Page 16 of Inked Desires
Andrew looks up and the light catches the golden ring of his iris.
“I’m looking for an apartment,” he admits.
“During work hours?”
I frown, sliding my hands into my pants pockets.
“Got a better job for me?” he replies, resting his chin on his palm, elbow on the wood.
He’s got spirit. And strangely, I like it. Most people feel intimidated by me or stroke my ego. That’s one reason I prefer to avoid company.
My ex was just as cheeky, not afraid to stand up to me. Another trait they share.
Do I let Andrew stay because he reminds me a bit of my husband? Probably. Although my heart withered like a rose at summer’s end, I must admit part of it accepted Andrew’s presence.
He’s not William...
Before I entered my ex’s life, he led a carefree existence. Andrew carries visible scars. They’re not alike, yet some similarities exist. It’s unsettling, I’ll admit.
Curious, I approach and stand behind him. His screen shows several housing ads; my gaze fixes on one — a room available at old Jenkins’place.
The idea makes me laugh inwardly. He’ll never set foot there. Not while I’m alive.
“That guy will slip into your bed if you move there,” I warn, pointing at the listing.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Jenkins is an old pervert with a thing for young guys.
“That’d get me a rent discount?” he retorts, barely surprised.“Or do I have to sleep with him and pay full rent?”
Anyone else would say that jokingly, with a slight smile or a little laugh. Not him. He’s serious. Like he’s used to doing this kind of thing to survive.
“Jenkins won’t give you a cent,” I growl.
“Too bad. Thought I could save some money.”
The wood creaks under my fingers as I grip the table harder than I want.
“You won’t live there!”
“Why not? The room looks clean! And I can’t afford anything else.”
“You’re ready to sell your body for that?”
He looks away, his eyes darkening. Lost in thought, his fingers trace circles on his temple — an answer in itself.
It’s not the first time he’s sold himself like that. How many times has he done it? How many men has he shared his bed with? A silent rage rises in me, for no obvious reason.
I want to slam him against the wall, tear answers out of him. But I hold back. He’d lie, that’s certain. He already has. Several times.
“Fine, no Jenkins for me,” he mutters, refocusing on the listings.
He scrolls through the scant ads and stops at one — a rundown apartment. I slowly shake my head. Another bad idea.
“Forget that one too,” I comment disdainfully, looking at the screen.“Junkies shoot up in the hall.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he grumbles.“I’ll manage.”
“You won’t live there either.”
