“Please don’t commit murder. I don’t have time to come up to New York and bail you out of jail.”
My darling roommate gave me the same warning when I went up to the city last week, and here she is, repeating it again.
“Hey, I didn’t kill anyone when I was there before.” I shoot Carly a look as I climb to my feet and stand my suitcase on its scratched wheels. “I got my new key fob for the office, put in my hours writing sexy stuff, and got out. No blood spilled.”
“Because Daniel wasn’t in the office those days,” she says, her dark eyes wary. “Didn’t you say everyone would be there tomorrow? Is that going to lead to a manslaughter charge?”
I ignore her question. It’s wishful thinking, but I’m still crossing my fingers that he’ll choose to stay away again. “I never said I was going to kill him. Just give him a solid punch to the gut. Maybe a kick to the dick. That’s all.”
She shakes her head, her tight curls bouncing as she does, and blows out a breath. “I don’t trust you in the slightest.”
“Good, you shouldn’t,” I chirp, leaning in to kiss her deep brown cheek. With my purse in hand, I snag the handle of my suitcase. “I’ll be back Tuesday night. Another quick turnaround trip.”
“Want me to order your usual for taco Tuesday?” she asks, following me to the front door of our apartment. “I can stick it in the fridge so you have something to eat when you get home.”
Carly is my favorite mother hen. She always makes sure I’m properly fed and remain out of prison. We met during our freshman year of college and have lived together ever since, though I doubt it will be long before she and her boyfriend are engaged and move in together. Until then, I’m lucky to have her around to keep me alive and (mostly) out of trouble.
“That would be great.” I squeeze her arm with my free hand. “Thank you.”
She nods and zips my coat up to my chin, brushing my long, dark hair over my shoulders to keep it from getting tangled. “By the way, the front desk called.” Her eyes flick up to mine. She’s five-foot-one, and while I’m six inches taller, I still feel like a small child when she babies me like this. “You got another package. More lingerie?”
Pressing my lips together, I duck my head and grin. I can’t help that I like pretty things. Especially the kind that make me feel pretty. And if that means a good portion of every paycheck goes toward lace and silk, then so be it. “My favorite indie shop was having a sale on bralettes, and I couldn’t resist.”
I may not have a boyfriend or a fuck buddy to model the handmade pieces for, but just wearing them for myself brings me joy. I’m a sucker for sexy underwear, even if I’m the only one who sees it.
“Would you grab it for me?” I ask. “I’ll open it when I get home.”
“Sure. Text me when you’re on the train?”
We both travel for work—New York City for me, and Philadelphia for her—and long ago, we established a system of checking in during every stage of the journey. Mostly at her insistence. Sometimes I think Carly worries about me more than my Arab mother, which is truly telling.
“Have a good time,” she says as she opens the door. “And choose peace, not violence.”
“You clearly don’t know me then.”
She heaves a weary sigh. “I know you too well. Remember, kicking someone in the dick isn’t your only option.”
“Not just someone. The devil himself.”
“Selene,” she warns, like a mom telling her rowdy child not to terrorize the other kids. “Play nice.”
I flash her a grin, heeding exactly none of her caution. “I make no promises.”
