Page 79 of Skeletons in the Closet

I fumbled in a pocket for my keys, almost dropped them, then situated them securely in my fingers. “Thanks. Keep me posted?”

I earned a grunt. Diem seemed to have lost the ability to talk.

Chuckling softly, I stumbled from the Jeep and slammed the door. It took the rest of my strength to get inside and up to my floor. The elevator’s motion almost made me sick. The hallway lights speared my retinas and soft brain tissue.

Inside, I found the prescription pills I’d gotten from the doctor for migraines, took two, and landed in bed fully clothed, praying I’d be better the following day, knowing I wouldn’t.

***

Two days later, still in bed but a world better than the previous morning when I’d fumbled to shut off my alarm and call in sick to work, someone buzzed my door, stirring me awake.

I’d been dozing off and on all morning, nursing the shadow remnants of the migraine still lingering in the background. If I didn’t treat this phase with care, it would come back with a vengeance, so I’d taken another day off work to be sure I was better.

The buzzer sounded again, and I groaned.

Dragging my phone from the bedside table, I checked the time. It was noon. I had three waiting messages from Memphis asking how I was doing, so I assumed it was him at the door checking in, probably on his lunch break.

Fumbling for my glasses, I got to my feet, clad in nothing more than a pair of sleep pants, and shuffled to the front room. I’d pulled the heavy curtains over the windows to keep out the sunlight, so the apartment was comfortably gloomy. Enoughdaylight seeped around the edges of the blinds to allow me to see where I was going.

A third buzz filled the apartment before I pressed the button on the intercom. “Who is it?”

“Me,” came a deep voice on the other end.

Diem.

I hesitated. I was not fit for company. Memphis, sure. He didn’t matter, but Diem? I hadn’t showered or shaved in two days, which bothered me. I did a quick pit sniff, contemplated finding more to put on, then gave up the fight. Was Diem really someone I wanted to impress?

I tapped the door release, hearing the click indicating it was unlocked, then undid the deadbolt and shuffled to the couch to sit, replying to Memphis’s texts so he knew I was back amongst the land of the living and doing much better.

A short time later, a soft knock sounded at the door.

“It’s open.”

Diem appeared in the entryway. He was in shadow, so I couldn’t make out the look on his face. He didn’t move and carried something in his arms.

The first and only other time he’d been in my apartment, he’d arrived armed with a mickey of bourbon, ready to fuck. I hoped this wasn’t a repeat of that failed experiment because I wasn’t in the mood to coach him through a positive sexual experience, and the man was a clusterfuck in the bedroom.

He hovered and hesitated long enough to annoy me. It was as though he was trying to take up as little room as possible but knew it was a hopeless feat. His gaze landed on me more than once, taking in my naked top half before darting away again. The poor guy was a social wreck when I had too much skin exposed. No, he was a social wreck always.

“What’s up, D?”

“I…” He looked at the brown bag in his arms. “I wanted to know how you were feeling.”

“Been better. I’m much improved. Just being careful not to aggravate it again.”

“Ms. Lavender said you get migraines a lot.”

“Sometimes. You saw Kitty?”

“I went by yesterday… looking for you.”

“You don’t need to stand at the door. You can come in.”

“Oh. Okay.” He toed off his shoes and moved into the shadowy living room where it was a modicum brighter. I shuffled, giving him room to sit, but he didn’t until I patted the couch. “I don’t bite… Unless that’s your kink, in which case…” I smirked.

No laugh, but that was Diem.

He sat on the edge of the cushion, leaving a generous distance, awkward as always. He was a bear-sized man who didn’t know where to put himself half the time. It was sad. Something on the edge of his jaw caught my attention. It was too dark to see, but I thought it looked like a cut. His scruff was dense, so I struggled to make it out.

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