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  I’m going to ask him out. I’m going to see if he wants to get coffee, or pizza, or whatever. I want to spend time with him. I want to get to know him. I want to sit close enough to smell him and try to pinpoint what brand of ridiculously overpriced cologne he wears. Should I wait for him to ask me out? Do I need to sign up for Tinder and hope we both swipe whatever fucking direction we need to swipe? I don’t know how dating works; I’ve been stuck with stripper fucker for too long. I didn’t even date Hunter, the conqueror of pole dancers; a friend hooked us up at a party. I have no idea how to date. My anxiety is spiraling out of control and I decide I need to Occam’s razor this shit. I want to spend time with him, so I’m going to ask him to spend time with me. Be upfront and direct. Underutilized qualities. I plop in front of the TV and mindlessly tune in to some cooking show. I drift off to sleep thinking of cranberry pecan crusted pork chops.

  I awake with a start. What time is it? What day is it? Is it Christmas? My stomach yells at me. Did I forget to eat today? I bump and curse my way into the kitchen and blink until the clock on the stove comes into focus. It’s only eleven p.m. It is better than Christmas morning, because I have seven more hours to sleep, and sleep is the greatest gift of all. I make a disappointing sandwich and decide I need to stop falling asleep to Food Network and learn to be happy with my turkey and Swiss on rye instead of dreaming of fancy shit I can’t afford or pronounce. I have an unexpected second wind and decide I want to set up my studio and drink chamomile tea while I gaze out my dream window. I’ve lived here for two weeks and haven’t set foot into that room except to store the grocery bags full of junk from Hunter’s.

  I grab the bags from the craft store and set up my easel, line up my paints neatly. I roll in the cheap computer chair, cursing at myself for not buying adequate seating. I settle in, observing how the moon paints silver wisps in the small ripples on the lake. A bolt of lightning illuminates the sky, spreading its veins across the inky blackness outside my window. I begin mixing silver and blues. I bring my brush to the canvas. Then I hear the scream.

  Chapter Four

  There is a woman screaming on the other side of this wall. I drop my brush, spots of shimmery blue trailing behind it as it rolls across the floor. I don’t even care about my security deposit. There is a woman screaming in Cash’s apartment. I rush to the wall, pressing my ear against it. The outer walls were brick, but the ones connecting our units were drywall. As if this hadn’t always been an apartment building, and the separations were made hastily with the cheapest materials available. Should I call the police? Maybe it was the television. Maybe they were in an argument and she screamed out of frustration. Maybe she had a spider land on her. Surely he isn’t some kind of psychopath. Then I heard his voice, very clearly.

  AGAIN. COUNT this time. OUT LOUD

  1…. 2…

  Start back at one.

  Please! No!

  AGAIN!

  1…2…3…4…5…

  I backed away from the wall and sank into the floor. What exactly am I hearing? I stood and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind me. Maybe this is a bad dream. Maybe I will wake up on the couch. I sank into my bed, feeling very uneasy.

  When I woke up the next morning, I decided to skip the shower. I washed my face in the kitchen sink and pulled my hair into a bun. I rushed out the door, trying my best to miss Cash. I wasn’t sure what I heard, but it made me feel unsettled. I don’t want to ask, but I also don’t want to interact with him without knowing, so I’m better off avoiding him altogether. I started going into my workroom at night and pressing a glass against the wall. Some nights I heard the screams, some nights I didn’t. I decide I don’t want to hear it anymore.

  Chapter Five

  It had been a couple of weeks since the wails of the screaming girl had pierced the walls of my workroom, and when I ran into Cash in the hallway, I had nearly forgotten. I was letting myself into my apartment after work, and his words startled me.

  “Hey! There you are. I was wondering what happened to you,” he said, as charming as ever. All kind eyes and whiskey smooth words.

  “I’ve just been really busy,” I replied, trying to seem as disinterested as possible.

  “How are our secret missions since you’ve gone rogue? I see they haven’t taken you out yet,” he teased.

  “Not yet, I’m still kicking. See ya.” I rushed into my door and shut it quickly behind me. In all honesty, I hadn’t been doing his missions. Ever since the screaming girl, I’d abandoned his stupid elevator fantasy, and the panic returned. Whenever I began to use the coping mechanism he taught me, thoughts flooded my brain about what he could be doing to that girl. That he was this sick fuck who was all saccharine sweet in the daylight but does God knows what to women behind closed doors. It would throw me into an absolute panic. What if he has some woman held captive in there? Or picks women up off the street to torture and kill them and has stacks of dead bodies in his spare bedroom?

  I was torn between equal parts curiosity of what in the actual fuck could be going on over there and sheer terror that if I walked into that apartment I would never walk back out again. Of course, this was probably somewhat irrational; if I went missing the police would probably question the neighbors first. But, a lot of my fears are irrational, and aren’t often backed up by intermittent, horrified screams coming through the wall. I decide that I need to know. Tomorrow, after work, I’m going to knock on his door and ask if he wants to split a pizza. I’ll invite myself in, and find out exactly what is going on over there. I’ll make sure I meet him in the hall in the morning, and we can do our secret agent shtick and that will be a perfect segue into asking him to hang out later that day.

  The next morning my alarm dragged me from slumber, kicking and screaming. I hadn’t been sleeping well, and dreaded the morning. Groggy and disoriented, I remembered my plan for the day. I gathered my clothes, and stood in the bathroom until I heard the shower kick on beyond the wall. Once again my thoughts drifted to Cash on the other side. I still hadn’t heard any of his famed shower karaoke, and kind of hoped he would start belting out a tune so I could join him and have something to bond over. As if our meet-cute hadn’t been eye-roll inducing Rom-Com material already. By the end of the shower, I forgot that I was on a mission to expose him as a creepy psycho, and had to use the massaging showerhead to orgasm back into reality.

  Disgusted with myself, and feeling like I needed a post-shower shower, I quickly dried off and got dressed. Full of endorphins and ready to Sherlock Holmes this shit, I burst out into the hall as Cash’s door was opening. I expected to see him in his tailored suit and shiny shoes, but was met instead by a tiny brunette in ripped jeans and a pixie cut. Could she be the screaming girl? She didn’t have any signs of duress or visible injuries. She was petite and could easily be overpowered by Cash. She smiled when she met my gaze.

  “Hi!” she almost squeaked.

  ‘‘Uh, hi,” I replied awkwardly. What was this feeling? Jealousy? Of course he could be seeing someone. Did I never think of that as a possibility? There’s a chance that this woman could be forced into doing things against her will.

  Raped.

  Beaten.

  Tortured.

  And I’m jealous? Stop.

  My internal monologue was interrupted by the ding of the elevator and we stepped inside. I was too confused at this point to be nervous, and needed to know where she fit into this mystery.

  “Ground floor?” the girl asked, timidly.

  “Yeah. Uh, are you Cash’s girlfriend? I’m his neighbor; we’ve not met,” I said, surprised at my own balls to pose this question.

  “Um, no, I’m… we’re just friends,” she replied awkwardly.

  “Oh. Does he have a girlfriend?” I continued.

  ‘‘I don’t know,” she replied, “If he does he’s never mentioned it. He lives alone. I don’t know.”

  I spent the rest of the day thinking about this interaction. If she was just a “friend,”
why was she leaving at such an early hour? Obviously she had spent the night. Pangs of jealousy made their way back into the pit of my stomach. I wonder how many other “friends” he has, and if the screaming I heard was just him showing one of them a good time. Pixie Cut couldn’t be the screaming woman. Her voice was too small, her vocal chords not capable of producing those sounds. If Pixie Cut screamed, it would sound like a child screaming. Which honestly would have been even more horrifying. Maybe I shouldn’t try to get into his apartment. Maybe I should just go back to avoiding him. Otherwise I might just end up another “friend,” and I’m not interested in that type of relationship right now. I’m jumping ahead of myself. I need to satisfy my curiosity about the screaming woman so I can sleep at night, instead of fantasizing about what kind of relationship we could end up having. The plan is back on.

  Upon returning home, I lingered in the lobby, hoping to run into Cash. I didn’t know his schedule or what time he got home from work, only that we left at the same time in the mornings. I decide to go back to my apartment and assess whether or not he is home. I freshen up, touch up my make up, fluff my hair. I press my ear to the wall. I hear the faint sounds of the television, but this means nothing. He could have left it on. I go into the bathroom and check my reflection in the mirror. I hear the toilet flush next door. Good. Someone is home.

  Chapter Six

  I gathered my nerves, took a deep breath, and knocked. Cash’s face lit up into a smile when he opened the door.

  “Hey! What’s up?” he asked.

  “Do you have plans tonight? I was wondering if you wanted to go halfsies on a pizza. I really want pizza, but don’t want a whole pizza and, um, yeah. Pizza?” I stuttered.

  He laughed and replied, “Sure! I could go for pizza. Come on in.” My eyes scanned the apartment. It was the mirror image of my own, and looked normal enough. It was clean. There was a sectional couch and a large flat screen television. There was a boring rug and sheer, rust colored curtains. Abstract art on the walls. No signs of a torture den. Yet. His voice interrupted my inspection.

  “So, what do you like on your pizza?” he queried.

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “Um. What kind of pizza?” he laughed.

  “Oh. I don’t care. Cheese and sauce on bread I can pick off whatever I don’t like,” I stated, dismissively.

  “Let’s play it safe, Pepperoni?” he suggested.

  “Works for me,” I said.

  Cash ordered the pizza from his phone and sat down on the couch.

  “Were you wanting to stay and hang out or did you want me to like, come get you when it gets here?” he asked. I realized I hadn’t budged from my spot in the entryway.

  “Oh, yeah, no, I’ll stay. If that’s ok…” I stammered.

  “Yeah, of course! Come sit down,” he said, beckoning me towards the sofa.

  I walked over to the couch and took a seat on the opposite end of Cash. He smiled at me and grabbed the television remote.

  “Did you ever watch X-Files?” he asked, flipping back on the TV.

  “Uh, no. It always gave me nightmares as a kid. Old episodes would come on late at night while I was falling asleep. I never have gone back and tried to watch the series,” I admitted.

  “If freaked me out as a kid, too. But I found it on Netflix and decided to start from the beginning. Some of it’s kind of creepy, but not really nightmare worthy as an adult. I’ve gotten really into it lately, want to watch?” he asked.

  “X-Files and chill, huh…” I said, sarcastically. Ironically, mind you. Remember I am not someone who dates in the post Tinder landscape. ‘And Chill,” is a relatively foreign concept to me. But, Cash calls me out on it anyway.

  “… and chill? Really? You’re such a fucking millennial. I didn’t realize…”

  “Oh yeah. Ha. Ha. Sorry. I’m trying to be hip and relatable to hide the fact that I’m an actual fucking alien. Are we gonna watch this shit or what? I’ll tell you how unrealistic it is. From personal experience,” I interrupted.

  Cash laughed, “You’re quick on your feet. I’d much rather be verbally berated than sit in awkward silence. This is actually really wonderful.”

  I blushed. Rarely do my bad jokes inspire genuine compliments. This is where I get awkward. Not with being teased, but with being complimented.

  “Do you want something to drink? I’ve got cola, beer, wine, or Jack Daniels if you’re a cowboy,” Cash offered. I giggled. Like, gleeful teenage girl giggled. Jack and Coke was actually my drink of choice, and it fit with my fantasy of Cash that he would keep whiskey around.

  “Yeah, I’m a cowboy. How’d you know? I’ll take a Jack and Coke,” I replied. He left for the kitchen and returned with the bottle of whiskey, a glass of ice, and a can of Coca-Cola.

  “Didn’t know how strong you’d like it. I am terrible at playing bartender,” he said. I’m honestly pretty relieved that he hadn’t mixed my drink. It meant he didn’t slip anything into it. I immediately feel bad for thinking this way. He’s not coming off as predatory. He’s being perfectly friendly and respectful. I prepared my drink, and went a little heavy on the whiskey. I immediately felt the warmth when the drink passed my lips. It was delicious. I settled back into my corner of the couch, turning to look at Cash.

  “So, do you live here alone?” I ask, feeling brave. Probably from the whiskey.

  “Yeah. Roommates haven’t really worked out. I like having my own space and not having to fight over who’s gonna do the dishes or clean the bathroom. When I first moved in here it was with my ex-girlfriend, but she started hooking up with her yoga instructor and moved into the loft above his studio,” he lamented. Ouch. I see in his face that this is kind of a touchy subject. Maybe commiserating will help.

  “I moved here from my ex’s place. I found him pounding a stripper. For the third time,” I stated.

  He laughed, and raised his glass, “to shitty ex’s.”

  “To shitty ex’s,” I echoed. I scooted closer to him to clink my glass to his. I didn’t retreat to my corner of the couch this time; I was now intent on closing the gap of space between us. He was so charming, and handsome, and as I drained my glass, I wanted to be closer to him. I poured another. My mission gnawed at me in the back of my mind, but this attraction had been building for weeks, and was overshadowing my fears and curiosity.

  There was a knock on the door. Cash stood up.

  “Must be the pizza,” he stated. I started fishing around inside my purse for my wallet.

  “Wait, I have money. How much is it going to be?” I asked.

  Cash said, “No, don’t worry about it. You get it next time.” I shoved my wallet back into my purse and sat it on the table. Shit, if I would have known it was this easy to get free pizza, I would have invited myself over weeks ago, let’s be real. Cash returned from the door and sat the pizza on the coffee table.

  “Do you want a plate?” he asked.

  “Isn’t the box the plate? You’re making your housework harder if you eat pizza off plates,” I quipped.

  “That is a very good point,” he chuckled. He moved the box in between us on the coffee table. We both began to scoot closer to the middle of the couch, stopping with only a couple inches between us. As we both reached for the box, our hands brushed. A jolt of electricity shot through my entire body.

  Cash quickly said, “Sorry. Go ahead.” I muttered something about it being ok, and pulled the box open. I grabbed a slice and quickly sat back on the couch.

  He was so charming. He told stories about him and his brother growing up, and listened intently as I talked about my upbringing. We laughed between bites of boring pizza, occasionally distracted by intense scenes on the X-Files, which were consistently confusing as neither of us were really paying attention to the show. I was amazed at how relaxed I felt, how comfortable I already felt with him. This feeling is probably at least fifty percent whiskey at this point, but who’s counting. While I know that I came here for a reason, the discomfort I
felt in his presence had melted away. This is also probably because of the whiskey, but nobody fucking asked you. When he stretched his arms over the back of the couch, I leaned back, hoping he would pick up my invitation to put his hand on my shoulder. Because I am a teenager apparently. Like I said, I haven’t dated in a while. I don’t know how this is supposed to work. I snapped out of it and excused myself to the restroom. While I wanted him to touch me, wanted so desperately to feel his skin on my skin, I wanted to further ease my mind. So I need to get my snoop on before I get drunk and end up hog tied to a radiator.

  I made my way to the restroom, lingering for a moment near the guest bedroom door. If I were caught, I couldn’t really say I thought it was the bathroom. I know exactly where the bathroom is, and he knows I know exactly where the bathroom is. I man up and try the door anyway. Of course it’s unlocked; it’s a fucking apartment. I ease the door open and peer inside. I’ve never been so simultaneously disappointed and relieved.

  It was just a bedroom. No dead bodies, no captive women, no medieval torture devices. Just a bed, and a dresser, and a nightstand. Maybe he really did host drug addicts and prostitutes and rented them out his spare bedroom. This leaves so many unanswered questions. But the most important one was answered. He doesn’t have some creepy torture dungeon with bloody women hanging from the ceiling. I’ll probably make it back to my place safe and sound. I can find out what the deal is with the screaming later.

  I sat back down next to him, turning to face him, pressing my body against his, finally bridging the gap between us. There were no teenage cues. There was no dialogue, no awkward prelude or discussion of where and how and how far we would go like there was my first time with Hunter. There was only this chemistry. He turned to look at me and put his hand on my face, pulling me towards him. He kissed me hard, and deep, like he was quenching a thirst. I eagerly reciprocated. He pulled my leg to beckon me into his lap, and I complied. His hands snaked their way along my ribcage beneath my shirt. He raised it above my head, guiding my arms as he pulled them free. I could feel him throbbing through my jeans as I pressed myself against him. He fumbled over the clasp on my bra as he laughed through a kiss. Maybe we were teenagers after all. I helped him, sliding the straps off my shoulders. He glided his thumbs over my nipples as he pulled me closer and began to kiss my neck. I moaned as my want, my need for him grew stronger. He shifted and laid me down on my back on the couch next to him, and positioned himself over me. I shuddered as he ran his fingers down my collarbone, down my sternum, across my belly button. He undid the button on my jeans, and I wiggled out of them as he pulled them away. He came back up to kiss me again, before retreating to nibble at me through my panties. Anticipation was killing me, and I thought I might come from that alone. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, he pushed the thin strip of cloth aside and his tongue made contact with my body. “Uh, ok. Actually, can you stop? I’m sorry,” I mumbled.