Chapter Fifty-Six #2
The afternoon sun is slanting across the roof of my apartment building as I drag my ass up the stairs.
I feel every one of the six hours I spent at the strip mall today.
Every trip up and down the ladder, every time I had to squeeze my body through a utility chase—or worse, shimmy halfway through a crawlspace on my back to verify a smoke baffle.
As I reach for my keys, Umberto’s door opens, and the big man lumbers out with a trash bag slung over his shoulder.
“Eliot. How’s it— You look like shit.”
“You ain’t wrong. It’s been a rough few days.” I run a hand through my hair and catch another piece of insulation. Fucking hell.
“My sister made tamales. You want some? Might stop you from falling over the minute you get inside.” He grins, and I think about the acoustic tiles still in boxes in my bedroom.
“Eliot?”
Fuck. I lost the plot somewhere between tamales and tiles. I try to shake off the exhaustion, and fail. But at least there aren’t two Umbertos standing in front of me anymore.
“That would be great, man. Other than yesterday, I’ve been livin’ off of frozen burritos and whatever passes for coffee at work.” I shake my head. “It’s barely flavored water.”
“Give me five minutes to take the trash out, and I’ll bring some over.” He slaps me on the back as he passes, catching one of the graft margins. I suck in a sharp breath, but he’s already at the stairs, oblivious. Good. Explaining that…not happening.
Umberto’s as good as his word, back less than five minutes later with a bag full of fat, foil-wrapped tamales. “Shit. There’s gotta be ten of them in there. That’s too much.”
“Nah. I got fifty more in my freezer. When Graciella cooks, she cooks for days. You get some rest, Eliot.”
His hand is already on his door knob when I call his name. “Umberto? You might hear some drilling and banging for the next couple of hours. I’m puttin’ up some acoustic tiles in my bedroom on the shared wall.”
His dark brows shoot up. A moment later, he laughs so hard, he braces his hand on the railing at the edge of the walkway.
“So work isn’t the only thing keeping you up at night?
Good for you.” He sobers, one hand over his heart.
“You’re a good neighbor, Eliot. A lot of people would have looked at that note and said, ‘Fuck you.’ Graciella’s making enchiladas next week.
If those things work, I’ll have her make you a pan too. ”
Two tamales later, I lay out the remaining panels, check my measurements twice, and heft the first one onto my shoulder.
The bed’s in the center of the room—has been for days—and every time I get up at night, I trip over something or slam my shoulder into a wall because I’m not where I’m supposed to be.
I’d climb into the thing right now and pass out, but I want to see Parker again. Tonight, if she’s up for it.
The work is repetitive enough I don’t have to think, which is exactly what I need right now.
Measure. Cut. Apply adhesive. Secure with two drywall screws. Move on.
An hour later, I step back and look at the finished wall. Good enough. Not perfect. The grooves in the panels sit at a slight angle. I chuckle. Nate would probably take one look at them and have a heart attack. Then again, I don’t plan on inviting Nate into my bedroom.
I turn to the dresser and open the top drawer. I’ve never been particularly fashionable. Got two brands of dress shirts I can wear—fewer seams, soft fabric, a variety of colors. Same with my t-shirts. The only exception is the pile of Engine Company 12 shirts I never wear. Too many memories.
But I won’t throw them away either. Same reason. Too many memories.
I scoop them up and move to the closet. There’s enough space on the top shelf for them. Out of the way, but still around. I can deal with that. And who knows? Maybe Parker will want them back in the drawer so she can wear them.
The thought doesn’t bother me. Seeing her in something that matters? I think it heals a tiny part of me every damn time.
But she deserves so much more than a drawer.
I rearrange the closet too. Half a dozen shirts need to go. Too many seams, too rough. I’ve ripped two pairs of pants this week crawling through the worst spaces I’ve ever seen to make sure no one’s gonna die, so those hangers are free too.
By the time I’m done, it’s after six. But I’ve cleared a dozen hangers for her.
I take three photos—one of the drawer, one of the closet, and one of the bathroom counter, where I pull out a new toothbrush still in the wrapper and set it in the holder next to mine.
Made room for you.
A few minutes later, while I’m waiting for the water in the shower to warm, the phone vibrates on the bathroom counter.
Want company?
Want you.
Half an hour.
Parker stands at the door, a small duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair’s still damp, curling in soft waves, and shadows haunt her eyes. But that damn smile… It does something to me I can’t explain.
“Hey. I…uh…brought a few things.”
I tug her close, one hand around her wrist, the other cupping the back of her neck, and seal my mouth to hers.
Fuck. She tastes like mint and sunshine. Everything I’ve never let myself want is suddenly right in front of me. Warm and soft and strong. Smart and beautiful and funny as hell.
I don’t know why she wants me. I’m too scared to ask. But she’s seen the worst parts of me and she’s still here.
“Come on in,” I say against her lips. “I’ve got a drawer with your name on it.”
Parker laughs, and some of the weight lifts from her shoulders. “If you own a label maker, we need to have a serious talk.”
“No labels.” Linking our fingers, I guide her toward the bedroom. “Just room.”
It takes her three seconds to notice the change. “Eliot, why exactly was your apartment a mess the other day?”
“My neighbor left a note…”
She looks at the panels, then back at me. “A note? About…?”
I shove my hands into the pockets of my basketball shorts. “Apparently the walls are a little thin, and you’re…enthusiastic.”
“Enthusiastic?” Her brow furrows for a moment, and then her cheeks turn bright red. “Oh my God. He…heard us? Heard…me?”
“These are the best rated panels on the market. I like you enthusiastic, Parker. Don’t change. Ever.”
I collapse against Parker, my arms shaking. “That was…”
“If I thought I could move,” she says, “I’d go knock on your neighbor’s door and see if those panels worked.”
“That would require clothes. And standing up.”
I manage to grab a tissue and pull off the condom, but tossing it into the trash drains what little energy I have left. The walls are starting to go a little fuzzy around the edges, the strain of the day, this case, and all those inspections taking their toll.
Parker drapes her arm around my waist, avoiding the places on my back where the scrambled nerves make any touch painful. I close my eyes, and somewhere between awake and asleep, the truth slams into me.
Tonight was never about a drawer. Or a closet. I’ve made room for her in my bed. In my days. In the parts of my life I thought were too ugly to share with anyone.
I’m falling for her. Hard. And the scariest part of it all? I’m not scared to keep going.