Page 34 of Jump

THE FRICKEN’ INTRIGUE!

I wake at my usual time the next morning—though my ‘usual’ is five, not the seven I told Matt when he moved in—which means I lie in my bed and wait. I listen as he moves around, showers, dresses, and eats.

I stay put in my room, my door firmly shut, as he dabs on just enough cologne to make my mouth water, and rattles the fridge door just enough to make my full bladder more obvious. Stubbornly, I lie in the middle of my bed, my blankets tossed off and my skin dewy with sweat from too many layers.

When Hannah lived here, I happily slept in my underwear, and compensated with extra blankets. But now I share my home with a man. With that man. Which means I sleep in pants and a hoodie, sending myself insane each night when the fabric twists and gets tangled with the sheets.

But I refuse to be caught in my undies. I reject the risk of wandering to the bathroom in the middle of the night and being discovered in too few clothes.

God knows, in such a situation, we might have sex again. And that’s not something I can bring myself to do. It’s not a stressor I can handle in my life.

So I cover up, and tolerate the twisting and tossing throughout the night.

I remain in my bed for a full hour, unmoving, silent, as Matt dresses, eats, and prepares for his twenty-four-hour shift at the firehouse. But the second the front door shuts and the rumble of his truck engine out front echoes along the street, I bound up to freedom and dash toward the door.

I need to pee before I explode. But my need to not converse with that man today exceeded my desire to empty my bladder. Now he’s gone, so I swing my door open and start toward my target—the bathroom door—but in my haste, I kick something on the floor, and send it barreling along the hall.

Stunned, my gaze shoots to the still-moving object, my teeth gritting when it slams against the skirting boards lining the walls. When it finally comes to a standstill, I narrow my eyes and focus my vision. “What the…?”

I tiptoe forward, like the man himself is here to check on me, and crouch in front of a thick paperback book.

It’s worn at the edges, peeling in the corners, and the front cover is torn straight down the middle, two-thirds of the way. A simple tug would take the whole thing off.

I don’t pick it up. Rather, I use the very tip of my pointer finger to spin it so I can read the title. The author’s name.

It’s a spy thriller. The cover depicts a man in the shadows, while a bullet hole in the foreground implies someone shot the actual book. Black and gray are the primary shades used by the designer, though there’s a smattering of red.

As in, blood spray.

“Charming.”

I scan the author’s name again and recognize that he’s famous, though I can’t say I’ve read a word he’s written. Not my genre. Not my typical read.

My bladder screams louder for attention, demanding I go take care of business. But the mystery of the spy book is almost—almost—enough to overpower my basic human needs. Instead, I snatch up the paperback and carry it to the bathroom.

I close the door and drop my pants, then sit on the toilet and turn the book over to read the blurb on the back.

Something about a murder-suicide. A mystery to solve. A politician gone rogue, and a security firm who isn’t entirely sure who they’re employed by anymore.

As I pee, I leaf through a handful of pages. Not to read them. Not to absorb the story. But to visit the pages Matteo has obviously read before. To touch the corners and know his fingers have been there.

I catch names on the pages. Mr. Murphy. Lee. Stormy, and Stan. One man wears a suit, and another, sunshades.

“The intrigue,” I murmur to myself.

Then I toss the book to the unused bathtub and wipe before standing and fixing my pyjama pants. Closing the toilet lid, I hit the button to flush, then I wash and dry my hands, though I refrain from touching Matt’s towel.

It’s still damp, I know, from his shower. Still smells of his aftershave. But I remain a respectable, normal human being, and keep my hands and nose to myself.

Finished in the bathroom, I sweep the book up again and start into the hall, toward the kitchen.

My first stop, always, is the coffee machine. I could be one of those fancy people who use beans and a grinder. Froth the milk. Make cute designs once I start pouring.

But it’s a workday, and that’s hardly me even on a weekend.

So I drop a capsule in the top of the machine and crush the lever down to pierce the protective film. Then I grasp a mug from the cabinet, place it beneath the spout, and hit the button. That done, I turn to toss my newfound novel to the counter.

It skids to a stop just an inch before the corner. And though it wouldn’t smash if it fell to the ground—it’s not glass, after all—I still breathe a little easier when it doesn’t topple over the edge and into oblivion.

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