Still trapped in early morning bliss, I curl up and wait for sleep to drag me back under. A few more hours, and then I’ll face the harsh light of reality. Then my stomach rumbles. I’m starving. Late night sex may mean I can skip Pilates, but my stomach still requests at least three meals a day. But with the way Cash goes, I might need to increase that number.
Disentangling myself from him, he grumbles and tries to grab me again, but I slip out of his grasp. The kitchen is smaller than the one in my first apartment, and judging from that I’m not expecting much in terms of fixings.
Cash mumbles something that amounts to a grunt and a sigh before he rolls over, throwing an arm over his eyes. There is exactly nothing in his fridge but a couple of takeout cartons I wouldn’t touch with rubber gloves on, and a few bottles of cold beer. Not exactly the ingredients for a breakfast of champions.
If I want something edible that won’t put me in the hospital, it’s time to go foraging. Sliding into one of his shirts and a pair of sweats, I head down into the bar. There’s bound to be something down here. Even if it’s just peanuts, at least it will be something I know has been checked for freshness in the last sixty days.
It’s different being in the bar when it’s closed. The exit lights glow, and when I hit the overhead lights, Altitude loses its otherworldly appearance. It’s just another big empty room.
Going behind the bar, I wade through Cash’s domain. I open a mini fridge and hit the jackpot: eggs. Probably from the egg whites they use for drinks.
I sneak back upstairs and peek in on Cash. Still passed out. I can’t help but smile like a schoolgirl. The plan aside, this is exactly what I want out of life. Okay, maybe a bigger apartment and a fridge that has actual food in it, but me and Cash, I want this.
Even though he has next to no food, the kitchen is well stocked with pans and utensils. I grab a pan and start prepping an omelet. It’s going to be more of a scrambled egg in the end, but it’ll still be protein.
The eggs start to sizzle, and I think about how I can talk to Cash about the next step. It’s different here in his space, and I want to know all about it. Like the post cards on the fridge. Who sends them, and what do they mean to Cash? While the eggs cook, I pull one off and flip it over. It’s just a few hasty lines scratched on the back and a quick signature. Knox.
The name means nothing to me, but from the abundance of postcards I’m guessing Knox is someone important to Cash. A brother maybe? The black sheep of his family that he just won’t talk about? Is he afraid I can’t handle my fair share of dark family secrets? Because I can. There’s very little I can’t handle as long as he’s up front with me. I’m a lawyer. I’ve looked into the darkness of the world and come out with my soul still intact. Mostly. I mean, I almost signed Tanner Jakes as a client.
It’s time we actually decide what we’re doing here, because I don’t think we can call this just a hook up anymore. It hasn’t been a one-night stand in a long time—but are we dating?
“Cash,” I whisper to myself, trying to figure out the words to say. What I wouldn’t do for a legal pad to sort my thoughts out on. Plot my case as carefully as I did in law school. “Are you having fun?”
No. Do not start it out in ‘fun’ that makes it sound like we’re just going to continue on being ‘fun.’ I don’t want fun. I want more than fun. I want nights at the bar where I only remember flashes of him, I want nights of ecstasy that I can barely stand, I want quiet lazy afternoons where all we do is watch old movies and cuddle. It’s not just about fun or sex—it’s more.
The eggs start to char, and I flip off the burner still no closer to how I’m going to approach him.
“What are we?” I ask the kitchen. Is simple the best? Just get it out there? Let it go. “Because I want more.” That’s the follow up to everything, isn’t it? It’s not just that we need to talk about what we are. It’s that I want to be more.
I dump the eggs onto a plate and take a fork full. And I almost spit it out when I hear—BANG BANG BANG—reverberating up the stairs.
Carefully, I set down my fork and walk to the door. Maybe they’ll just go away. I freeze and listen for any sign that they’re leaving.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The smart thing to do would be to call the police, or at the very least wake Cash up. I walk down a few stairs, still searching for any sound that they’re leaving.
Making up my mind to go get Cash, I head back up the stairs, but freeze when a voice takes over for the banging.
“Cash Gardner, you open this door right now and face me like a man.”
It’s a woman’s voice. Yelling for Cash. My Cash.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
I grab the handle and jerk it open, startling the woman on the other side.
The woman seems just as surprised to find me here as I am to see her. She’s young, probably around my age. Her blond hair has been strung up in a ponytail. Her watery blue eyes spit fire. She’s just a person looking for a target.
And I stepped up to the fucking plate.