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Authors: L. A. Witt
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Malfunctioning equipment. A moody business partner.
And to top it off, a pissed-off parent threatening to call the cops because I’d tattooed his sixteen-year-old son. Like it was my fault the kid had an absolutely bulletproof fake ID and looked like he was twenty-five. I was damned careful when it came to minors, but I wasn’t a fucking psychic.
By the time I finished my last appointment at quarter past seven, I was done. Time for a beer, some mindless television, and an early night. Good thing I didn’t have much of a commute, or I’d have been a poster child for road rage.
In fact, as I leaned into the open refrigerator, pondering what might accompany that much-needed cold one, it dawned on me that I was way too fucking wound up for a drink. Alcohol had a tendency to amplify moods like this, and I didn’t need that shit tonight. Not when my neck was already tightening up so bad I was half-tempted to ask Michael if he was game for a house call. Maybe he could have a beer, and I could have some acupuncture.
Quiet footsteps passed by my door out in the hall and tightened every already-tense muscle in my upper torso.
A door opened. Closed.
I swallowed.
Darren was home. On the other side of this wall.
I stared at that wall. Tried not to hear the echoes of the nights we’d spent on the other side of it. Or think about how much I’d kill for a rematch.
Because we couldn’t do that. Better to stay just friends, I reminded myself. Just friends. I could totally handle that. Couldn’t really be much more than that, anyway. Deal-breakers and all of that shit. Even if he was witty. And hot. And intelligent. And fucking amazing in bed. And . . . and . . . fuck.
Just friends. Just. Friends.
Forget booze and acupuncture. After five days of avoiding Darren and going out of my mind because I didn’t want to avoid him, tonight was one of those nights when I needed something a little stronger.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my old gray parka and headed upstairs to the roof. The bricks were still damp from the recent rain, and the night smelled wet. Judging by the slightly pungent ozone in the air, there’d be more rain soon.
Robyn and I had left some lawn chairs up here ages ago, and she’d fortunately had the foresight to cover them with a tarp. I pulled one out, made sure the seat wasn’t wet, and set it next to the concrete railing. Then I dragged over the plastic table, set it in front of me, and sat.
As I reached into my coat pocket, I glanced at the door. Al didn’t give two shits about what I did when I came up here—he’d even joined me once or twice—as long as I didn’t do it in my apartment. The landlord before him would’ve evicted me in a heartbeat, though. It’d been three years since she’d sold the building to Al, and this was legal now anyway, but I still got paranoid. Old habits died hard.
Once I was sure the old bat wouldn’t bust me, I pulled the plastic bag with the paper and the mint tin out of my jacket pocket. My mouth watered as I rolled the joint. Not for the taste of the smoke, but for the relaxation that would follow. I hadn’t been this wound up in I didn’t know how long, and the need for relief bordered on overwhelming. Desperate times . . .
Once it was lit, I pursed my lips around the end of the joint and sucked in as much smoke as my lungs could handle, inhaling slowly so the burn in my throat wouldn’t make me cough. Holding my breath, I leaned back in my chair and rested my head against the railing. When the heat and tightness in my lungs just bordered on unpleasant, I exhaled as slowly as I’d inhaled. The smoke gathered in a thin, gray cloud above my face. When it cleared, I brought the joint up and took another long drag.
I hadn’t done this in, I didn’t know, a few weeks? Couple of months, maybe? A while, anyway. Long enough that it kicked in fast. I stayed as still as possible while my body floated and my head lightened. Enough? Finish the
And to top it off, a pissed-off parent threatening to call the cops because I’d tattooed his sixteen-year-old son. Like it was my fault the kid had an absolutely bulletproof fake ID and looked like he was twenty-five. I was damned careful when it came to minors, but I wasn’t a fucking psychic.
By the time I finished my last appointment at quarter past seven, I was done. Time for a beer, some mindless television, and an early night. Good thing I didn’t have much of a commute, or I’d have been a poster child for road rage.
In fact, as I leaned into the open refrigerator, pondering what might accompany that much-needed cold one, it dawned on me that I was way too fucking wound up for a drink. Alcohol had a tendency to amplify moods like this, and I didn’t need that shit tonight. Not when my neck was already tightening up so bad I was half-tempted to ask Michael if he was game for a house call. Maybe he could have a beer, and I could have some acupuncture.
Quiet footsteps passed by my door out in the hall and tightened every already-tense muscle in my upper torso.
A door opened. Closed.
I swallowed.
Darren was home. On the other side of this wall.
I stared at that wall. Tried not to hear the echoes of the nights we’d spent on the other side of it. Or think about how much I’d kill for a rematch.
Because we couldn’t do that. Better to stay just friends, I reminded myself. Just friends. I could totally handle that. Couldn’t really be much more than that, anyway. Deal-breakers and all of that shit. Even if he was witty. And hot. And intelligent. And fucking amazing in bed. And . . . and . . . fuck.
Just friends. Just. Friends.
Forget booze and acupuncture. After five days of avoiding Darren and going out of my mind because I didn’t want to avoid him, tonight was one of those nights when I needed something a little stronger.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my old gray parka and headed upstairs to the roof. The bricks were still damp from the recent rain, and the night smelled wet. Judging by the slightly pungent ozone in the air, there’d be more rain soon.
Robyn and I had left some lawn chairs up here ages ago, and she’d fortunately had the foresight to cover them with a tarp. I pulled one out, made sure the seat wasn’t wet, and set it next to the concrete railing. Then I dragged over the plastic table, set it in front of me, and sat.
As I reached into my coat pocket, I glanced at the door. Al didn’t give two shits about what I did when I came up here—he’d even joined me once or twice—as long as I didn’t do it in my apartment. The landlord before him would’ve evicted me in a heartbeat, though. It’d been three years since she’d sold the building to Al, and this was legal now anyway, but I still got paranoid. Old habits died hard.
Once I was sure the old bat wouldn’t bust me, I pulled the plastic bag with the paper and the mint tin out of my jacket pocket. My mouth watered as I rolled the joint. Not for the taste of the smoke, but for the relaxation that would follow. I hadn’t been this wound up in I didn’t know how long, and the need for relief bordered on overwhelming. Desperate times . . .
Once it was lit, I pursed my lips around the end of the joint and sucked in as much smoke as my lungs could handle, inhaling slowly so the burn in my throat wouldn’t make me cough. Holding my breath, I leaned back in my chair and rested my head against the railing. When the heat and tightness in my lungs just bordered on unpleasant, I exhaled as slowly as I’d inhaled. The smoke gathered in a thin, gray cloud above my face. When it cleared, I brought the joint up and took another long drag.
I hadn’t done this in, I didn’t know, a few weeks? Couple of months, maybe? A while, anyway. Long enough that it kicked in fast. I stayed as still as possible while my body floated and my head lightened. Enough? Finish the
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