Page 55 of Some Like 'Em Burly
They’re rich—or at least, rich enough to afford Spartan Shield Corp’s fees—with enough power and influence to need protection in the first place.
They’re not like this. Not like Jem, with her converted attic studio apartment, the wallpaper peeling and the furniture mismatched. Her curtains are so threadbare that even when she yanks them closed, the light from the streetlamp glows through.I set my backpack by the door, unzip my jacket with steady hands, and watch her with a carefully blank expression.
“So. Um.” Jem waves around the tiny apartment, encompassing the whole place with one jerky swing of her arm. There’s a single bed pushed against one wall; a lumpy pinstriped armchair in front of an old-fashioned TV; a bookcase stuffed with worn paperbacks and magazines; a tiny kitchenette in one corner. Over by the wall, an open cardboard box spills the scent of vanilla candles, while the one door must lead to the bathroom. “This is it,” she says. “Make yourself at home.”
How, I think, but I don’t say that out loud. I shrug my jacket off instead, hanging it on the single door hook and hoping it doesn’t drip too badly on the floor. And it’s not that I’m fussy, not that I’m too snobby to get comfortable, but listen: I could spread-eagle in the middle of this apartment floor and touch all four walls in one go. When I stand up straight, my dark hair brushes along the ceiling. I am not built to scale for this place. I’m like Godzilla in a dollhouse.
Jem seems to be coming to the same conclusion, her shoulders sagging as she takes in the awkward duck of my head. She wraps both arms around her waist, hugging as she shrinks in on herself.
“Oh. Right, yeah.” Jem looks around helplessly, but there’s nowhere to put me. Nowhere for us both to sit. “I didn’t—didn’t think.” She puffs out a defeated sigh, then scrubs her face. “Maybe weshouldgo out tonight.”
And—screw that. Jem looks too tired, too pale, too damp from the rain to head back out into the blustery night. I don’t care if I spend the whole night with a crick in my neck from the low ceiling, because my girl is home and she’s going to get comfy, damn it.
“A hot shower.” I kick off my boots, placing them neat as I can by the door. “That’s what you said you wanted. A hot shower and the slobbiest PJs you own.”
A flush darkens Jem’s cheeks. “I meant that metaphorically.”
“That’s too bad.” I roll my stiff neck and shake out my arms, then prowl the three steps to meet Jem in the center of the room. My hair drags along the ceiling as I go. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing those PJs. I’ve been picturing ‘em.”
Jem flushes even redder, but tilts her head up to hold my gaze, and lord—it takes everything in me not to reach out and graze her cheek with my knuckles. “Oh yeah?” she says.
“Yeah.” I nod, even though we’re edging into dangerous territory here. “The whole ride over.”
“And what were you picturing, exactly?”
Is it just me, or is she inching closer? Shit, it’s so hard to tell in this tiny room. Maybe Jem’s swaying closer, like I want her to be, breathing faster like she’s hoping for a kiss—or maybe the walls and low ceiling are throwing off my sense of perspective, and she’s only shifting near because there’s nowhere else for her to stand.
Either way, the rain-damp scent of her hair is a constant low-grade torture, drawing into my lungs and making my abs clench. Christ, I want to kiss her. Want to scoop her up and wrap her thighs around my waist and grip her peachy ass andsqueeze.
“Axel?”
I blink. “What was the question?”
Jem laughs. “Never mind.” She pats my arm then heads toward the bathroom. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Jem
Confession time: my slobbiest PJs are ugly as hell. They’re an old pair of men’s sweatpants and a faded Pepsi t-shirt from the thrift store, the fabric washed so many times that it’s gone all bobbly, and they’re so big on me that I become a shapeless morph when I put them on.
So I don’t. Put them on, I mean.
I’ve got one night with Axel, and I’m not spending it dressed likethat.Sue me.
Steam fills the cubicle as I scrub myself squeaky clean under the hot shower spray, then comb out my wet hair in the tiny bathroom, before dressing myself in the clothes I brought in here with me: tiny gray jersey shorts that hug my ass, and a low cut, clingy white top. My boobs aren’t big at all, but in this top they’re almost indecent.
The mirror has fogged over, but I wipe a patch clean and stare at myself. The ends of my damp hair rest against my white top, soaking through the fabric and turning it see-through. I’m scrubbed pink, wide-eyed, chest straining against my top as it rises and falls.
Perfect.
Nodding once, I hang up my towel and toss today’s clothes in the laundry basket. No need to think too hard about what I’m trying to achieve with these clothes; no need to admit to myself what I’m hoping for here. Because Axel’s on duty right now, andhe probably doesn’t see me like that anyway, so why get my hopes up, you know? Why lead myself on?
“Tragic,” I mutter to the mirror, pausing one last time to fluff up my damp hair, then I spill back out into the apartment on a cloud of soap-scented steam.
My temporary bodyguard is sprawled in the armchair, his thick thighs straining against his leather bike pants. Does he ever take those off? Is there anything beneath? His dark hair is messy from first being rained on, then squished under a helmet, then dragged along my ceiling—but somehow it still looks good. Tuggable.
A movie flickers on the TV screen, the sound turned way down: an old, grainy Western movie from before I was born. Axel’s not watching the screen. He’s dragged the armchair into a new position, one where he can see both the window and the front door, and he’s scowling between them like he’s spoiling for a fight. His broad shoulders are tense.
“Everything okay?” I ask awkwardly, tip-toeing further into the room, and Axel grunts, his gaze pinned to the front door. It’s kind of funny to see him like this: with his boots kicked off and his hair all messy, but with a knife still sheathed at his belt. Half comfortable, but fully on duty. “There’s hot chocolate in the cupboard, if you want some. Or I could fetch you a glass of water.”
