Page 6 of Missed Exit

“I have to show you where I want it first.”

“There’s only one wall with enough room.” He walks into my bedroom like he owns the place. I follow him. He points at the wall with the living room on the other side. “That wall has a door in the middle. That one has a window in the middle, and that one has your closet door and your bathroom door on it, so you really only have one option.”

He nods toward the only wall with enough open space to put a bed against it.

“Is your side of the duplex the same layout?”

“Yep.”

“Is your headboard on the other side of that wall?”

“Sure is.”

“Our headboards have to be back-to-back?”

“My bed’s not right up against the wall, and yours doesn’t have to be either. I promise I will ensure the maximum amount of space between our heads.”

“Good. I don’t want to hear you snoring through the wall.”

“You sure that’s what you’re worried about hearing?” He smirks, leaning against my bathroom door.

“Can you just go get your tools, please?”

When he leaves, I listen for the sounds of him entering his side of the duplex. I can hear his front door open and close, but I don’t hear him walking around inside. Good. I want to be as insulated from his life as possible.

It’s bad enough he works nights, so I’ll probably hear him coming home at a ridiculously early hour every morning. The last thing I need is a sunrise soundtrack of whatever he does before he falls asleep, alone or with a partner. I don’t want to know.

I hear the faint but unmistakable sound of his toilet flushing. Ugh. At least I couldn’t hear him peeing.

A sudden image of him standing in his bathroom with his fly open flashes in my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from imagining his hand or what it’s probably tucking back into his underwear right now . . . but apparently, mental images don’t care if your eyes are open or not.

Why would my brain go there? I don’t want to see his dick. Is that where his brain is going to go if he hears me flush my toilet? Or turn on my shower?

Oh, God. I don’t want this guy imagining me naked every time he hears water running on my side of the wall. I’ll have to shower at night while he’s at work. But I like morning showers.

I just moved in, and my neighbor is already a problem.

It’s not like I should be surprised. He was a problem before I ever knew we were neighbors. I didn’t move all this way to wind up stuck with another man who causes problems in my life.

My front door opens. He didn’t even knock.

Who the hell does Law Davis think he is?

He strides back into my bedroom, holding a drill and a small plastic box that I know probably has drill bits in it. I’m not entirely clueless. His arm lifts to confirm he’s ready to get to work, but my eyes go in an entirely different direction.

I might’ve given up on therapy too soon. I’m clearly unwell.

But he fills out those jeans quite well. The way the denim hugs his thighs, and the waistband sits so perfectly snug that I’d have to work to get that button undone . . . and I can’t even pretend I didn’t check out his ass earlier when I was walking behind him.

Who am I? Say something. Don’t just stand here, staring at him.

“Looks like you definitely have the right tool to get the job done.”

Seriously? That’s what came out of my mouth?

It slipped out while my brain was engaged in mental combat with my eyes, trying to keep them out of enemy territory.

Dicks are the enemy, I remind myself. They’re bad, and everything attached to them is bad.

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