As I unlocked my door, I wondered how a seemingly normal person like Dan McGuire had wound up living in this building. I went into my apartment and began my nightly routine, flipping on my lights, hanging up my coat, closing the drapes, changing my clothes, making a quick dinner and switching on the local news.
A reporter was talking about the Moretti mob trial. They flashed to a picture I recognized, assistant U.S. attorney, Jacob Sachs. Jacob and I had dated for a while back in law school. He had dark good looks and a ton of cocky swagger. That is, he looked a lot like Adam. The two of them could be brothers. At twenty-nine, Jacob was young to be a federal prosecutor. It attested to his intelligence and his confidence. He had both in abundance. Especially the confidence.
I couldn’t concentrate on what they were saying, so I just checked my email, and then turned my attention to the ‘red hot’ book I was writing. After I put in a few hours of work on it, I shut down my computer for the night. I thought briefly about how long it had been since I had looked forward to the weekend so much, and smiling, I headed off to bed where I broke out the Acqua di Gio and my big girl toy for inspiration. Even erotic romance novelists had to do research.
The rest of that week seemed to drag. It didn’t help that Bruce had taken it upon himself to give me dating and relationship advice. By Wednesday afternoon, I was harboring homicidal thoughts, but he didn’t seem to notice. If he reminded me one more time about the importance of moisturizing nightly, I was going to throw him down an elevator shaft. I must have some really shitty karma.
Thursday evening when I schlepped myself, mentally exhausted, back to my apartment and checked my mailbox, I saw that a letter for my friendly neighbor, R. Nardo, had been stuck in my box by mistake. I had a feeling that R. Nardo and I would never find ourselves sitting around trading gossip over coffee. I didn’t really care, though, since I didn’t really feel like socializing with any of my neighbors. This was a very strange building. It turned out the R. on his mailbox stood for Ray, incidentally.
I considered just leaving the letter on top of his box, but then I figured that since he lived right next door, I should maybe just slide it under his door. I climbed the four flights of stairs and walked to 402, R. Nardo’s apartment. I was just about to bend down and slide the letter underneath when the door swung open, nearly giving me a stroke. I got pins and needles in all my limbs and my heart pounded like a jackhammer. I glanced up and saw R. Nardo standing there staring directly at me. Up close, I could see that he was a tall, gaunt, swarthy-looking guy with coal-black eyes and a pockmarked face. What a looker.
“Um, I got this in my mailbox by mistake. I live next door.” I held out the letter. He reached out and took it and without a word closed the door in my face. What a dickhead. I should have just left it on top of the mailbox — or in the trash chute.
I walked back to my door and dug out my keys. I was about to open it when U. Hu climbed in through a window, carrying a camera. We were on the fourth floor and there was no fire escape by that window. What, was he out on the ledge snapping pictures of the alley? He darted past me without a word and entered his own apartment, shutting the door with a bang. At that, R. Nardo’s door suddenly flew open. He looked around and seeing me, slammed it again. Adam was right; I had to get out of this place.
Chapter Seven
The next day I wore a stylish, cream-colored knit dress that hugged my curves and ended just above my knee. I also wore my brown leather knee-high boots with the four-inch heels. It was one of my favorite outfits. I put my long wavy hair up into a high ponytail and did my make-up carefully. How ironic that I was going through all this trouble for a guy who I had once accused of having as much sex appeal as damp socks. The morning was busy enough to keep me distracted, but I was nervous and fidgety all afternoon and Bruce, as usual, wasn’t exactly helping.
“You’ll be hungry. Eat something so that your stomach doesn’t sound like a garbage disposal. You’ll need to eat something so you don’t get falling down drunk later anyway. For God’s sake, just don’t get ketchup on that dress or food stuck in your teeth or anything.”
“Is this advice or are you still working through your anger at not having gotten that Malibu Barbie for your eleventh birthday?” The generous tips from Bruce, the romance guru, kept rolling in.
“If he gives you the smoldering look, like the one he gave you at the club, make sure you don’t glare back at him like he just stole your parking space. Okay, see? You’re glaring. Just so you’re aware.”
By six o’clock, I was standing at the punch bowl, with Jane, the head librarian, and Rochelle, her sidekick, who were busy discussing recipes for turkey stuffing and a method of making ‘completely adorable’ centerpieces for the Thanksgiving table out of toilet paper rolls and construction paper. Bruce was distracted, texting Jason about what romantic surprises he had in store for him later.
I stood there, following his advice, munching on salty nachos and saltier cocktail weenies, washing them down with copious amounts of fruit punch. At least the punch didn’t taste like week-old Kool-Aid. In fact, it was pretty tasty, and I quickly downed about half the bowl by myself to avoid turning into human salt lick.
Jane made a whispered comment at one point about her husband always wanting ‘fellatio’. Jane derived her entire sexual vocabulary from her sixth grade health class. I imagined her in the throes of passion screaming, “Insert your penis into my vagina more forcefully. I’m going to achieve orgasm!” I snorted with laughter and backed into a table, knocking over a stack of cups. I cracked myself up sometimes. Bruce finally looked up from his sexting and stared at me and then glanced at the punch bowl, first in a confused, and then a worried, and then an ‘oh shit’ way. He quickly came over and pulled me off to a corner away from everyone else.
“Lily, sweetie, how much punch did you have?” he asked with a smile.
“A lot. You told me to eat and everything here is salty. Why?”
“Okay, now don’t get mad at me …”
“I hate it when you start sentences like that.”
“Because I didn’t want you to be nervous, I figured I would add a little nip tip to it.”
“How little?”
“A bottle of spiced rum.”
“Oh my God!”
“And a bottle of cinnamon schnapps.”
“What?! Bruce, I drank half of the f**king bowl! I don’t feel drunk though.”