Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

Dear lord. When his voice drops like that it makes me want to take off all my clothes.

“You should just do that.”

“What?”

“Take off all your clothes.”

Shit. I must have said that aloud. “You want me to roll around on your bed naked?”

“Yes.”

“While you watch?” I can’t tell if he’s serious or joking.

“Fuck yes. Or maybe just in your panties if you’re feeling shy.”

Sweet baby Jesus. I’m pretty sure we’re crossing every platonic line there is tonight. I also think Bancroft might be a bit of a dirty boy, which is fine by me. “What if I’m not wearing panties?” I rise up on my knees which means only my chest to mid-thigh is visible to him.

“Even better.”

I ease my hands down my sides until I reach the waistband of my shorts. As far as shorts go, they don’t really cover much, and half the time they double as underwear, which is pretty much their function right now. I hook a thumb in each side of the waistband and drag it down over my hips.

“Oh shit,” Bancroft groans.

I keep pulling them lower, but I stop before I give him a real peek at the goods. Then I trail the fingers of one hand back up. Catching the hem of my cami I start lifting, up over my navel.

“Tell me about the belly ring,” Bancroft says.

“This?” I look to where his eyes have gone and circle the little jewel dangling from the barbell with a fingertip.

“When’d you get that?”

“When I was a teenager. My father forbade it, obviously.” I give him a cheeky grin. “See how well that worked.”

“Of course you didn’t listen.”

I shake my head and lift my tank higher, past my ribs.

“Such a naughty girl, aren’t you?” Bancroft asks, eyes following the increasingly visible skin.

I pause when I graze the underside of my breast and let out a little moan. It’s not fake. Bancroft’s full lips are parted, his stare is rather intense. I imagine if we were in the same room I’d already be naked and under him. And I still have no idea what’s going on with his hand that’s disappeared. And that’s when I realize what I’m doing probably isn’t a great idea. What exactly am I going to do if I follow through on getting naked? He’s not here to help me out and there’s no way I’m going to masturbate for him on video chat. We’re not exactly at that stage in our relationship. We’re not even in a relationship.

I let the tank drop.

“Wait. What the fuck.”

My shorts snap back into place.

Bancroft’s expression is the most comical thing I’ve ever seen. “No, no, no. Babe, what’re you doing?” He reaches out and snatches up the phone, as if he can climb through it. “Why’re you stopping?”

“It’s after midnight. I need to go to bed and you need to go to work.”

“Fuck work. You need to get naked like you said you would.”

“I never said I’d get naked, you just suggested it.” I pick up the phone and roll onto my back, I pucker up and give him an air smooch. “Have a great day. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait, wait!” His eyes are wide and darting around. “I—I forbid you to take your clothes off.” His smile screams of victory.

I laugh. “That’s not how it works, Bane.”

“Come on, Ruby, that’s not nice.”

“I’m not always nice.” And then I hang up and put my phone on airplane mode.

I spend the next twenty minutes making myself feel good. I have the best damn dreams ever.

* * *

Over the next few days Bancroft and I play phone and message tag. He makes no mention of what went down the other night, or what didn’t, and neither do I. Conversation timing shifts again. Instead of talking while he’s getting ready for work, we talk while he’s eating dinner, usually at a desk with a noisy background that makes real conversation impossible. It’s lunchtime for me, which means I’m stocking up on carbs so I can manage to make it through hours of dancing in heels.

As the weekend approaches I become increasingly anxious and giddy. Anxious because Sunday night I’m being given my first shot at the third set. Sunday is the quietest of the weekend nights, but it still pulls in a decent crowd.

I’m giddy because Bancroft is scheduled to return at the end of next week. I have his flight times marked on the calendar. I’ve made sure to schedule the cleaning lady early and order groceries so his fridge is stocked for his return.

My job at EsQue is going well. As I gain more hours the tips get better and better. If I can keep making this kind of money consistently for the next few weeks I might actually be able to get a down payment for an apartment together. So, when I’m offered a small part in an Off-Off-Broadway production, I have to seriously weigh what I’ll make against what I’m pulling in at EsQue. It’s not comparable, so I end up turning it down.

On Monday I get up at a reasonable hour and make a quick trip to the mini-grocer down the street. I woke with a hankering for s’mores. Not the best in terms of breakfast food, but since I’m burning a lot of energy at my new job, I can afford the sugar consumption.

I’m juggling my purse, and three bags of groceries, while stuffing marshmallows in my face as I walk down the hall. I adore marshmallows in a terribly irrational way. I splurged on the name-brand graham crackers and I have a jar of Nutella waiting to be cracked. My plan is to make microwave s’mores because I’m starving and impatient.

I shove two marshmallows in my mouth while I punch in the code to the condo. As soon as I’m inside, the phone starts ringing. Not my cell, which is stuffed in the back pocket of my jeans, but the real phone attached to the vintage answering machine at the far end of the kitchen.

It’s the first time I’ve heard the thing ring. There are a couple of messages on there, but I haven’t bothered to check as per Bancroft’s instructions. I allow it to ring since it isn’t going to be for me.

After five rings a beep sounds and Bancroft’s deep, masculine, panty-dissolving voice booms through the condo. Okay, maybe not booms, but it sounds like he’s somewhere on the other side of the room.

“You’ve reached the voice mail of Bancroft Mills. I’m unable to take your call, but if you leave your name, number, and a message at the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

It’s pretty standard as far as messages go, but I’d listen to it on repeat just to hear his voice. I drop the bags on the counter, apart from the marshmallows, which I keep shoving into my mouth, and walk over to the answering machine. I stare down at the little tape, waiting for it to start whirling. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated. I think it’s sweet that Bancroft misses his grandma enough to keep this ancient thing around. It’s so out of place in his condo, much like my horribly ugly lounger—which I haven’t sat in once since Bancroft left.

I’m disappointed when no one leaves a message. Shrugging I give some attention to Francesca, who’s skittering around her cage. Flipping the latch, I pick her up and give her a snuggle. “Did you have a good snooze, pretty girl?” She makes her little happy noises then jumps out of my arms and bounds across the room to the answering machine, pawing at the leg of the table. I should probably do some organizing over there. I’ve been dumping Bancroft’s mail on the table and the pile is heaping and messy.