Page 32 of Hunger

“And what if I don’t want you to?”

“Let me put it this way—I’m driving you home or carrying you. You pick.”

9

Indigo

My fingers seize, coming to rest on the keys of the harmonium as the knocking on the door stops.

I throw a glance at the balcony, wondering if I opened the door too much and have aroused the wrath of one particularly insufferable neighbor-slash-boss for having dared play my instrument for all of fifteen minutes.

And then there’s that recurring fear every time someone knocks, even though I know that Micah’s in prison now and can’t get near me. I can’t shake the feeling that he has enough money to send someone to mess with me, especially after today’s message that shook the ground beneath me.

I know you’re fucking him, whore.

I knew it would only be a matter of time before Micah heard about my casual relationship with Kohl. He once told me he’d kill me if I ever touched another man, and even though the sex with Kohl has been less than overwhelming, this is just another reason to set him free so that he doesn’t have to go through my panic as I try to keep a lid on things.

As long as things stay like this—the occasional unhinged message—I can cope with it… until I can’t anymore and change my number.

Only after the events of this year, the anxiety over changing my number is worse than the logistical hassle, because within days, somehow, Micah manages to get hold of it again and I spend days tormented as to how he did it… and if someone close to me could be the one giving it to him each time…

“Oh, to be a cat,” I sigh at the gorgeous tabby lounging insouciantly on one of the large beanbags dotted around the living room.

I get to my feet, grabbing a white T-shirt I’d draped over a chair earlier to cover my bra. I glance down at my soft mauve house pants, pulling the T-shirt down so it covers my crotch.

Peering through the peephole, my heart hitches at the sight of the moody asshole who thinks he’s my boss. It’s only been a couple of hours since he dropped me off after work. He must have an issue with the music.

Through the distorted reality of the peephole, I see he’s wearing a white T-shirt which shows off his muscular arms and, as I glance down further, gray sweatpants which I make a mental note to ignore when I open the door.

Fuck.

I unlock and unlatch the door, my mouth taking off before he even has a chance to say hello.

“Look, I was playing it as far from the window as possible, and on the other side of the apartment from yours. I’ll be done in fifteen minutes if you can show a modicum of pati—”

“I’d like you to play for me.”

My jaw unhinges, the movement catching his eager gaze.

This would be a good time to close your mouth, Indie…

I somehow manage to shutter it, staring up at this towering mass of unapologetic masculinity, feeling like a garden gnome in my bare feet opposite him. By another miracle, given that my mouth now feels like I've spent an hour chomping on a sawdust sandwich, I manage to swallow.

“Um, excuse me?”

“I can hear you play from next door. I’d like you to play forme,” he repeats.

The way he says it… Not,Can I listen?butPlay for me…

Why is it that fifty percent of the things that emerge from between this man’s lips sound sinful?

“Well, sorry, but I’m not on the clock right now. The second I step out of that office, you’re not mytemporary”—I make sure to really spit that word across the hallway—“boss anymore. You’re just my annoying neighbor who thinks owning a penthouse makes—”

“Who told you I owned it?”

“No one,” I lie, not wanting to admit that before our little “trust each other”conversation today, I grilled Carrie about his enigmatic self when she called on Monday night to ask how the day went. “I just… assumed it,” I stammer, “from that… arrogant energy you strut about with?”

He raises an eyebrow, his eyes aglitter. “Strut?”

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