Authors: Sylvia Ryan

Friday Afternoon (17 page)

One more thing she’d have to owe him.

“And I’m starving.”

Alice held in a laugh as Henry gave Jay the once-over. His eyebrows rose, and his nose wrinkled.

“Shower first, Jay, and fresh clothes. With a shirt this time, please. You’ve inundated us with your scent long enough. Alice will think we’re unmannered louts, if she doesn’t already.”

Jay sighed heavily and feigned a pout as he trudged away. “Shower. Shirt. Anything else?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage to think of everything, Jay.” Henry winked at Alice. “And you’ll be quick about it, or Alice and I will have finished the skewers.”

Given the amount of meat he’d piled on the plate, Henry’s threat was in vain.

“Yeah, us South Dakota girls can pack away the cow cubes. I might save you a slice of red pepper if you’re good.”

Henry smiled at her as Jay disappeared around the corner, mumbling about gangs of kitchen bullies with oversensitive noses.

“If I may prevail upon you to carry a tray, we’ll adjourn to the roof and start the grill while Jay washes up.”

* * * *

They worked at the grill in comfortable silence, chatting rarely until the door swung open and Jay barreled out, his dark hair wet and dripping on his shirt.

“Did I miss lunch? Is there any left?”

Alice ducked her head to hide her smile. “The most charming eleven-year-old boy I’ve ever met,” she muttered.

Henry let out a soft laugh.

“An excellent description of Jay, to be sure,” he murmured. “Though his physique, thankfully, reflects his proper age.”

Well, that answered that. Her neighbors were so totally a couple.

Henry raised his voice to a normal volume. “You might have taken the time to dry your hair, Jay. The skewers will be another minute.”

“Oh.” Jay flopped on a chaise and sighed, an overdramatic gust. “I’ll rest until the food’s ready, then. I worked extra-hard moving those boxes. Not that I couldn’t handle it. My stamina is massive.”

God, if he weren’t taken, she’d be all over that, tickling his ribs and straddling his thighs.

Alice flushed the instant she caught Henry watching her.

He tipped his head toward Jay, returned her uncertain smile with a tiny nod, and clapped his hands once.

“Let’s get some food on the table, shall we?”

They ate with hands reaching and elbows bumping and Jay stealing pieces from both of their plates. She learned Henry was a well-respected oil painter. Jay owned a messenger service but preferred bike runs to paperwork. She described her work as a mechanical engineer, drafting and design in the office with a team.

Henry, it turned out, was thirty-seven, a little older than she’d thought. Jay was twenty-eight going on twelve, just under eighteen months older than she.

At least Henry didn’t mind her ogling his boyfriend over lunch. Unless he was trying to set her up with his roommate.
Which is it, Henry, boyfriend or wingman?

* * * *

She drove with an abundance of caution to avoid losing Henry and to control the unfamiliar beast that was Duffy’s van. They’d left Jay after lunch with her apartment key, the building’s hand truck, and his assurances he’d get the chosen furniture out of storage with no problem.

Well, that and Henry’s promise he’d stop for ice cream in Coolidge Corner and bring Jay back “something good.”

Fortune smiled on her with a parking space in front of her old building. She fed the meter while Henry slipped into a space down the block. The length in his stride and the breadth of his chest quickened her pulse as he approached.

“This won’t take a minute. I just need to run in.”

“It’s no trouble, Alice. Please, take your time.” He scanned the street, no doubt noting the differences she had when she’d hunted for a new apartment.

Goodbye, litter. Goodbye, bars with heavy foot traffic in the middle of the afternoon. Goodbye, flickering neon sex-shop sign.

He turned back to her with a neutral expression. “I’ll escort you inside.”

She was tempted to ask whether he worried for her safety or his own. She wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to stand on this street, but inviting him in made her stomach squirm. His apartment with Jay screamed pristine elegance. Not even a throw pillow out of place. Her old place…well.

“Hey, it’s your funeral. Just, uh, watch where you step and try not to touch anything. For your own safety.” She forced a smile and opened the outer door.

The mailbox vestibule smelled of cat urine. Probably cat urine. Hopefully cat urine.

“You might want to hold your breath, too.”

Henry kept his silence as she unlocked the inner door. He held the door for her and followed her down the hall without commenting about the peeling paint or the burned-out bulbs. She almost wished he would, even if his words were scathing.

She unlocked the apartment’s three locks and shoved hard with her shoulder. “The door sticks sometimes.” Why did she feel she needed to apologize to Henry?

Her foot struck a beer can. She looked toward the sounds of gunfire. “Hey, Miles.”

The man on the couch grunted, staring at the oversize television set. Soldiers in camouflage crouched behind objects on the screen, periodically popping out to fire. “Yeah, hey, Al.”

“Winning?”

“Fuck no.” His voice raised. “
Some
people can’t get their asses in gear and take out that fucking bunker.”

He was talking into the headset to his gaming squad. Typical. No point in introducing Henry. “Karen or Duffy around?”

Miles laughed. “You can’t hear the moaning? They must be taking a break. No, you fuckwit, I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to the chick in my living room. Yes there is.
Yes
, there is. Fuck you, too. Shoot the damn enemy.”

“I’m leaving my apartment keys on the kitchen table, Miles. Don’t forget, okay?”

“Sure, Al. Keys on the table.”

He’d forget. Karen would see them, at least. But she needed to put the van keys in Duffy’s hand, or he’d be fucking pissed and calling her cell at one in the morning when he was half-drunk and couldn’t find them.

She looked down the hallway to the bedrooms. The door to the last room, hers and Karen’s, was closed. Her new neighbor was doing her a huge favor to be here at all.

He stood unmoving by the door, either disgusted by the apartment or mindful of her warning not to touch anything.

“Sorry. Two minutes, I swear.”

She scurried down the hall and banged on the door.

“Duffy! You in there?”

Silence. She leaned closer. No, not silence. The screech of bedsprings. Great. Well, she wasn’t waiting all fucking day.

Alice shoved the door half-open.

Duffy knelt behind Karen on the bed, fucking her doggy-style.

Karen dragged her head up from her arms. “What the–”

Alice jangled the keys, attracting their attention like she might wave a chew toy for a dog.

“Yo, Duffy. Keys.” She tossed them, underhand, and he swiped them out of the air without missing a beat. Good sense of rhythm. Benefits of fucking a musician? Alice shook her head and smirked. “Van’s out front. Meter’s good for thirty minutes.”

Karen laughed. “More than long enough for studly here.”

Duffy leaned down, his chest covering Karen’s back. “Just for that, I’ll make it
three
.”

“Thanks for the loan.” Alice stepped back, pulling the door with her. “See ya.”

Shit. Henry had stepped farther into the living room, with a perfect view down the hall. A view that thirty seconds ago had included Karen and Duffy fucking. Way to make a terrible impression on her neighbor.

Fuck if she’d apologize. Sex wasn’t anything shameful. She crossed the space between, about to apologize anyway, because her relaxed boundaries didn’t mean Henry needed the image of strangers fucking shoved in his head, but he spoke first.

“Ready to make your last exit?”

She scrutinized his face. If her behavior or her ex-roommate’s had bothered him, it didn’t show. Courteous neutrality.
I’ll see your courtesy and raise you a smile, Henry.

“You bet. Thanks for coming along. Saves me a long subway ride.”

Henry snapped his arm out, elbow crooked, and bent toward her. “Shall we, then?”

She stared at him, a single chuckle escaping, and called a goodbye to Miles before wrapping her hand around Henry’s arm. “Lead the way, my good man.”

Duffy’s excited shout followed them out the door. Three minutes. Poor Karen.

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Playing the Game by M.Q. Barber

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