Careful not to wake her, I get up, turn off the lamp, and circle the bed. She is fast asleep indeed; her mouth opens slightly on every exhale. Her complexion shines golden in the dim moonlight that creeps through the window. Looking at her like this, she appears delicate, almost vulnerable. I guess it’s hard to keep your guard up when you’re drunk and asleep.

  I lean down and swipe a lock of hair off her eyebrow. Her steady breathing continues, although her nose wiggles around for a moment as if she is about to sneeze in my face, which is when I notice that I am much closer to her than I intended. I pull back, stand up, and straighten my shoulders. This is the problem with Sienna de la Vega. She may look like an angel, her vivacious nature might make you feel more alive than you have ever felt, and her rude comments might make you laugh (on the inside somewhere deep within) but it’s all just to hide the one thing, the real Sienna, the deceitful one, the one that can never be trusted. Given the chance, it would only be a matter of time until she’d stab me in the back. Just like Mira did.

  On my way out, I take a deep breath and inhale her scent one last time. Then I put my shoes back on, discover a polaroid of Sienna and her cat, let it disappear into my pocket, quietly close the door behind me and really consider seeing that therapist. There are a lot of uncomfortable (and hard) things we would probably need to discuss.

  When I exit the elevator, Paul is still fast asleep. Gently, I shake him awake, explain to him that it’s late, answer his inquiry about what year it is, and accompany him to his own apartment. By the time we make it there, he seems alert enough to get himself to bed. I stay for a little to make sure he’s actually alright and then leave for home myself.

  On the way, I try really hard not to get haunted by the image of sleepy Sienna with that delicate curvature of her lips, or by the way she was lying there, calm, almost serene, and vulnerable.

  I give myself a little slap. I need neither a nightmare nor a wet dream, both of which are distinct possibilities tonight.

  18

  SIENNA

  In nature, pretending to be dead is a perfectly viable strategy to prevent death in the first place. So it follows that pretending to be asleep is a perfectly viable strategy to prevent yourself from sleeping with the guy you detest the most.

  I could have told him to stop. Maybe I should have told him to stop. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to. On the contrary, despite the embarrassment, I liked it. I wanted him to read my story like some weird emotional exhibitionist. Like: Look here. Look at my metaphorically exposed ass.

  Turns out, drunk Sienna wants Ryker to get to know her.

  What’s even worse is, it made me… horny? Everything he does makes me horny.

  The grown-up thing to do would have been to tell him to stop, to ask him to leave.

  So, naturally, I didn’t, and instead pretended to snore like a chainsaw orchestra performing a lullaby. And it worked too. He stopped reading and left. Unfortunately, he also left me a dripping mess that just found out that hot guys with low and gruff voices reading bedtime stories to her is a fetish she will have to explore further in the future. It should probably be a different guy though.

  Not probably.

  Definitely!

  And possibly less depressing literature.

  I take a deep breath and try to replace the horny thoughts with happy ones. And it totally works right away. If ‘it totally works right away’ means three hours of tossing and turning and still ending up even hornier than before.

  Desperate, and tired from being desperate, I finally reach for my phone, navigate to my browser and open Pornhub. I tap the search bar and muse what would get me off in that moment. Ryker’s grumpy face flashes before my eyes as I slowly begin circling my nipples with the tips of my fingers. At this point, it doesn’t take much to get the motor running. Really, the motor has been running for hours already. It’s like I was mentally edging myself the entire time. So I allow my fingers to slide down my belly and dip right into that wet pool between my legs. A slight moan escapes my lips.

  Without intending to, I imagine his dark black hair, those deep dark eyes, and his unfairly symmetrical abs. My fingers begin circling my clit, while my other hand starts typing: ‘happy blond blue-eyed beer belly’.

  Another vision of Ryker hovers over me, and I’m not sure if I started dreaming or if I am just delirious from sleep deprivation. This time, he is taunting me with his crooked grin. It’s like he’s judging me from afar. Unfortunately, his stupid grin might have a point. This will not work. Happy, blond porn actors will not get me off. So I close the browser window and open another one. Instead of searching for beer bellies, I google Ryker (Do I Actually Wish He Had Spent The Night?) Grayson. Then I immediately click on images.

  I can hear his condescending voice in my head already. “Can’t even get yourself off without thinking about your new boss, can you?”

  My fingers slide down a little further and tease my entrance.

  “Looks like it’s craving me,” he says, and I can almost feel his weight on top of me.

  I would love to feel his weight on me, to feel his cock press against me, to feel all of him. With me. On me. In me.

  My fingers glide into my pussy without resistance. Slowly, I let them move in and out, back and forth, shaking my pelvis rhythmically along. Slowly, I also swipe his pictures over the screen and inspect every single one of them:

  Ryker in a sexy suit.

  My fingers glide in deeper, causing me to moan a little louder, and my blood pressure to rise even higher.

  Ryker in a tight turtleneck.

  I come back up and give my clit the attention it’s craving, a little faster than before and with more pressure now. I thrust automatically, imagining his cock ramming inside me.

  Ryker in nothing but some speedos.

  I throw the blanket off me and take a deep breath. It’s hot and I am already sweating all over. Faster than normal, I feel my orgasm approaching. It’s forceful and impatient and promising and I can’t fucking wait.

  Another picture of Ryker in a speedo, but from behind.

  That’s it, I think as I am about to come.

  Ryker kissing some woman that clearly isn’t me.

  Ryker kissing some woman that clearly isn’t me.

  Fuck.

  I throw my phone away and clench my legs together.

  Fuck.

  What am I even doing here?

  My orgasm vanishes before it can fully arrive, as does any mental image of Ryker Can’t Keep His Tongue Out Of Other People’s Mouths Grayson that I might have had in my mind.

  Which is fine. It’s an old picture anyway. And even if it wasn’t, I have absolutely no reason to react this way or to have any feelings about it whatsoever.

  I pull the blanket back over and roll myself into a little ball.

  Was that his ex? The one that co-founded the Litterati? The one Roman mentioned? Miranda or something.

  A second later, my blanket and I fall out of bed together in search of my phone. When I find it, I also find that my screen is cracked. Great. A closer look at the picture reveals that it’s over seven years old. Relieved, I take a deep breath, fall back into bed, and start doing some research. I fall asleep when the sun is about to rise, and wake up what feels like a minute later when my phone won’t stop ringing. When I pick up, Paul is on the other end. He sounds upset.

  “Sienna, the feds are here for you.”

  “The feds?” I mumble, trying to get my brain in order.

  “Federal Agents. Like the FBI. Although he could be IRS. His suit looks expensive. Which government branch pays the most money? Oh, god. Do you think he could be ATF?”

  “I… don’t even know what that is.”

  “Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives,” Paul whispers insistently into the phone. “They’re the worst agency of them all! Always after the little guy!”

  “Why would the ATF want to visit me? And on a…” I check the date on my phone. “Sunday?”

  “Maybe he’s Post Office. I hear they pay surprisingly well. And he does have a package. A small one, but still… Okay, now he’s looking at me funny. Do they even work on Sundays? It looks like he’s mad. It’s probably because of his small package.”

  Steps echo in the background.

  “Hold on, sir,” Paul shouts weakly. “You can’t just… What are you… Don’t hold the elevator for him, Robyn! Okay, he’ll be up soon. I will take a break. Defending this place against the oppressive government is a lot more work than one might suspect.”

  Before I can answer, Paul hangs up on me. There’s just enough time to put on a shirt before the knock on my door. It’s not an angry knock, not the kind of knock a Federal Officer would use if they wanted to arrest you. It’s also not the kind of stressed out knock a postal worker would exhibit after having to deal with Paul. If anything, it’s a grumpy knock.

  And there’s only one person I know who can make even his knock sound like it got up with the wrong… hand.

  I take a deep breath to prepare for what is about to happen, then open the door.

  Mr. My Body Is Immune To Hangovers Grayson is leaning against the frame of my door. He lets his gaze wander up and down, and in best Ryker manner says the wrong thing, “Well, you look like sh⁠—”

  “Let me stop you right there.” I hold my hand up. “I am going to give you another chance and open this door again. Obviously, this is nearly impossible for you, but… don’t be a dick.” I do as I say, close the door, wait a second, and open it one more time.

  Ryker’s expression is pretty much unchanged. Grumpy as they come. “Rough night?” he asks this time.

  I shake my head and lie, “Regular night. Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Try again.” I close the door once more, wait, and open up.

  His stoic expression seems to crumble a little. “I hear it helps to have someone else occupy the wrong side of the bed, so you get to wake up on the right one.”

  “Gross. Again.”

  Close. Wait. Open.

  Smile.

  Fuck.

  I wish it was the hangover that makes my knees go weak, but I know it isn’t.

  “You look like shit. Probably because you had to spend a rough night with your very own nemesis, so I brought you breakfast.” He holds a box up for me to see.

  “It actually wasn’t that rough. I just like to wake up looking like I’ve been in a bar fight. Street cred is important around here.”

  He nods. The smile has left his mouth, but it’s still visible in the wrinkles around his eyes. “I hear you. Those centenarians are notoriously dangerous.”

  Like him, I try to remain as stoic as possible, grab the box, leave the door open, and go back inside. Ryker follows, and we both take a seat on my way too tiny sofa. He brought breakfast burritos, which I hate because it’s just what I need right now.

  Then he continues, “After I tucked you into bed last night, I did the same with Paul. I met him twice yesterday, yet he didn’t even recognize me this morning.”

  “How do you know he didn’t recognize you?”

  “Well, he said, ‘Who the fuck are you, spook?’ and when I told him I was here to see you, he swiveled away from me in his office chair and then called you.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, that’s Paul. He’s the best. He takes a bunch of medication because of his new hip, among other things, which sometimes makes him a bit of a loose cannon. His sleeping schedule is also all over the place, which tends to make it worse as well, so basically you should expect him to be a bit of a loose cannon at all times.”

  We eat our burritos and Ryker takes a brief tour through my apartment, by which I mean he gets up and walks all the way from the sofa to the window and back, all five steps. He lets his fingers glide over my dresser and stops mid-stride when he discovers a dead plant sitting next to a few books.

  “This is a cactus,” he says.

  “That was a cactus,” I correct him.

  “How does one manage to kill a cactus?”

  “I could demonstrate on you. You are about as prickly as he was,” I threaten jokingly, look at his irritated face, and try to hide another laugh as our eyes meet, and silence looms over us. It’s not the uncomfortable kind, not the kind where you don’t know what to say to each other. It’s the kind of silence that proceeds a kiss, or in our case probably more of a bar fight. We share a look until Ryker clears his throat.

  “You should probably get ready,” he says and puts his coat back on.

  “What for?”

  “TV,” he states without further explanation. When I make no attempt at getting up, Ryker elaborates, “I have to give an interview on Awkward Pause. And since you’re my PR consultant, you should probably tag along. Otherwise, what am I paying you for? Plus, this was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh,” I say in surprise. I guess I did say something about him getting onto one of those TV shows that the old folks like so much when we had dinner and a show at Hangry. Looks like I am actually about to do some work? “Alright, just give me 30-45 minutes.”

  “You have ten.”

  I want to argue with him for not telling me sooner, but apparently there’s no time, so I rush into the bathroom, jump under the shower while brushing my teeth, put on some eyeliner and go looking for an outfit.

  “Two minutes,” Ryker announces when I exit the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel.

  What does one wear to a TV station?

  I open my underwear drawer, throw some of the mismatching stuff lying on top out, until I find a nice lace pair that matches. I really need to do some laundry. When I turn around, Ryker —with crossed arms, an annoyed gaze and some panties on his shoulder— taps his watch. I push him to the side, almost lose my towel, and rummage through my closet. I choose something that makes me look professional while still showing off my feminine side.

  He nods when I exit the bathroom again. “You look… presentable.”

  “Wow,” I feign being flattered. “That’s probably the nicest thing you have said to me so far.”

  “Not true. I also once told you you were an opponent.”

  “Quite the compliment, indeed.”

  “Now you just gotta work on your temper and attitude, and you might actually be more than just a presentable opponent.”

  I grab my bag, shove him out the door, and close it behind us. What more would someone like Ryker Grayson hope for than a presentable opponent? I try not to think about it as Miles drives us to the TV station. When we get there, we are greeted and led to the makeup department right away. They put some powder onto Ryker (which he —to my amusement— hates), before the host introduces herself to my client. She does her best to ignore my existence while explaining the procedure of the interview.

  I tried doing a mock-interview with him in the car, which he shut down with annoyed glances and aggravated grunts. That smile from earlier was all but gone by then and replaced by his chronic grump-face.

  After a segment about a local monkey on the loose, it’s eventually time for Ryker’s interview. The host, Jessica Kidding, lights up when she introduces her guest.

  “Mr. Grayson, it’s lovely to have you on… Awkward Pause,” she says and smiles her most charming smile.

  To my surprise, the second the camera switches to Ryker, he, too, has a giant smile plastered on his face. It’s not as genuine as the one I’ve seen before, but it’s still charming if you’re the sort of person who likes smiles, I guess.

  “Thank you, Jess, and may I say… finally. I’ve been wanting to come on your show for forever. I love the work you do with the Awkward Acts of Kindness Alliance.”

  “Oh,” she says and uses her notes to fan herself, “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

  “Of course, I try to be involved in local issues as much as I can. I also try to watch your show whenever I have the time, but let’s not talk about that.” He winks at her, eliciting a scoff from me as well as the woman standing to my left, who is also observing the interview.

  “Right,” the host says, “I would love to talk about you watching me,” she winks back at Ryker (while me and the woman next to me shake our heads in unison), “but we are actually here to talk about something that happened to you recently.”

  Ryker nods, his smile now paired with a little sympathetic frown.

  “I think we have the images here.” Jess turns to the monitor to her side. “This is you in all your glory, isn’t it?”

  A series of pictures pops up on the screen in which Ryker is walking around the airport in his underwear. Another picture shows two police officers kneeling on his back while a yellow taser is lying on the ground. I take out my phone to take a different picture of Ryker Grayson. He does present well in front of a camera.