Chapter 18 Episode 18

Her smile tells me that I’ve completely won her over. I smirk. And everyone says Yulian is the one with charm. The moment the door shuts, I head upstairs to the third floor. Number Thirty-Four beckons. It doesn’t take me long to jimmy the lock and let myself in. It’s always interesting to step into another person’s private space with no one else present. You see the little knick-knacks they’ve gathered, the detritus of a life much different than yours. You see what they love and what they neglect. You see where they sit, where they eat, where they sleep. It’s intimate. The kind of thing that can make your heart soften. In Jessa’s case, it makes my c**k throb. A pair of fluffy flip-flops sit by the foot of the sofa. There are a few books stacked on the two shelves that flank the TV unit. Cookbooks, mostly, with the occasional bodice ripper romance novel thrown in for spice. A house plant in the corner begs for more water. The kitchen, on the other hand, is clean and well-loved. I glide down the hall and into her bedroom. My eyes scan everything, taking notes, collecting facts. Indentation on the pillow suggests a side-sleeper. Pile of dirty clothes in one corner—dry cleans when she can, handwashes what she can’t. Culinary encyclopedia on the nightstand, a pair of glasses on top. Must read before bed. I turn around and notice a wooden dressing table with a design of painted daisies down the side. The oval mirror above it has pictures slid beneath the frame. Most are uninteresting. Jessa as a baby in her mother’s arms, Jessa in chef’s whites on her graduation day, Jessa and her ex-fiancé as he proposes to her. But one catches my eye. I know everything there is to know about Dane William Dempsey, thirty years old, takes Xanax recreationally and plays video games, lingers too long on his lunch breaks, lifts weights at the twenty-four gym down the road twice a week but spends most of the time between sets browsing porn on his phone. He is irrelevant to me now. The man Jessa is with in the picture, though? That’s not Dane. He’s holding her like he loves her. An arm slung around her shoulder, warm and cozy. They’re standing on a suburban street, beaming up at the camera. She smiles pleasantly, easily. I memorize the stranger’s face and then I move on. When I go back into the living room, I notice the two wine glasses sitting out on the kitchen counter. Interesting. I take a seat on the window seat and gaze down at the street below. It’s not long before I see someone turn the corner. She’s wearing ankle boots and a light gray trench-coat. Her blonde hair flutters loose behind her. I wonder if she knows that she switches her hips when she walks, that every man who passes by does a double-take, that cars slow down just to watch her. I wonder if she knows I’m watching her now. She strides quickly down the street and then disappears into the bowels of this building. Sixty seconds until she’s here, maybe less. My limbs twitch with anticipation and my d**k is now fully erect. Inconvenient, but the anticipation of tonight has been building steadily the last couple of days, so it’s not particularly surprising. I glance towards the two empty wine glasses, wondering who she could have been entertaining. A friend? A date? The man in the photograph from her bedroom? I hear the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway. Then the key twists in the lock. She opens the door and walks in without looking up into the dark apartment. I stay where I am, still and ready. She drops her bag onto the floor and hangs her coat up on the hanger next to the door. She’s wearing ripped black jeans and a thin white sweater that reveals the black lace bra she’s got underneath. Finally, she turns on the lights. She still doesn’t notice me and I can see why—she’s deep in thought. Even as she checks to make sure she’s locked the door securely, she doesn’t once seem to sense that she’s not alone in the apartment. Not until she’s halfway into the living room does she spot me. Her mouth parts in a gasp, her golden eyes widening in fear. She looks stunning when she’s terrified. “Hello, Jessa,” he says coolly. “Long time no see.” “Not long enough,” I manage to spit out. I glance around my apartment, trying to figure out if there’s anyone else here or if he came alone. “How did you get in?” By the looks of it, he’s been here for a while. He’s relaxed, anyway, lounging in my favorite spot in front of the window. I like having the sunlight on my face when I read. I like looking out the window and observing people going about their lives when I need to take a break from the page. That is my damn spot. And I hate that he looks so good sitting in it. “Is that really the most important question you’d like to ask?” he asks. “Do you have an alternative suggestion?” “How about, ‘Why are you here, Anton’?” I stare at him, second-guessing my plan of stashing the phone with Chris. If Chris gets dragged into this, it’ll be my fault. I can’t let that happen. “You’re here to check up on me.” His smile turns into a scowl. “Don’t get cute. It doesn’t suit you.” “Why am I here, Jessa?” “I have no idea,” I say, jerking my chin out at him defiantly. He sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees. “I don’t have patience for games.” “You’re in luck because I don’t have time for games,” I tell him. “I’m just keeping my head down and going about my life, just like I said I would. And in case you’re wondering: no, I haven’t told a soul about you or about what happened on that yacht.” “Good to know,” he says. “Then you won’t mind handing me back the phone you stole from me that night.” I can’t help but be proud of the confidence with which I say the next phrase. “What phone?” “Jessa, Jessa, Jessa,” he tuts. “I thought I told you never to lie to me.” I shrug. “It’s not my fault you misplaced your stuff.” “Is that what happened?” he asks, pushing himself up and sauntering over to me. “You’re going to stick with that story?” He regards me coolly. I can see by the light in his eyes, the clench in his jaw: he knows I have his phone. He’s just trying to figure out where it’s hidden. “I must say, you seem remarkably calm for a woman whose home has just been broken into.” “It’s not like I wasn’t expecting this visit,” I point out. “I’ve been mentally preparing for it since I got back.” I roll my eyes and move around him, trying to look as unconcerned as I can. “Can I offer you something to drink?” I ask pleasantly. “I don’t have much. Orange juice, mostly. Coffee. Or I could make you a cocktail of bleach, if you’d prefer?” He regards me with amusement. “Something alcoholic would be better.” I pull open the fridge door and root around in there. “I’ve got two beers from last summer. If they kill you, I take no responsibility.” “It’ll take more than an old beer to kill me, Jessa.” I shrug and toss it to him. “Suit yourself.” He catches it out of the air easily, twists off the cap with one huge hand, and pitches it right into the trash can across the room. It’s obnoxious how effortless his every motion is. I take up a station across the island from him. The distance is good. It gives me a sense of security. And even though I know it’s completely false, I cling to it anyway. Show a bully your fear and they’ll feast on it. My dad has never really been one for advice, so the little he does give, I remember. That one feels particularly applicable right now. Anton takes a swig of the beer. I admire the sloping curve of his Adam’s apple. The man is devastatingly handsome. He looks out of place in my scrubby little kitchen, though. “Nice place,” he says, looking around. He laughs. “Do you not think it’s nice?” “No,” I rush to correct. “I actually love this apartment. I’m just guessing it’s not what you’re used to.” “It’s not,” he says. “But why would you care?” So much for being smooth and confident. I turn around and grab myself a glass of water, mostly because I don’t want to be stuck staring at him while I fight off an embarrassed blush. When I return to the counter opposite him, he eyes my hands with interest. I glance down at the bandages wrapped around two of my fingers. “Tough day at work?” he asks. “You could say I’ve been a little distracted lately.” “You,” I admit. “Dane. Myself. Mostly the last one. I seem to be making all the wrong choices.” “Like stealing my phone,” he offers. I give him a sweet smile. “That one wasn’t me.” “Right. I forgot you were sticking with your story.” “It’s easy to stick to when it’s the truth.”