Shane (Mallick Brothers 1)

Because what the actual fuck?

In what universe could my one time fake date be my landlord? And why hadn’t Fee warned me? I’d talked to her a couple times about the building I lived in.

It better not have been some ruse on her part. She and I were going to have a chat about it the next time I saw her.

There was a loud clanging noise, drawing me back to the present, and I moved through my bedroom to the bathroom, my feet sloshing in my shoes as I went. Shane was kneeling on the side of my tub, a wrench in one hand, water cascading down on him from the shower head, making him look like he was in some kind of freaking commercial.

Yeah, I should have stayed in the kitchen.

Where it was safe.

My sex clenched hard at seeing his wet shirt sticking to the muscles underneath and his biceps contracting as his hand twisted the wrench. But right then, thankfully, the water got high enough to finally go over the lip of the bathroom doorway, puddling into my bedroom.

Glad for something to do that didn’t involve staring at Shane doing manual labor, I went to the kitchen to get a mop and bucket and set to work slowly sopping the water up as Shane banged away.

A couple long minutes later, the flow of water suddenly stopped.

Shane grabbed a bath towel, dropping it on the floor, sopping up the water then squeezing it into the tub as it drained. We worked like that for the better part of a half an hour until the floor was no longer a giant puddle and just glistening with water that would eventually air dry.

“I would thank you,” I said, propping the mop up against the wall, “but it’s your fault this happened in the first place.

“Because I’m such a slumlord,” he guessed.

“Seriously though. I mean, the elevator seems like it’s been out of order since the seventies. The place is a shithole. I can’t believe someone hasn’t called the freaking cops on you and had this place condemned yet.”

“Baby…” he said with a strange smile.

“Stop ‘babying’ me,” I snapped, not because I didn’t like it, but because I liked it too much. “And what?”

“Do you ever wonder about your neighbors?”

“Not particularly. They keep to themselves.”

“Never stopped to think why?”

“Because this is a crappy area and no one wants to get attached in case we get gunned down or mauled in the parking lot?” I asked sarcastically, lips twitching.

“No one who lives here would ever call the cops because, Lea, no one who lives here wants to draw attention to themselves.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Some of us are just low on cash at present. I mean, look at Barney and his wife…”

“Barney and Gerty are forgers.”

“Forgers?” I repeated, brows drawing together.

“Yeah, they fake IDs, passports, marriage and divorce documents, citizenship papers. They’re the last of a dying breed and the best there is. On this coast, at least.”

“But,” I said, shaking my head, not willing to accept that sweet old Barney was a criminal. “But they live in a hellhole.

“Where no one would think to look for them,” Shane agreed. “Ever been inside their house? I swear to fuck every God damn faucet and door handle is pure fucking gold. Gerty has expensive taste.”

I swallowed hard, deciding to save that information for a later date, knowing it was likely useful for me to know someone who could give me a new identity if it ended up looking like I had done a shitty job hiding my real one from being discovered.

“Okay then. What about the couple that…”

“Dealers. Sell pot.”

Annoyed, though not fully aware why, possibly just because he was right and I hated being wrong, I pressed. “Fine, but you can’t tell me that shut-in down in the corner…”

“Yeah, no. That weird fuck milks snakes.”

“I’m sorry. Milks snakes?”

“For the venom. To make anti-venom.”

“Wait. So you’re telling me that there is a guy two doors down from me with an apartment full of possibly deadly snakes.”

“Not possibly deadly; they’re very deadly. Also, very illegal in this area. So no one is calling the cops in here.”

I sighed, knowing I lost my argument. “If you tell me that someone in this building is like cooking meth or something like that…”

“Nah. No meth. I’m not having my property, crappy as it is, get blown to kingdom come because someone watched too much fucking Breaking Bad and decided to try their hands at street corner chemistry.”

“Well there’s that at least,” I shrugged. “So what was wrong with my shower?”

“The thing inside that stops the water was jammed.”

“The thing inside. Is that the technical term?”

“Do you get off by being a smartass?” he asked, looking amused.

“Only when it takes someone like you down a notch.”

“Someone like me, huh?” he asked, starting to move. Toward me. And that, yeah, that wasn’t a good thing. I was pressed up against the sink vanity, the linen closet to my side preventing me from scooting toward the door. Trapped. And everything about Shane seemed predatory. I had never felt so much like prey in my life. “You still in that good guy phase?” he asked, planting his hands on the vanity on either side of my hips, caging me in.