Page 3 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Dear God, he’s a Scotsman. A huge, half-naked Scotsman in a kilt. Smiling at me like he knows all my secrets, what color my panties are, and that I’m curious what it would be like to have a man pull my hair during sex.
“Uh . . .”
“Ach, sorry, it’s the music, innit? Just havin’ a wee party. I’ll get it sorted.” Over his shoulder he thunders, “Turn the bloody music down, you dumb knobdobber, you’re disturbin’ the neighbors!”
Inside the apartment are people of both sexes, drinking and laughing, in various stages of undress. They lounge on the sofa and sit cross-legged on the floor around the coffee table, where a blonde woman with stupendously large naked breasts is dea
ling cards.
I start to blink as if I’m trying to signal someone in Morse code.
The music lowers one decibel, and the Mountain turns back to me with a triumphant smile. He’s weaving slightly on his feet. And unless he doused himself in malt-and-barley cologne, he’s been drinking what smells like an awful lot of beer.
Before I recover the power of speech, he belches loudly, sends me a jaunty salute, then slams the door in my face.
TWO
When the alarm goes off at five o’clock the next morning, I’m jolted from a disturbing dream about Mel Gibson leading a clan of burly kilt-wearing warriors into battle. There’s a lot of spears, screaming, and blue face paint, along with copious belching.
I grope for my iPhone on the nightstand, knocking it to the floor in the process.
“Mr. Bingley.” I gently poke the slumbering ball of fur on my chest. “Mr. Bingley, wake up.”
He lifts his head from his paws and blinks, then yawns cavernously, flattening his ears and displaying his canines. Then he lowers his head and promptly goes back to sleep.
“Mr. Bingley,” I insist, rubbing his cheek. “I have to get up.”
His answer is a gentle snore.
“C’mon, kitty, Mommy has to go to work so she can afford to buy you kibble. You don’t want to starve, right?”
Sometimes, like now, I wonder if his hearing is better than he lets on, because in answer to my question I get a tail flicked in my face.
“You leave me no choice.” I roll to my side, dislodging the cat. He leaps clear with a little disgruntled chirrup at my bad manners.
I fish my phone off the floor, then hold it an inch from my nose as I fumble to find the “Stop” button on the alarm. I grab my glasses from the nightstand and put them on, bringing the room into view.
Mr. Bingley sits at the end of the bed, giving me a look like I’ve offended his great ancestors.
“I know, I’m a disobedient slave. Let’s go get breakfast.”
I shuffle into the kitchen with the cat at my heels. I feed Mr. Bingley, then make myself a cup of coffee while waiting for last night’s leftovers to reheat in the microwave. I made meat loaf—my grandmother’s recipe, the best comfort food in the world—and listened to the party rage on across the hall. I was tempted to call the police, but that seemed snitchy, so I suffered through hours of screams and laughter until it got quiet around one a.m. because, I assume, everyone passed out.
Or whatever it is people do after a rousing game of strip poker.
I’m shoveling meat loaf into my mouth when a door slams out in the hallway. Curious to see who’s doing the walk of shame at quarter past five on a Saturday morning, I head to the front door with my plate and peer out the peephole.
There stands the Mountain across the hall, wearing a gray sweatshirt and matching sweatpants on his massive frame. He’s got a pair of earbuds in and is thumbing through his phone, swiping his finger across the screen like he’s searching for something. Music?
Is he going jogging?
No. That would be ridiculous. It’s December in New York City. The sun isn’t even up yet; I’d be surprised if the temperature outside is above freezing. And let’s not forget the boobs and beers of last night. He’s probably nursing a massive hangover, not to mention considerable chafing in his groin area. And he couldn’t have had more than four hours of sleep, tops. He’s probably just going to Starbucks.
He finds whatever he was looking for on his phone, tucks it inside his waistband, and starts to do stretching exercises.
You don’t need to stretch to go get coffee.
The man is stretching in a hallway at quarter past five on a Saturday morning after a long night of debauchery, in preparation for a predawn run in the freezing cold.
