Page 2 of Peep

“Cheeky.” Femi kisses her teeth, then whips me with a manky cloth she’s used to clean god knows what.

Although I’d never say it to her face, Femi’s a bloody delight. She’s in her late fifties, originally from Jamaica, and moved to the UK as a child. And luckily, or not so luckily for her, she has the pleasure of working the reception night shifts with my miserable arse. I tend to let nights tick by, but Femi’s always pottering around. It’s exhausting just to watch.

“Will you sit down, woman,” I complain, watching her manically scrub at a mark that’s not even there.

“Anders, yuh want a beltin’?” Femi slams her hand on her hip, and her chestnut eyes pinch together. She has a splattering of light brown freckles that decorate her dark skin. They look adorable when her nose is scrunched up like that, but that’s another thing I’d never say to her face.

I flash her an innocent smile and flutter my lashes before putting the nail in my coffin. “Yes, please. Spank me, Mummy.”

I think fast, sliding along the reception desk on my wheely chair as she scrambles for me. I crack up at her playful glare. Femi comes at me again, but I’m already up, clambering over the desk and not even bothering to use the hatch. I stumble over and almost land face-first on the white marble floors.

“Oh, yuh a go get it now,” she roars, wearing a jubilant smile.

I’m about to reply something inappropriate when the sound of the automatic doors sliding open brings me to a halt.

Fuck, tenant. Not just any tenant…Jahmar Walker.

Jahmar has rented an apartment at Emeralds for the past six months. He’s always wearing a charming smile—which I think looks slightly sadistic. Half of the staff here swoon over him, though. He screams opulence in his crisp white shirt, tailored trousers, and designer shoes. You’d assume he’s an arsehole, but no. He’s so fucking cheery and friendly; it’s a bit of a mind fuck. I’m so used to hating every rich bastard who comes through these doors that it throws me off-kilter when he tries to charm the pants off me.

“Evening, Anders. I love what you’ve done with your hair. Did you get highlights?” he compliments, flashing me that sadistic fucking smile. I internally roll my eyes, yet what comes out of my mouth is far less sassy.

“I, erm, my hair, I—” Oh dear god, let the ground swallow me. “Thank you,” I eventually squeak.

Femi sniggers behind me, so I shoot daggers over my shoulder.

“Do you mind giving me a hand, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart!? I should punch him in the gut for calling me that. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old grown-ass man. He can’t be more than a few years older than me. Then again, he has flawless black skin, which is often deceiving when it comes to age. Unlike my pale skin that doesn't hide the sneaky wrinkles I’m convinced arestarting to show. But that’s beside the point. I am not his fucking ‘sweetheart’.

I stand motionless, gawking at him as he pushes a large trunk through reception.

“Anders, help di man,” Femi whisper-shouts.

Springing into action, I almost stumble as I reach him and the obnoxious trunk.

“I’ve got it!” I blurt out, cringing at how loudly my voice echoes around the sparse lobby.

“Thanks, you’re the best.” Jahmar beams at me while leaving me to struggle with the trunk.Knob. He swans up to the double doors, holding them open for me at least.

It’s heavy as fuck and has no handles, making it awkward to navigate.

What the hell has he been buying now?

He rings for the lift, climbs inside and pops his foot by the door, keeping it open for me as I fumble to push it in. The wheels get stuck on the edge of the lift, so I have to shove it several times, hearing something thump inside before it eventually slides in.

“What on earth have you got in here, a dead body?” I ask under my breath, hoping he didn’t hear me—must keep it professional.

I step around the trunk and stand next to him. We’re backed up against the mirrored wall with little room because of the ridiculous trunk. The deliciously rich scent of cocoa butter teases my nose. Jahmar presses the button for his floor, and we stand in uncomfortable silence. Of course, he has to live on the fucking top floor.

As the lift ascends, I keep my eyes trained on the lit-up keypad, watching the floors pass by painfully slow. I’d love nothing more than to turn and face him. I want to carefully catalogue every tight ringlet and bristle of his thick beard, but I won’t indulge.It’s much better to watch people when they have no idea you’re looking.

My skin grows prickly. I’m fully aware of him staring at me now, with zero shame, burning a hole in the side of my face. He’d never get away with what I do; he’s too obvious.

I tug at my tie, loosening my shirt collar in the hope I don’t suffocate before we make it up there.

“Yes.” The way the word rolls off his tongue, I can already tell he’s wearing a devilish grin.

“What?” I ask, finally turning to face him. My stomach flips as we lock eyes; his are full of mischief.

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