Chapter 18
Eighteen
Harold, our doorman, told me a package arrived for me this morning.
I don’t need to read the label to know it isn’t mine.
I haven’t ordered anything, which means this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with my downstairs neighbor and her complete lack of restraint when it comes to online shopping.
So much for the truce.
I nudge the box aside with my foot and peel off my clothes before I head for the shower and let the hot water steam away the edge of a sixteen-hour shift.
When I come back out with a towel secured around my waist, I decide it’s time to see what new soundproofing technology Madison has deployed.
I examine it in my hands. It’s a small box. Not big enough for more mats.
It’s probably poisonous.
I slice the tape. Beneath the packing paper is another, smaller box. I lift it out, my stomach doing a flip.
Inside sits something shaped like a rose.
It’s deep red and silicone, with a discreet charging port tucked underneath.
My brain moves through three stages of disbelief before my professional experience kicks in. I don’t need instructions. I have spent enough nights in the ER to recognize this on sight. You’d be surprised at what patients come in with, and even more surprised at where we have to retrieve them from.
“This cannot be happening.”
I check the packaging again because denial is a powerful drug. There’s an invoice tucked inside. She used my address, but Madison’s full name is right there in the evidence.
I snap a picture of the rose resting in my palm, because I’ll convince myself I’ve hallucinated later, then text it to her.
Me: What is this? I thought we agreed to a truce?
A moment passes before the typing bubbles appear.
Madison: Who is this?
Me: Beckett. 4B.
Madison: How did you get my number?
I look at the silicone flower in my hand.
Really? That’s the play?
Me: It’s on the invoice, which is currently in my hand. Along with your… package.
My chest tightens unexpectedly as my brain supplies an image.
Red hair.
Freckles.
Her mouth parted in concentration or frustration or…
I shut that down immediately.
Not fucking happening.
Me: How exactly is this supposed to help with the noise issue?
The response comes back at lightning speed.
Madison: It’s decorative. We called a truce. I’m being neighborly. It’s an accent piece that’ll look great on your nightstand. Welcome to the neighborhood.
A laugh escapes me.
Me: Decorative? Madison, you’ve never even been in my apartment.
While I wait for her to figure out her next lie, I notice a small card tucked into the bottom of the box. I pull it free.
“The Rose: For Your Ultimate Pleasure. 10 Vibration Modes.”
That settles it.
There’s a small button on the underside.
I’m a man of science, after all. I need data, so I press it.
The rose hums violently in my palm.
“Jesus Christ!” I nearly drop it. My entire arm is vibrating. It’s not a hum; it’s a jet engine. If I set this on the floor, it would probably drill a hole straight through to her living room.
Me: It vibrates. Is this a massager?
Madison: Yes. Exactly. A massager. For neck tension.
I look down at it again. My grip tightens, and my pulse decides to join the rhythm of the rose.
Me: I think this would be significantly more useful to you than me.
The reply is immediate.
Madison: You have no idea.
My pulse jumps.
So does my traitorous cock.
I straighten, rein it in, and reset.
Me: I can’t use this.
Madison: No? Why not? Too sophisticated for you?
Me: Because it’s a sex toy, Madison, and it is not designed for my anatomy.