Chapter 7
SEVEN
VANESSA
We arrive at my apartment and step inside. I wave at the desk attendant, briefly considering whether I should tell him Mateo is a friend staying with me, but I decide against it. Mateo and I ride the elevator up wordlessly, the awkwardness from his apartment still lingering between us.
As we walk down the hallway and I unlock my door, I’m suddenly aware of how simple my apartment is compared to his.
Smaller, quieter. That realization settles in fully when Mateo steps in behind me and closes the door, his tall frame and dark hair filling the space in a way that makes the apartment feel even smaller.
“It’s small. I know. I’ll sleep on the couch, and you can stay in my room. You’re taller than me, and I stay up all night anyway even on my nights off.”
“Not happening. This is your place, not mine.”
I move past him and head into my bedroom to change out of the clothes I borrowed from Juliet. I make a mental note to wash the dress before I return it. I pull on a pair of black pajama pants and an oversized tie-dye T-shirt, comfort winning out over everything else.
When I step back into the living room, Mateo is sitting on the couch.
“You stay up all night even on your nights off?” he asks, his gaze locking onto mine. It feels less like he’s looking at me and more like he’s seeing straight through me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
“What do you do all night then?”
“Watch Netflix,” I shrug. “Or reruns of the games I missed.”
“What types of games?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Basketball.”
“You’re a fan, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, not wanting to give him much more.
“Who’s your favorite team?” he asks.
I can tell he is trying to get to know me a little better.
“The Utah Jazz.” I try to stop the hint of a smile that curves my lips.
“Not a New York fan?” he chuckles.
“No. I grew up watching Jazz games, and they’re one of only two pro teams in Utah, so I naturally became a fan.”
He arches a brow. “I feel like your dad would be mad if you weren’t a New York fan.”
“I know. He never let me hear the end of it as a kid,” I say, grinning at the memory.
I can still picture him lecturing me about how much better it would be to be a Knicks fan, how New York teams were superior in every way.
Looking back, I guess being a Jazz fan was my first real act of rebellion.
I remember telling him, ‘But Daddy, I don’t live in New York.
If you took me with you, maybe I could be a fan. ’
He would just shake his head, smile softly, and say, ‘One day darling. One day.’
I clear my throat and gesture behind me. “If you’re hungry, the kitchen is right there. Help yourself. Let me give you a tour.”
I flip on the light, and the small kitchen comes into view. “The bathroom’s over there.” I point to the door next to my bedroom. “And around that corner is a little reading nook that leads to the balcony.”
“Do you go out there a lot?” he asks as he looks out the window.
“Yeah, I love it. It overlooks the river.”
It’s my favorite part of this apartment.
“Cool,” he says, a soft grin tugging at his mouth.
I walk back over to the kitchen to grab some snacks and drinks. Mateo follows, lingering just behind me. I reach up on my toes, stretching for a bowl on the top shelf, when I feel his hand brush mine as he effortlessly pulls it down.
I’m not short, but I’m not tall either. Five-six on a good day. He’s well over six feet, and the difference feels very apparent right now.
“You could’ve asked for help,” he whispers in a playful tone.
“What’s the fun in that?” I tease as I pour chips into the bowl. I glance toward the fridge. “There’s beer or water in there if you want something.”
“What do you want?” he asks softly.
“I’ll just have water.”
I head back to the couch, and Mateo follows, handing me a bottle before sitting beside me. The end of the Kings game is still on, since it’s early on the West Coast. When I say I watch basketball, I mean it—Utah Jazz or not, it’s my favorite sport.
We sit not speaking most of the game, eating snacks while Mateo scrolls on his phone. Eventually, a thought starts nagging at me. I wonder if he has a girlfriend. Or someone he’d rather be spending his free time with instead of sitting here, babysitting me.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for staying with me. I hope this isn’t taking you away from anyone.”
Real subtle, I think, mentally rolling my eyes at myself.
“What? No. Not at all,” he says quickly, meeting my gaze. “I’ve been so focused on helping Gino the last few years that I haven’t made time for anything else.”
“Doesn’t it suck, though? Taking orders from someone else?”
He shrugs. “I don’t think of it that way. Gino’s my best friend. He’s like an older brother to me.”
Great. So, I’m probably just a baby sister by association.
He stares at me for a beat.
“What?” I ask, giving him a sideways glance.
“Nothing,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “I just thought you were about to say something witty.”
“Umm…” I trail off, clearly blushing now. I can see his smile widen. “I didn’t think I needed to respond to everything.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, “but I’ve noticed you like to respond to everything.”
“We’ve known each other for a day, and you’ve already noticed that?” I smirk.
“Yeah. It’s kind of my job to notice everything you say and do. Remember? Bodyguard. And lawyer. I pay attention to the small stuff.”
“Got it.”
We watch the rest of the game in silence. Every now and then, I catch him glancing over at me, and each time I pretend not to notice. When the final buzzer fades into a late-night sports recap, I check the clock.
He yawns.
“It’s getting late,” I say. “Like I said you can stay in my room.”
“That’s not happening,” he says again. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Fine,” I reply, standing. “I’ll grab you a blanket and a pillow since you’re determined to be uncomfortable.”
I walk to the small closet next to the kitchen and pull out both before handing them to him.
“Do you need to go into an office or something tomorrow for work?” I ask.
“No. Most of what I do is on my phone or laptop. I can use your coffee table as a desk.”
“Alright, sounds good to me.”
He hesitates. “Do you mind if I take a shower?”
“Uh, no,” I say, then pause. “Where else would you take one?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Good point.”
He grabs a pair of pajamas and a toiletry bag from his duffel, then heads into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
I walk into my room and shut the door behind me.
Crossing the space, I grab my laptop from the bed and start an episode of my favorite crime show.
From the bathroom, I can hear the shower running, and my thoughts drift to Mateo—naked behind that door.
When his shirt was unbuttoned earlier, you could see his perfectly tan skin and his impeccable six-pack abs.
The longer I think about his body, the more a strange, unfamiliar sensation stirs inside me. It feels like a fire burning low and insistent, desperate to be put out. I’ve masturbated before, sure—but never with a specific person in mind, and never someone this close, this near, this real.
I shift onto my back, keeping the show playing—just in case he steps out of the shower while I’m doing this. My right hand slides down my body to my waistband, my fingers finding my wet pussy. My left hand moves to my breast, and I slowly rub until my nipple tightens and hardens beneath my touch.
My right index finger slips inside me, moving slowly in and out until my body begs for more. When I add a second finger, a soft moan escapes me, muffled against the pillow as I hope he can’t hear. As I finger myself, the image of Mateo keeps flashing through my mind, refusing to let go.
I spend the next few minutes continuing the steady motion of my fingers sliding in and out, occasionally brushing over my sensitive clit as I work toward the climax I’ve been building.
When it finally hits, my moan is loud enough that I’m sure he can hear me.
I turn my head into the pillow, muffling the sound as much as possible.
I lie there for several minutes, my breathing labored as I slowly bring it back under control. Once it finally steadies, I roll onto my side and focus on my show, knowing I won’t leave this room—not until I can guarantee he’s asleep.
After I notice the light go out beneath my door, I quietly walk over and press my ear against it, listening to make sure he’s asleep. Soft snoring drifts through the door, and I slowly open it, heading toward the bathroom to take a shower and brush my teeth.
The bathroom is less than ten feet from my bedroom, but I still rush, nerves buzzing as I move. I’m terrified he’ll wake up and see the evidence of what I’ve done written all over my face.
I shut the door slowly and as quietly as possible. I turn on the shower, setting the water to a lukewarm temperature. I take off my pajamas and step into the shower, letting the water wash away everything that’s happened today.
I sit down and let the spray run over my body.
Sweat, anger, and frustration rinse away as the weight of it all settles in.
I’ve spent years wishing for a normal life, and somehow, it’s only become less normal.
A soft sob escapes me as I think about my mother—how she never would have wanted this for me.
She wanted me to help people, to be there for them, not to become a part of this world.
She made my dad promise, and now I’m the one failing to keep it.
After spending half an hour sitting in the shower, I finally decide to get out. I grab a towel and wrap it around my body, then brush my teeth and smooth moisturizer over my face. I can’t blow-dry my hair, so I brush it out and let it air-dry, even though I know it’ll take forever.
My hair is long, nearly brushing my waist, so I usually keep it pulled back in a ponytail or a bun. It’s my quiet way of honoring my mother; she had long red hair too.
After putting my pajamas back on, I slip quietly into my room and turn my show back on. It’s nearly four in the morning, so I figure I can get a quick nap. I braid my hair to keep it from tangling while it dries, then settle in to sleep for a few hours.