I wake up to a picture message. It's the album cover of Born in the USA. Bruce Springsteen's jean-clad ass over red and white stripes.

It's from Drew, of course.

Drew: If The Boss doesn't get you there, no one will.

* * *

Friday morning, I wake up early and focus all of my energy on packing. I have about six hours and there's a ton to do. I get lost in the tasks, emptying my closet and bookshelf. Everything fits into two suitcases and four cardboard boxes.

My existence in this apartment fits into the trunk of my car.

I'm so focused, I don't stop until my stomach is growling. It's well into the afternoon and I haven't eaten all day. I finish off a box of Froot Loops and toss them in the recycling bin.

One last look around my room. Nothing under the bed. Nothing in the closet. Nothing left of mine.

I grab the handle of one of the suitcases—it's a huge pink thing, perfect for moving large amounts of shit—and drag it to the door. Getting it through the door is trickier than I'd like, but I manage okay. The stairs are going to be a bit more difficult.

I roll my shoulders back. The only way out is through. I grab the handle and lift it. Shit. It's heavy.

"You need some help with that?"

It's Drew. What the hell? We're supposed to meet at the new place in an hour, and he's standing at the bottom of my staircase.

"I've got it." I drag the suitcase down the first step and set it down with a thud.

"You're going to hurt yourself."

"Good."

He runs up the stairs and grabs the suitcase right out of my hands. Then he lifts it like it's nothing and descends.

Drew sets the suitcase on the concrete. He opens the trunk of his car—somehow he got a free space right outside the building—and shoves it inside.

"I could have done that," I say.

No response. He walks back up the stairs, past me, inside the apartment. Okay, fine. Apparently, we're doing things his way.

I make my way to my room and grab my other suitcase. Drew plucks my hand off it.

"I can do it," I say.

"It's heavy."

"I'm aware." I grab onto the handle. "Aren't you supposed to protect your hands?"

"My hands are more than capable."

I try to push him out of the way, but he doesn't budge. Drew raises his eyebrow. He stares at me like he's daring me to do something.

"Please move," I say.

He shakes his head.

Fine. I try to push past him. He grabs my shoulders and holds me in place. I try again. This time, he wraps his arms around me and lifts me off my feet.

What. The. Fuck.

Drew slides one hand under my ass and holds my body against his. I press hard against his shoulders. Not enough to hurt him. Or to convince him to never do this again.

"Put me down," I say.

"Are you going to let me carry the bags?"

"No."

"There's your answer."

"What is wrong with you?" I ask. "When did you get so fucking weird?"

He takes a step forward and drops me on the bed. I land on the mattress—Nadeen's mattress—with a thud. Drew climbs on after me. He slings his knee over my thighs, so he's straddling me.

His fingertips skim the edge of my t-shirt. He leans close. Close enough to kiss me. Close enough to fuck me.

"I don't want to tickle you into submission," he says, but from the way he's smiling it's clear he does.

He runs his fingers over my stomach. It's this strange thing between I want you so bad and I'm going to tickle you until you pee your pants.

I clear my throat. "Fine."

"Thank you." He shifts off me and grabs the suitcase. "You should let other people help you."

"You should respect other people's wishes."

He's already out the door.

* * *

The landlord is waiting in front of the house with the keys in one hand and a takeout coffee cup in the other. She is all smiles now that Drew's money has made us worthy of her attention. Even with me in jeans and a v-neck that does little to cover my cleavage.

"Do you need any help?" she asks.

"I've got it all under control." He takes the key with indifference. "Thank you."

"I'll head back to work then. You really are a lovely couple."

Drew waits until we're out of earshot then turns to me. "We're a lovely couple."

I roll my eyes and grab my key. I copy the landlord's tone as I nod to my car. "Do you need any help?"

"Not at all."

"Great." I trudge up the concrete path. It's hard to stay irritated in front of such a nice house. There's something very soothing about the blue paint and the white trim, like a pastel version of the sky.

Still, I won't let Drew off that easily. I wait until I'm inside the house to let out a sigh of appreciation. This main room is huge. All I need is my ballet slippers and I can turn this place into my personal dance studio.

I slide out of my shoes and change from first to second position and back again. Even with a couch, a TV, and a huge dining table, there's enough space for any of my routines.

My shoulders relax. I check to make sure Drew is still outside, and I practice my turns. Quarter. Quarter. Half. Single. Double.

The door creaks open. I lean into my landing instinctively. There's no avoiding it. These steps are drilled into my brain.

Drew raises an eyebrow. "I haven't seen you dance like that since your seventh-grade ballet recital."

My feet go to first position instinctively. I smile like I have fantastic memories of my long-ago ballet recitals. I haven’t done much real dancing since I was on the high school dance squad. Mostly, I get my fix at the clubs on Saturday nights, but I miss the structure of ballet, jazz, and modern dance.

"You want me to keep some space clear?" He asks.

How the hell did he know? "That would be great."

"As long as you don't mind sharing. I need somewhere to do bodyweight exercises and I drip sweat during push-ups.."

I do everything in my power to keep a neutral expression.

He lifts the suitcase and heads up the stairs.

Drew dripping sweat in our living room. Drew dripping sweat. Must not picture Drew dripping sweat, on top of me, his body locked with mine.

Okay. Need to keep my mind occupied or it's going straight to the gutter. I head to the car and grab one of the boxes. I pass Drew on my way inside and he's smirking like he knows I'm fighting off lust with everything I've got.

I trudge up the stairs and place the box in the master bedroom. There are clothes and hangers in the suitcase and there's a perfectly good closet. It's enough to shake the lust out of my brain.

In theory.

I unzip the suitcase and start hanging dresses and blouses. Internship clothes in one corner. Stuff for class in the middle. Stuff for the clubs on the other side.

Drew steps inside the room. His eyes go to my unzipped suitcase. It's lying on the ground and—

Shit.

The last thing left in it is lingerie.

I'm not sure why I own any of it. I certainly never wore anything for anyone. There are a few bra and panty sets, bought so I could pretend to be a normal girl and not a damaged freak. At least the lacy thongs have a practical use. They don't show under my bodycon dresses. Anything else means panty lines, even under tights.

Drew smiles a wide, smug smile. "You need any help with that?"

"No, I'm fine."

He offers his hand. "Good. Then we can go."

"Where are we going?"

"Early dinner. Then there's a show. A friend's band." His gaze goes to a pink bra and panty set. "You're free to change if you want."

My cheeks flush.

"Or to skip the underwear entirely."

"Thanks for the permission."

"Anytime."