Playing (Inked Hearts 2)

Not that I want to touch him like that.

Not that I'm going insane thinking about touching him like that.

Not at all.

My blouse tugs against my chest. The top button threatens to come undone. I'm not sure what possessed me to buy a blouse with buttons. They never get along with my boobs.

I adjust the shoulders so the blouse rides a little higher, but that only sends the strain to the next button down.

We hug hello. His eyes pass over me. It's a quick thing, like he's taking in my outfit.

"I can't believe I've never seen you in professional mode," he says.

"One of us needs to class up the place."

Drew nods to the apartment. I follow him up the stone staircase, to the second floor. Drew checks his phone and punches a code into a keybox. Success. He grabs a key and slides it into the lock.

He pushes the door open for me. "After you."

The room is nice but small. Beige carpet. Tiny rectangular windows. Cramped little kitchen.

Drew's hand brushes against my lower back. He nods to the one bedroom at the end of the tiny hallway.

"It's not bad," I say.

"It's a dump." He steps inside the bedroom. "But useful for comparisons."

"You're playing loose and fast with 'dump' for someone who lives on a tour bus."

"That bus is a dump," he says. "It's just for the road. We stay in hotels most nights."

"You're so fancy."

It is a small room. More carpet. Another rectangular window. A mirrored closet door.

He positions himself in front of the mirror and stares at his reflection. "I don't see it." He reaches for me and pulls me next to him, so we're both in the reflection. "I still don't see it."

He's too close. It feels too good.

I take a step back. "It's a little small."

He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time. "We're meeting another landlord in twenty minutes. Bigger place. Closer to UCLA."

It sounds perfect, but there's apprehension on his face.

"What's the problem?" I ask.

"Let's make a deal. You pay the same rent you were paying at your old place. I pay the rest."

"No way in hell. I'm paying half."

"Twice the rent you're paying gets you someplace like this." He nods to the peeling paint in the corner.

"You're not paying for me."

"Not for you. Just more than fifty percent. Consider it a fee for getting to make the final decision."

I throw him my best side-eye.