Dalton
The lobby this time of day is always annoyingly busy. Everyone is finished at their busy offices and ready to party the weekend away. Work hard. Play with reckless abandon. Nothing different. Nothing new. Except one.
Like a lit candle in a dark room, Penny draws every eye. Her simple cotton sundress is bright against her tan, flawless skin. Unlike most of the faces passing by, hers isn’t creased with worry or deep in thought. Her cherry-red lipstick is painted on a bright carefree smile as she chats with the doorman. Something no one around here bothers to do.
I watch her a few long beats as she and the doorman break into an easy and familiar laughter. I wonder why she always looks so happy. She’s got nothing. He’s got nothing. Don’t they know that?
Rumors are flying about the master plan to drive her out. Nothing serious, but enough that it should have annoyed her by now. Yet here she is, grinning like a fool as if they hadn’t cut her Internet and cable lines. Doesn’t she care they’ve had her car towed twice already this week?
I watch as she waves the doorman off, insisting she can carry her own groceries upstairs. Why? It’s his job to help her. She’s a puzzle with a few missing pieces.
We hop in the elevator at the same time and I don’t admit, even to myself, that I may have held back a few steps to make sure that would happen. It’s not because I’m desperate to be with her. I’m intrigued. Why the hell is she smiling?
“The staff is supposed to carry that up for you,” I say, gesturing at the paper bag she’s propped up on her hip.
“I’m good. It’s free exercise,” she says in a breezy tone that I’m still trying to dissect.
Maybe she doesn’t understand the perks of the place. “If you want exercise there is a state-of-the-art gym downstairs. It’s not necessary to do your own shopping. Write up a list, and it’ll be delivered and unpacked into your fridge.”
She twists her mouth up like she’s giving something some thought, and my mind shifts gears. Maybe she’s thinking about sucking my cock. I’m sure as hell thinking about her doing it. Or it’s wishful thinking.
“Sometimes a luxury actually takes away from an experience. I enjoy the farmers’ market. The sights. The smells. The people.”
“Those are literally all the things I avoid.” Who wants to push their way through a bunch of people who are squeezing melons and asking about this year’s strawberry crop? Pass.
“Too bad. I ran into one of our neighbors there actually.”
“Who?”
“Ben,” she says with too warm of a smile. “He says not everyone in this building is trying to get me kicked out. Some of you are actually nice.”
She puts me in the same camp as Ben Simons, which instantly annoys me. I won’t be lumped in with the jackasses plotting to get rid of her. But I’m no eager-to-please, still wet behind the ears Ben.
We’re out of the elevator and heading to our doors as she fishes her key card from her pocket. “Have a good evening, Dalton,” she says, and my name on her lips does something funny to me. I’m tense and excited at the same time. I want to ask her to say my name again but cannot imagine ever voicing such a cornball request.
“Yeah,” I call back as I swipe my card but hear an unfamiliar beep come from her door at the same time.
“Shoot,” she says, swiping it a few more times and getting the same beep. “They did it again.”
“Your card’s not working?” I ask, leaning back so I can see her. She moves the groceries from one hip to the other and tries it a couple more times. Her hair falls down in front of her face, and I can’t read her expression. But I’m sure she’s pissed. I’d be raging.
“It’s just one more of the little games they’ve been playing. Someone keeps hacking my key card. I’ve gotten about five new ones in the last few days. The guy at the front desk thought I was crazy, but now we’re kind of friends. Oh well.” Her slender shoulders rise and fall in a dismissive shrug.
“Oh well?” No one is that easy going. “That’s it, just . . . oh well?”
“They only win if I let them get to me. They had my car towed twice, so I let a friend of mine have it for the next two weeks. It’ll help her out a lot too and save me money on gas. They screwed with the cable and Internet, but I prefer to read books anyway. My sister always needs to be plugged in, but I like shutting the world out. It’s kind of nice.”
She calls downstairs, but the only one who is able to fix her key is temporarily out of the building and not expected back until later that evening.
“Okay, Silver Lining Sally,” I say, staring at her with a look of skepticism. I’m unconvinced. No one lets this much shit roll off their back. I don’t care how Zen you try to be. There isn’t enough yoga in the world to keep me calm in these kinds of situations. Fuck with me and I put you down. Fast. “And now you’ve got an armful of groceries and a door that won’t open. How do you spin melting ice cream into something positive?”
“Milk shakes?” She smiles, and I wait for her face to fall in defeat, but it doesn’t. She’s dead serious. Other women might fall to pieces, waiting for a man to swoop in and save them. Hell, they might even fabricate the situation as an opportunity to play victim. But not Penny. She’s not even rattled. “I’ll call one of my friends and take a bus over to her place. I’ll cook there.”
I grunt. That’s not how I would solve the situation. My ass would be knocking the door down or lawyering up.
“You don’t cook with your friends?” she asks, looking equally intrigued by me now. I get it. We could not be more different. “What do you do for fun?”
The answer that crosses my mind doesn’t suit the moment. I fuck for fun. I’m too busy to have other hobbies. “I don’t do friends. Not my style.”
“You don’t have a single friend?” She’s skeptical of me now, and it’s laughable. She’s like a goldfish stuck in a bowl wondering where a bird might fly off to. She has no idea what she’s missing in the world. Her eyes narrow as she waits for my reply. “Everyone has friends.”
“They might think they do. Loyalty is situational and fickle. Therefore, the idea that any person could be a ‘friend’ is a myth. I have business associates. Drinking buddies. Women whose company I enjoy for a few hours at a time. Not one of them pretends to give a shit about me. They don’t expect me to care what’s going on with them.”
“That’s pitiful,” she says, as though I’m the one with melting ice cream and a door that won’t open. “I have met plenty of jaded people, but that has to be the saddest outlook on life I’ve ever heard.” Her eyes fill with sympathy, which strikes me harder than a blow to the chin. I don’t want her looking at me like that. I’d rather have someone look me square in the eye and tell me to go fuck myself.
She can smile down at me while she rides me like a bronco. She can grin and look over her shoulder as I fuck her from behind on the table. But she cannot stare at me with her hair half in her face and her arms full of groceries like she feels sorry for me.
I don’t know what it is about the way she’s looking at me, but I feel compelled to say something. “I prefer it that way. The reality is that everyone loves you when you’re at the top of your game, but falter once, start to fail, and people scatter. If you want to feel bad for someone, feel bad for the saps who don’t realize they’re one mistake away from being alone. And that’s if they’re lucky. Some people stick around to kick a person on their way down.” I’m oversharing. Breaking all my own rules. I’m shutting up now.
“Do you like Brie and pomegranate crostini?” she asks, mercifully changing the subject. Maybe she knows she’s wrong or at least realizes she’ll never change my mind.
“No,” I say flatly. “Because no self-respecting man says he likes Brie and pomegranate crostini.”
“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes and smiling at me. “Do you like crusty bread with sweet stuff and cheese on it?”
“Are you offering to cook for me?” I ask, in my mind replacing the word cook with striptease, because everyone knows where a good dance leads. Maybe she’s the kind of woman who needs the pretense. She needs the guise of some other agenda than coming over to fuck. Not my usual style, but I think Penny might be worth it. Fair enough. Cook for me.
“Silver Lining Sally could use a kitchen right now.” She blinks slowly at me a few times and I crack a smile. That nickname might stick.
I don’t say another word, just jerk my head toward my door. That’ll have to serve as an invite. I hold my breath as I wait for her to pass by me into my place. I need to keep my cool, and her fruity shampoo fucks with my clear head.
I know she wants me. We can call it cooking if she wants. Hell, if she’s as good as I think she’ll be in bed, I might even let her cook for me every day until she moves out.
I smile.
The game is back on.