Chapter 5
5
M ACKENZIE
The door closes behind him, and I fight my urge to turn the lights off, run to the window, and peek outside, cloaked in darkness.
Fighting off my curiosity is futile, and the struggle is real and brief as I fail to crush it.
It’s impossible to stay still when my apartment is imbued with his smell.
My brain is still sorting through the snippets putting him at my place. Sexy, and an annoying contradiction.
Throwing cash at me for information.
I happen to like that part of our story a lot.
My fingers move over the light switch, and my place turns dark.
He’d be a fool not to know what I am up to if he happened to look up and catch sight of my dark windows.
Who cares about what he thinks?
I move closer to the window and look down. The angle is not great, so I can’t see the entire area and, most importantly, the entrance.
Shivering, I step out on the balcony.
The snow still bears the outline of his body and marks of his boots and my bare feet.
Watch me catch a cold.
I pull my slippers on, hug myself, and move closer to the railing.
Lampposts dot the sides of the road, while Christmas lights adorn most of the windows.
The snow keeps falling, thickening the marshmallow layer lining the cars.
My neighbor’s ride hasn’t moved an inch, and there is no ticket on the windshield.
“Where the fuck is he?” I murmur, my teeth chattering from the cold.
Long moments pass.
No sign of the man wearing red pants.
Was he so crazy to go upstairs?Maybe pretending to knock on the wrong door? Perhaps trying to get inside under a pretext to collect his jacket?
I wonder where his jacket is and whether the scorned husband has noticed it in the apartment.
I wonder too many things that are honestly not my business.
Five minutes pass, and I give up on the idea of him.
Shit. I didn’t even ask his name. I doubt he would’ve given me his real name even if I did, so no regrets there.
Shivering, I spin around to enter my place when the door to the building opens, and a man rocking a complete Santa suit walks out.
Wow.
He even has a Santa sack.
Huh?
He did go upstairs.What a crafty villain he is.
He wears the entire costume. The beard, hat, jacket, pants, and boots. Everything. You can’t even tell it’s him. But I know it’s him.
Something about his presence makes my entire body quiver. It’s like electric currents swoop through my blood.
How?
How did he get back and retrieve the rest of the costume from her?
Is her husband dead?
Knocked out?
Sleeping?
Drunk?
What a weird story.
Maybe the woman sneaked out of her apartment with a bag of goodies for her secret lover, gave it to him, and went back inside.
Or maybe she just tossed his stuff out when her husband wasn’t looking.
Honestly, I don’t need to know.
But I do want to know which way he goes.Without a care in the world, the man in question strolls across the street, not tossing as much as a glance at the scorned husband’s car before heading north.
A few blocks up the street, the headlights of a car glow brightly.At first, I truly believe it’s his ride and he’s remotely turned the lights on. But then I watch him open the back door, toss the sack in, and claim the front passenger seat.
I stare at the car with my mouth open.It’s not a cab. Or another type of car service.
Has the driver waited for him all this time?
What the fuck?
The man never suggested he was in a rush, not when he checked me out or stuffed my bra with cash. And not when he almost fell off my neighbor’s balcony.
Now that was a pressing issue if you ask me.But no.
It wasn’t for him.
What?Again… What?? Who goes to fuck someone with a getaway car waiting downstairs?
This makes no sense.
The car crawls down the street and past my building before turning right at the nearest block. And that’s that.
No more Mr. Naughty Santa.
Sunk in thought, I walk inside and turn on the lights. I’m cold as fuck, so I head straight to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.
By the time my drink warms the porcelain cup, I’m hungry, so I'm heading to the refrigerator to make a sandwich when I remember the extra cash I have in my pocket.
I pick up my phone from the living room and order a pizza. I go wild with my order and add garlic knots and calamari.
Half an hour later, my food arrives. By that time my cup is empty, so I make more tea.
Once my drink is ready, I bring it to the living room, and set it on a tray on the coffee table before I return to the kitchen to grab a plate and a few slices of pizza.
Moments later, I enjoy myself, shoving food into my mouth. Food has never tasted that good.
Moving my attention to the upstairs apartment and chewing at the same time, I realize it’s still silent.
If it weren’t so cold outside, I’d go out for a walk and peer up to see if the lights were still on.
I stuff my mouth with the last slice of pizza and experience that perfect sensation of satisfaction only carbs can give.
Life is good.
I’m warm, fed, and brimming with questions I have no desire to find answers for.
A few moments pass, and I almost fall asleep when a loud noise makes me push upright.
My hand jerks to the side, knocking the remote control off the couch. It hits the floor with a sharp sound. But not as sharp as the screeching voices coming from upstairs.
They’re arguing again.Oh, fuck.The soothing effect of makeup sex must’ve worn off, and now they’re at each other throats again.
I don't need to walk outside and look up to know this is what they've been doing.
The voices grow louder and more menacing, and my curiosity soars.
Bundled up in my robe, I push up from the couch, pace to the balcony, and slide the door open before peeking outside and tilting my face up to catch a word or two.
A string of expletives cloys the air before she smashes something against the wall––another vase, maybe––accuses him of infidelity––go figure––and tosses him out.
Now that’s an interesting development.
I’m all ears when he threatens her not to dare to think about finding someone else.
Grrr.
He’s so out of touch.
He tells her he’ll be back.
She dares him to do it.
He dares her to fuck someone else.
Everybody’s a little off.
For now, he’s out.
He yells at her while packing up some things and storming out the door before she sends another projectile to the exit.
They must like this kind of crap.
I inch closer to the balustrade, and a few moments later, the woman’s husband, a beefy, bearded, kind of rough looking man, rounds his car.
Lucky bastard.
There is still no ticket on the windshield.
He yanks the back door open, tosses the duffel bag in the back seat, and slides behind the steering wheel a moment later, but not before looking up.
I’m not sure of the aim of his angry stare, so I jerk back almost falling backward, afraid he might notice me.
When the roaring sound of the car engine moves down the road, I muster enough courage to step forward and take another peek.
He’s gone.
Finally.
A sigh leaves my chest, and slightly more relaxed, I step back when my foot slips, and I barely catch myself, my arms curling around the balustrade like ivy.
“What the fuck was that?” I grind out, angry.
I lower myself, all shaky, my elbow hurting from the impact, and run my hand through the feathery snow.
My fingers stop on a slippery object.
“What the…?”
I extract it and wipe out the melted snow.
Is this…?
Frozen, I look at the phone.
Is this that man’s phone?
My mind rolls back to when he fell with me.
All right.
And then he lay down.
He must’ve had it in his pocket. The other pocket. Not the one with cash.
He didn’t even notice that his phone was gone?
Apparently, he didn’t.
I push up and touch the screen, not knowing what to expect.
And then the biggest surprise of my life awaits me.
And I truly can’t believe my eyes.
There is no passcode on his phone.
MACKENZIE
Who does that?
I swipe his phone with a cold finger and quickly learn why his phone is easy to access.
There’s nothing on it.
No apps, social media, or a jam packed photo gallery.
There is not a single shot of anything. A recording. Or a written note.
Maybe the man has declared war on photographs.
I check the last placed and received phone calls and also the missed ones. There aren’t that many.
But I figure ‘Carmen’ must be the woman upstairs. I don’t know why I believe that.
Maybe the frequency and length of their calls. I don’t want to call her and check for myself. I’d need to explain to her why I have his phone, and who needs that aggravation?
Their affair is already very complicated.
So, I move on to the last missed call. It’s another woman.
Beverly.
Wow.
Knock me over with a feather.
Who knew the man would have a special phone for his ladies?
It’s not like I can’t see why someone like him would have more than one woman interested in him.
I roll my eyes in disappointment.
Other than that, this is an interesting development, so I tap the screen and call that woman. Beverly.
The line rings a few times before a hesitant voice echoes in my living room.
She’s on speaker.
“Um… Yeah?” she says as if knowing something’s off.
“Beverly?” I ask.
“Who is this?”
Suspicion tinges her voice.
“I found this phone…” I say evenly. “My name is Mackenzie. “I thought I’d give someone a call––”
“Yeah, yeah. Here––” she cuts me off.
Steps shuffle in the background before a masculine voice takes over.
“ Babydoll? ”
Why would he call me that in the presence of that woman?
He’s just set to annoy me.
“It’s me, Mackenzie,” I say as if I haven’t heard him. “You dropped your phone at my place, and I was about to toss it out before I thought you might need it. It’s not your real phone, I suspect.”
My words are met with silence, which I can’t read.
There is something about this man.
Every time I deal with him, angst and anger tighten in my throat.
Why do I care that he has fucked my neighbor and then gone straight to another woman?
Why am I bothered by his lies and thuggish ways?
He clearly uses a phone to mislead these women and hide his sneaky ways.
And how can he get away with it?
“Do you need it?” I sort of snap when his silence prolongs, becoming a nuisance.
“Yeah…” he says dryly like he has something to hide––no surprise there––and doesn’t want to give himself away.
“Well, you know where to find it,” I say, ready to end our call.
“Wait. Can you do me a favor? Bring it to me,” he says, and the corners of my mouth slacken.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll pay for your time.”
Uh-huh. Sure.
“How much?”
“Let’s not talk numbers over the phone. I’m a few blocks away from where you live. Bev will give you the directions.”
Bev. You little… jerk .
“Of course, My Prince.”
The irony falls on dead static as he moves away from the phone and hands it to his minion.
I spend another minute with Beverly–– Bev ––on the phone and get the directions and the passcode to her building.
Moments later, I drop the phone on the couch and make a beeline for the closet.
Cussing under my breath, I peel off my robe and pull on my street clothes––sweatpants, a thermal top, warm socks, a wool scarf, a beanie, gloves, boots, and a winter jacket.
He is lucky that he pays me to do this crap.And I need the money.
Admittedly, it’s quite easy money.
But, boy, can you imagine working for such a dick?
Frowning, I grab my phone, his phone, and my keys and storm out of my place.
This is not how I imagined spending my evening.
A gust of icy wind pounces at my cheeks with tiny blades of frosted snow.
It’s cold, and the street looks spooky, the cars, trees, and buildings draped in fog.
I generally like this weather if I’m inside, holding a cup of tea and watching TV. Maybe that’s my problem.
I love staying in my comfort zone too much.
Well, forget about any resemblance of comfort as I cut my way through piles of freshly sifted snow and reach the next block.
And the next.
Fifteen minutes later, I look up at the building I’m supposed to enter so I can talk to him.
Dimly lit windows line the last floor.
That’s where the heartthrob… lives ? I doubt that as much as I didn’t believe the phone he left behind was his main phone.
Whatever.
I thump my way up the stairs, punch in the passcode, and push the door open. I skip the elevator and take the stairs.
Later, I need a moment to catch my breath in front of his door. Or Beverly’s door.
First, I press my ear to it and listen.
An unorthodox method, I know, but I’m shameless when it comes to him.
Eventually, I crook my index finger and quietly knock.
Steps trail across the apartment after my first try.
I expect to see him, so the second thing I’m doing is step back.
The door opens, and a young woman, pretty and well put together, stares me up and down.
“You must be Mackenzie,” she throws at me with a judging look on her face. I think.
She knows nothing about me, yet she already doesn’t like me. The feeling is mutual, as the only thing we have in common and fuels our animosity toward each other is this man.
I don’t even know his name.
I nod in response.
“Can I see him?” I ask, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“Sure.”
Her gaze coasts over me again before she spins around and passes the arrogance torch to her boo. I think, again.
Every fiber in my body tells me these two are not related.And I don’t see her work for him.I don’t see myself doing that for him, either, yet here I am.
They must be some kind of friends. Friends with benefits, maybe? Like the woman upstairs?
And this suddenly no longer feels like it’s about sex only.Why?
I have no idea why, but a little voice inside my head tells me I might soon find out what this is all about.
The door opens again and a man who looks different than the one stepping onto my balcony stares at me.
He’s not impressed by my coming here and making myself useful.
In fact, I get this vibe that he’s asked me to come here because he wanted to make me get out and do stuff for him. Earn my money.
If there were the slightest sparks of tension between us when he was shirtless on my balcony and I almost stabbed him in the eye with my beaded nipples, those clues are now gone.
He’s all business now. And he’s indifferent.
He’s ditched the Santa costume for dark pants, a sleek belt, and a soft, long-sleeved top that molds on his sculpted physique.
His hair is brushed back, and he looks sharp, composed, and, for sure, not in a playful mood.
He is the opposite of the man I met at my place.
And he also seems consumed with something other than me, the woman inside the apartment, or any woman, for that matter.
He holds his hand out and for a moment I don’t even know what he wants for me. His appearance has entirely disrupted me.
Who is this man?
“My phone,” he grinds out quietly, nudging the conversation in the right direction.
“Oh. Yeah. Here it is.”
I reach inside my pocket, scoop it out, and put it in his hand.
Silently, he extracts cash from his pocket. Three hundred bucks for wasting my time with this.
Not bad.
Despite the negatives, I like this gig, although I see how my income could significantly vary while working for him.
But I’m happy for now.
I take the money and slide it into my pocket.
“Anything else?” he says, pocketing his phone and noticing that I’m not moving away.
I lift my gaze.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
The mask of coldness on his face doesn’t as much as crack.
“My name is not important.”
“You know my name,” I argue.
He ponders an answer before touching my shoulder and slightly patting me on my back.
“You’re better off not knowing who I am.”
His hand moves away from me.
“Should I expect a knock on the door from the cops?”
“Unless you’ve committed something illegal, I see no reason why the police would come looking for you.”
I stand in the middle of the corridor, still waiting for his name.
“Callan. My name is Callan,” he says, holding my eyes while I wonder whether his name is as fake as his phone.
I finally tip my chin toward his pocket.
“Do you always solve your problems with cash?” I try to sound cool and humorous to conceal my nerves.
“Only when fucking someone is not an option,” he retorts, sounding genuine, and my eyebrows move up.
Uh.
What was that supposed to mean?
“Go,” he says quietly. “And thank you for bringing my phone.”
Yeah, right.
He gives me a slow wink and a half-baked smile before turning his back to me and vanishing inside the apartment.
Despite our frosted goodbye, warmth floods my skin, and tension spins in my body.
That’s a weird effect, considering he has just said I’m off-limits when it comes to sex.
Or maybe he is off-limits.
It’s the same thing.
He already has a group of women to cater to.
One who’s pouting inside. And one he’s sharing with her husband.
I let out a quiet sigh, still not moving away.
Oddly, I want to go back to when I was little, and the only thing I knew about Santa was that he was old, kind, and generous.He wore a red costume and brought lovely gifts to good kids like me.
And he’s never heard of mixed messages.