Page 2 of Worth the Risk

I can still hear some muttering and shuffling around.

“Fuck! Get the fuck out of my apartment!” I jolt against the door as he yells at the women, who all seem to quickly get the memo and leave. His door slams moments later.

“Stupid bitchy neighbor. She’s probably jealous. I bet he turned her down. She’s fat anyway,” one of them says. I stare down at my thighs. Yeah, they’re thick. I’ve never met a donut I didn’t enjoy. But at best, I’m a size ten. My weight fluctuates. I’ve been as high as a sixteen, but only as small as a size eight. I’m happy where I am. Confident. I rock these curves.

“Totes. We’ll find him again this weekend. He’ll invite us up again. You know how he is,” another answers.

I hear the ding of the elevator, and moments later, it’s quiet. Ahh, blissful silence.

I head back to the bedroom and slide under the sheets.

I finally fall asleep again around four, and visions of the shirtless tatted up hottie from next door dance behind my eyelids.

Ihit snooze six times. I simply cannot successfully operate on this little sleep. As I check out the dark circles under my eyes, I sigh and grab my trusty bottle of concealer. Gonna need a thick layer today. I need to be out the door by seven-thirty, so this makeup look is going to be simple and quick.

I dress in a pair of ankle-length slim-fitting trousers, a white tank top, and a deep blue blazer. My long wavy blonde hair is loose and flows over one shoulder. Uncle Bennett says the dress code is casual, but I want to make a good impression on my first day. Grabbing my favorite pair of heels, I head out to the kitchen to grab some breakfast. Not only am I horrible without sleep, but I’m also definitely not a morning person. It’s a pop tart kind of morning.

I grab my purse and laptop bag in one hand, and as I’m closing the door, hottie’s door opens. His deep brown eyes are remarkably bright as he quickly looks me up and down. How the hell is he this awake?

“Hey, pixie,” he says with a smile. I glower at him. Oh, he’s a morning person. The worst kind of person.

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter. He’s adjusting his shirt as he locks his door, and is sporting his hat backwards and wearing running shoes.

“Why? You’re pint size and scrappy. Perfect for a pixie,” he tells me. “And since I don’t know your name, Pixie it is.”

I sigh. I know he’s trying to goad me into telling him my name, and I’m refusing to fall under his spell. I stare at the elevator door, willing it to open. I’m half tempted to take the stairs just because the thought of being stuck in the elevator with him is too much for me to handle.

The elevator dings, signaling its arrival, and I march onto it, secretly hoping he doesn’t get on. Of course, he does. He smells divine. I stand ramrod straight, facing the closing elevator doors. He leans against the wall, studying me.

“You need to get fucked,” he says casually.

My head whips toward him, and he smiles wickedly.

“Excuse me?” I snarl.

“You’re wound too tightly. You need to get fucked. Loosen you up a bit, Pix. Couple of orgasms would do you good,” he says.

“You really shouldn’t comment on a woman’s sex life. It’s uncouth,” I say snottily.

“You mean your lack of sex life. Anyone can tell you’re not getting any, Pix.”

“You know nothing about me,” I stammer. He’s hitting a little too close to home. It’s been … way too long since I’ve had sex. Let’s not even talk about how I’ve never had an orgasm by a man, since apparently, the clit is a long-lost treasure men just can’t seem to find.

Hottie sneaks up behind me before speaking. “Someone needs to yank that pole out of your ass, Pixie. But I bet you’re not into ass play. You’d definitely relax with that kind of orgasm, though.”

I’m gobsmacked. This entire conversation is unlike anything I’ve ever had with a man. Southern men, especially the men my parents approve of, do not proposition women in elevators, and they certainly don’t talk about anal sex within a few hours of meeting. But, I mean, he’s not wrong. It’s been well over a year since I’ve had sex. And good sex? Multiple orgasm kind of sex? Well, that’s never happened. I’ve only been with a couple of guys, and they’ve always played the ‘I come first and hopefully you do too’ game. So, guess what? I never did.

The elevator slows at the fourth floor, opening for a group of people to get on. Hottie moves over to stand directly behind me, and I catch a whiff of his scent. I exhale slowly as his scent overwhelms me. Manly, woodsy, and sheer testosterone infiltrate my senses. I feel him step closer to me as his chest hits my shoulders. His head bends down so his mouth is next to my ear.

“You wanna get fucked, Pixie?” he whispers against my ear. My eyes close reflexively as my body sways with hunger. Jesus. I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man. Every nerve ending is firing as my skin prickles with goosebumps. Even if I wanted to, I can’t answer him. My tongue seems to have stopped working. But even if I could speak, I wouldn’t. It’ll be a cold day in hell before this man gets me to admit anything about my sex life. As I’m trying to come up with a retort, Hottie stops me dead in my tracks. “Not gonna be me, though. You couldn’t handle me with how tight you’re wound. You ever decide to stop this bitch act and show me the real Pixie, you know where I’m at. I could loosen you up.”

My head snaps up as the elevator arrives at the lobby. Hottie slides past me, and strides out into the lobby without a backward glance. As the doors close, I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the ground. Uptight bitch? That’s basically what he called me in no uncertain terms. Is that what he thinks of me? He doesn’t even know me.

But it’s not the first time I’ve been called uptight. Or frigid. Or just a bitch. I’ve always let the nasty comments roll off my back, but for some reason it’s hitting differently with this guy. It’s somehow worse.

I try to hold in the tears that threaten to cascade in rivulets down my cheeks, but to no avail. I ride the elevator back up to my aunt’s apartment to regain my composure before heading back downstairs. I had hoped to live here for at least a few months before finding a more permanent residence, but I immediately fire off a text to my aunt to ask for realtor recommendations. Honestly, I had a little bit of a panic attack on my way back up to Aunt Caroline’s apartment. Being called frigid, uptight, or a bitch brings up memories. Bad memories from Georgia. Southern women are supposed to appear regal, refined, and cultured. But men expect them to be sirens in the bedroom. I never got that memo, and more than one man called me out on it after high school.

Once I’ve finally gained my composure and walked out of the building, I falter when I see my new neighbor standing right outside. Probably shouldn’t call him hottie, since he’s clearly an asshole. Was he waiting for me? No fucking way. Shit. I have no idea if my makeup is running, or if there are mascara marks on my face. Great. Just another thing he can bring up the next time he corners me. I square my shoulders and stiffly walk past him. Totally proving the whole frigid bitch thing right now, but I can’t make myself do anything else.

---