Page 76 of Toxic Temptation
I’m waiting for him to cross my boundaries.
I’m waiting for him to touch me.
I fall asleep waiting.
26
VESPER
Three’s a crowd, and this morning in my bathroom proves it.
I stand in line—inline,like we’re at fucking Disney World—behind two men who’ve invaded my space, my routine, my carefully constructed solitude, and above all, my sanity. I want to scream, but I’m too tired from a sleepless night of tossing and turning within a tight radius so I didn’t accidentally graze my uninvited bed guest.
Who, it must be said, is absolutely ginormous.
At least he sleeps without moving. It was honestly kind of creepy. Nary a twitch or a scoot the whole night long. It was like sleeping next to Dracula.
While the boys monopolize my shower, I go down the hall of my apartment building to raid Charity’s kitchen. She’s not home, so I let myself in and grab cornflakes, bread, butter, eggs, and orange juice, the good kind with no pulp. My hands shake slightly as I gather everything. When did feeding people become so terrifying?
“Did you just steal that from your neighbor?” Luka’s voice stops me cold as I juggle groceries on my way back into my unit.
He’s fresh from the bathroom, smelling like my freesia soap, and the sight of this unfairly treated little boy—clean, safe, happy, using my things like he belongs here—does something unfathomable to my ovaries.
“I have a key.” I hold up the evidence.
“Does your neighbor know that?” Kovan emerges from my bedroom toweling off wet hair. He looks like a shampoo commercial. Or a sex toy commercial. A two-in-one sort of deal.
“Har, har, har,” I fake-laugh. “Yes, of course. She’s my best friend. We share everything.”
“Hm. So you do eat.” Kovan settles at my table with the easy confidence of a man who’s never questioned his place anywhere.
“When I have time.” I focus on cracking eggs, but my hands won’t stop trembling. “How about eggs on toast?”
“That depends. You do know how to make eggs, don’t you?”
I scowl at him. “You break them and put them in a pan with butter. Cooking is not rocket science.”
“I love cooking,” Luka announces, face bright and proud. “Uncle Kovan and I made chocolate cake one time. It was the best.”
I gawk at Kovan. This man who kills people in hospital shootouts also bakes with his nephew on weekends? How is it possible that one man can possess both a set of abs you can grate carrots onandthe ability to cook said carrots?
“You cook?” I ask, trying to pitch my voice casually, conversationally, totally unbothered.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Kid has to eat, doesn’t he? And with his allergies, homemade is safer.”
What’s next: the man is a certified Swedish masseuse? Licensed Kama Sutra instructor? Does he whittle and sing in a choir and help old ladies cross the street, too?
“You’ll have to teach me,” I hear myself squeak to Luka. “Making chocolate cake sounds fun.”
“We could bake this weekend! What do you say, Uncle Kovan?”
“Chocolate cake comes later.” Kovan rises and plucks the eggs from my still-shaking hands. “Breakfast comes now.”
I watch him move around my kitchen gracefully. He makes better eggs in two minutes than I’ve made in my entire life.
“It’s cool that you live next to your best friend,” Luka remarks, swinging his legs.
“I think so, too,” I agree.
