Page 57 of Coco and the Misfits

When I sit alone on my sofa to watch TV or read a book and can’t find any meaning in it.

In any of it.

I stride through the lobby, absently nodding at Bridget who’s on the phone, and step into the elevator. I’m supposed to check a contract and my emails, but first… a hot shower. A hot, long shower. And something to eat. I didn’t have time to grab lunch today and my stomach feels hollow.

I feel hollow.

Dammit, Ace, get your head out of that dark place. You made something of your life. So what if you don’t have a pack or a family? It’s not everything in life.

So what if you’re lonely and your alpha instincts howl at you to lead and protect?

The elevator stops and I step out, fishing my key card out of my breast pocket. I hesitate. The urge to turn around, go out, find a seedy bar and drown myself in booze is overwhelming.

It hasn’t been so bad in a while.

The lure of the shower draws me to my door anyway. I unlock and step inside, already dropping my briefcase on the floor and struggling out of my suit jacket. I hang it on a peg and take two more steps before the scent hits me.

Chemical, bleach and artificial lilies, unexpected as a punch to the plexus, and even more potent though fainter, underneath it, the scent of cotton candy and roses.

Coco? I inhale and my body starts to relax, even as my dick hardens. Is she really here? I didn’t expect her to come in today. Didn’t she say she was coming tomorrow?

I walk into the apartment and stop again as the sitting area and the kitchen come into view.

There she is. My breath catches. Dressed in pink overalls, her hair pinned up, she’s wiping the counter. She hasn’t heard me, I realize. She has ridiculously huge Bose earphones over her ears, pink and fluffy like earmuffs.

She’s dancing to a rhythm I can’t hear, hips swinging from side to side. She stops and pretends to sing into an imaginary microphone, striking a pose, head tilted back.

My mouth twitches. A weight lifts off me.

She’s here. What an unexpected gift at the end of this fucking long day.

I like it. Too fucking much. I’m a selfish bastard. I guess I wanted to unlock my door, enter my apartment and find her there, and here she is, a dream come true.

The reality surpasses my fantasies, and let me explain. Sure, part of my brain would love to open the door and find her cooking in nothing but a pink apron and high heels. Damn, yeah. But finding her so cute and obviously having fun, promising a cozy evening… is just as good.

The hole in my chest feels slightly smaller right now, just watching her dance away inside my apartment.

She strikes another pose, then she twirls around, still pretending to sing, and sees me.

I know she does because she freezes mid-motion, staring at me with round eyes. Then she rips her headphones off and presses a hand to her chest. “You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” I say mildly.

“Shit, what time is it?” She glances around, presumably looking for a clock. “Was I supposed to be gone by now?”

“Of course not. There is no set time for you to go.” I try to gather my wits about me. “Take the time you need to clean.”

“How many hours do you want me to work?”

“As many as you want, I…” I wince, because I’m showing my hand. Giving myself away. I don’t need a cleaner. I’m already paying for a crew that comes once a week and I rarely cook or stay inside the apartment anyway.

I need to make sure they don’t coincide.

“But like… four hours? Your apartment doesn’t look dirty.”

“Four is fine,” I tell her. “You’re free to come whenever you want and leave once the four hours are up. Three times a week. How does that sound?”

“I… don’t know if this is a good idea.”

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