try to talk his way inside. I am suddenly anxious for Jeremy to leave, hoping he will scamper on so that I can unlock my safe, pull out my knives, and have time to sharpen them just in case. I close my eyes, tighten my fists, and try to block out the thoughts. Try to think of something other than how easy it would be to kill my keeper. How easy it would be to throw out the possibilities and take action into my own hands. Walk to Simon’s door instead of hoping he’ll open mine. Put my heels back on and saunter down that hall, my stiletto knife hidden in my purse. He’d open the door. Open the door, welcome me in, and then see what the true meaning of “freak show” was. The freak show would be my redecoration of his apartment with his blood. His skin growing cold under my hands as blood drained from his body. My eyes flip open when I feel a hand on my shoulder, the touch startling me.

“Are you okay?” Jeremy’s eyes flit from my face to my hands, my fists clenched so tightly that the skin is white.

I nod, releasing my fists, flexing my hands, and shaking them loose. I try to focus on his face, to listen to the words that he is saying, but I can’t hear anything, the roar in my head increasing as I think of Simon, of the interest in his eyes—my opening—the possibilities that Jeremy’s presence is inhibiting. The roar subsides a bit when I meet his eyes, distracted by the flicker of desire in their depths. Desire. Very different from my own, but present just the same. I clench my fist, draw in a shuddering breath, and spit out the words before my want to kill buries the possibility. “Kiss me. Now.”

CHAPTER 5

THERE IS NOT a moment of hesitation in his response. I think he moves before I even finish the order, his hand sweeping up to move my hair aside, to cup my face, his lips on mine, my body falling back against the bed. He is above me, the weight of his body warm on mine, and it is different. Completely different from our previous nights of cuddles and comfort. This is raw, needy heat, thoughts of Simon obliterated by the assault of sensations that are suddenly barraging my brain. I close my eyes and let him in. Let his mouth kiss my lips and his body settle atop mine, my legs instinctively spreading, wrapping around his waist, pulling him tighter into my body.

My virginity suddenly sits up and takes notice.

It is funny how a mind works. Three minutes takes me from killing to lusting to debating. Why am I still a virgin? There is no morality front that is keeping my legs bound. It has really been more of a question of opportunity. I made it to age nineteen by blind luck, then imprisoned myself for three years. Jeremy is the first person I’ve kissed since then.

Is tonight the night? The night that I say good-bye to my v-card? Some would say I lost it a long time ago. Lost it the first time I pushed a plastic dick through the thin hymen, the small bit of blood causing the irritated client to accuse me of being on my period. Little did he know that he was my first. That he witnessed a pivotal moment in that six-minute Internet chat. A chat I’m pretty sure he requested a refund for.

I push against Jeremy’s chest, breaking our kiss, his ragged breath matching my own, a question in his eyes when he looked down at me.

“No sex.”

“Okay.” He shrugs. “I didn’t bring protection.” He lowers his mouth to me as if my statement is no big deal, as if he isn’t straining against his zipper, the ridge of him obvious as he grinds against my body, my thin panties letting me feel every inch of his want. I run my hands down his body, tugging up on his polo, dragging the material up and over his head, his mouth reluctantly letting go of me long enough to dip out of the shirt.