Читать книгу Next Door - Блейк Пирс - Страница 8

Danielle sat on her couch, reclining back against Martin, her leg draped over his, and she was very aware that she was not wearing underwear beneath her pajama shorts. Not that it would matter; somehow, he had refused her last night, despite no bra and the skimpy little panties. It seemed Martin was taking this whole taking-things-slow thing seriously.

She was also beginning to think that he was either just being a gentleman or was not sexually attracted to her. The latter was hard to believe, though, because she’d literally felt the proof of his attraction grinding against her legs and hips on the multiple occasions they’d made out.

She tried not to let it bother her. While she was indeed sexually frustrated, there was something to be said about finally finding a man who wanted more than just sex.

Tonight was a great example. They’d chosen to remain low-key, just sitting around her apartment and watching a movie. Beforehand, they had discussed Martin’s day. Yet as an assistant manager at a print shop, there were only so many details to discuss. It was like listening to someone explain how paint dried. As for Danielle, she hated talking about her day. As a bartender at a local restaurant, her days were boring. She sat around and read most of the time. The nights were filled with stories to share but by the time she managed to get some sleep and woke up around one in the afternoon, she never wanted to go over them.

Once the niceties were over, they had kissed a bit, but it was all very PG. Again, Danielle found that she had no problem with that. Besides, ever since Chloe’s visit, she had been bummed out. The mood stabilizers likely wouldn’t even kick in until she took her second pill right before bedtime.

Thanks to Chloe’s visit, Danielle had been thinking about her mother, her father, and the childhood that had passed her by like a warped flicker of film. Really, all she wanted was to be held by Martin—something it pained her to admit to herself.

They’d settled on one of her DVDs, popping in The Shawshank Redemption and curling up together on the couch like a couple of nervous and inexperienced middle school kids. On a few occasions, his hand would slip a little lower than her shoulder and she wondered if he was trying to make a move. But he remained respectable, which was both refreshing and infuriating all at once.

She also noticed that on a few occasions, his phone would ding. It was sitting on her coffee table right in front of them but he elected not to check it. At first, she assumed he was just being polite and not infringing on their date time. But after a while—what Danielle assumed had been at least seven or eight little dings—it started to get obnoxious.

Just as Tim Robbins locked himself in the warden’s office and played some opera music over the PA for the prisoners of Shawshank Prison, it dinged one more time. Danielle looked to the phone and then to Martin.

“Are you going to check on that?” she asked. “Someone must really need you for something.”

“Nah, it’ll be okay,” he said. He pulled her closer and stretched out. They were lying side by side. If she wanted, she could easily kiss his neck. She looked at the exposed space there and thought about it. She wondered how he might react if she kissed him there, maybe softly ran her tongue along the side of his neck.

The phone dinged again. Danielle let out a little chuckle and, without any kind of warning, sprang across Martin’s chest. She grabbed the phone and pulled it to her chest. Stalled at his lock screen, she said, “What’s your pass—”

Martin violently yanked the phone away from her. He looked more surprised than furious. “What was that about?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just playing around. You can check your phone while you’re with me. I don’t mind. If it’s another girlfriend or something, though, I might have to go bitch-mode on her.”

“I don’t need you to oversee my phone usage,” he snapped.

“Um, hold on. There’s no need to get crazy about it. I was just playing around.”

He sneered at her and shoved the phone in his pocket. He sighed and sat up, apparently no longer interested in cuddling with her.

“Ah, you’re one of those guys, then,” she said, still trying to find the line between joking around and being a little persistent. “Guard your phone like it was your dick or something.”

“Leave it alone,” he said. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“Me? Martin, I thought you were going to break my wrists getting it out of my hands.”

“Well, it’s not your phone now, is it? Don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, raising her voice. “We haven’t been going out all that long. God, there’s no need to get so fucking defensive.”

He rolled his eyes at her and looked at the TV. It was a dismissive gesture, one that pissed her off. She shook her head and, doing her best to keep her playful façade front and center, she quickly straddled him. She reached down as if going for his zipper but then angled for the pocket he had put the phone in. With her other hand, she started to tickle his right side.

He was taken aback, clearly unsure how to respond. Yet the moment her fingers found the edge of his phone, he seemed to flip a switch somewhere. He grabbed her arm and pulled it up in a vise-like grip. He then shoved her down on the couch, not yet letting go of her arm. It hurt like hell but she was not about to let him hear her scream out in pain. The speed and strength he showed reminded her that he had once trained to be an amateur boxer.

“Whoa, let go of my fucking arm!”

He did, looking down at her in surprise. The look on his face made her think he had not intended to get that rough with her. He had surprised even himself. But he was also angry; the furrowed brow and trembling shoulders were evidence of that.

“I’m going to go,” he said.

“Yeah, good idea,” Danielle said. “And don’t even bother calling again unless it’s going to start with an apology.”

He shook his head—whether at himself and his actions or at her, Danielle wasn’t sure. She watched him quickly walk for the door, closing it firmly behind him. Danielle sat on the couch, looking toward the door for several moments as she tried to figure out what exactly had happened.

No interest in screwing me and a surprise temper on him, she thought. That dude might be more trouble than he’s worth.

Of course, she’d always been drawn to that kind of man.

She looked at her arm and saw red splotches where he had grabbed her and shoved her down. She was pretty sure they’d bruise. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy had put bruises on her but she had really not seen it coming from Martin.

She toyed with the idea of chasing after him to see what had gotten into him. But instead, she stayed on the couch and watched the movie. If her past had taught her anything, it was that men simply weren’t worth chasing after. Not even the ones who seemed too good to be true.

She finished the movie by herself and called it a night. As she shut off all the light, she felt like she was being watched—like she was not alone. She knew this was ridiculous, of course, but still could not help but look back to her front door, where the letter had appeared yesterday—and several times before—as if out of nowhere.

She remained on the couch and watched the door, almost expecting another letter to slide through the bottom. And twenty minutes later, when she got up and started getting ready for work, she did so with every light in the apartment on.

Slowly, a creeping paranoia churned within her. It was a familiar one, a feeling that had become something like a close friend over the years—a very close friend ever since those letters started arriving.

She thought of the pills and wondered for a moment if this were all in her head. Everything. Including the letters.

Was any of this real?

She couldn’t help reaching back into her past, reminding herself of the darkness she thought she had escaped.

Was she losing her mind again?