Bad Boy Good Man (3 page)

He hefted his laundry basket up, holding it
in front of him. “That’s okay. I did the same thing. I’ve been
trying for weeks to figure out what you did.”

I turned to watch him as he walked to the
door. “Yeah? What did you think I did?”

He pushed the door open with his back and
shot me a crooked smile. “I was
hoping
you were a cam
girl.”

My jaw dropped. I heard him laughing all the
way to the stairs.

* * * *

For the next two weeks, Antony kept good on his promise to keep the
noise down, and when we passed each other in the halls, we said hi
and asked how each other was doing. The women kept coming and
going—and
coming
, I assumed—but I didn’t have to listen to
them, and the danger of carpal tunnel from chronic masturbation had
passed.

Antony and I were good neighbors, but not
good friends, so I was surprised when he knocked on my door one
Saturday morning. I peered through the peephole and had to open the
door to trust what I was seeing with my own eyes. There was Antony,
the guy I usually saw in jeans or sweats, who didn’t appear to own
any shirts with sleeves on them, wearing a smart, dark gray suit
and blue tie. His black hair was combed into a perfectly
respectable style—he usually looked like he’d just run his fingers
through it—although one stubborn lock still flopped over his
forehead. He looked like he belonged on the cover of one of those
Having The Italian Billionaire’s Baby
books.

I was wearing cupcake print flannel sleep
pants and a cotton cami I’d just spilled cereal down the front
of.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you up? I thought I
heard the TV.” He gestured in the vague direction beyond my
door.

I almost said, “No,” because it was the truth
and I’d been up for at least two hours, but it was probably better
to let him think I’d just stumbled out of bed. “It’s no big, I just
got up.”

“Okay, well. Sorry about the imposition here,
but I’ve got to go to work to make up some stuff from this week,
and I have a package being delivered between…” He held a UPS sticky
note in his hand. “Noon and two. There’s no way I’m going to be
back in time. If you’re going to be around, do you mind picking it
up for me? I don’t think anyone would take it—”

“I’m doing literally nothing, today. I’ll
snag it.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.” He flashed me his
totally devastating smile.

I crossed my arms over my chest. Being around
him without a bra on could send the absolute wrong message, like
“I’m sexually attracted to you,” and “This is how hard up I am for
it, that I would consider banging you when I know you probably have
a play book that would put Barney Stinson’s to shame.”

“I’ll stop by tonight and pick it up,” he
went on, as I nodded and reached to close the door. The faster I
got him out of there, the better.

At least, I had early warning that he would
be coming by. It would give me time to
not
look like a fairy
tale witch when he came back.

Though I’d intended to spend the day watching
Netflix and binge eating a pre-made pie, I found myself distracted
from
Breaking Bad
to fantasize about guys in suits.
Lawyer-ish guys. With dark hair and big, square hands that I hadn’t
noticed before.

I called Sarah. “Tell me I’m a bad a person,”
I said over her hello.

“You’re a bad person. What’s up? I’m kind of
in the middle of something.” In the background, a man’s voice
called out something I couldn’t make out.

“Someone has a gentleman caller,” I teased in
an exaggerated southern belle accent. Then, I snapped back to my
reason for calling. “I have the hots for my neighbor. Help.”

“Wait, sex robot neighbor?” Sarah lowered her
voice. I heard the kitchen door scrape closed, recognizing the
sound from when I’d lived there. It didn’t squeak as much as it
used to.

“Yeah, him. Is it bad that I wanted to jump
him when he came over here with a suit on?” He’d been hot before,
but guys in suits… They just did it for me. “Is that classist of
me? I promise I thought he was hot before, when he was just
casual.”

“Oh really? Did you think he was hot before?
Because I didn’t get it when you told me like a hundred other
times.” She sighed her annoyance. “Look, I would love to help you
with this, but there are only two possible outcomes. My Friday
night thing just turned into an all-day-Saturday, so I really need
to hang up this phone right now and go ride some dick.”

“Fine, fine,” I said, reaching up to sink my
fingers into the hair at the back of my head. “But wait! What are
the two possible outcomes?”

“Either you fuck him, or you don’t. That’s
it. I’m going now.”

“Okay, love you, have fun,” I rushed to say
before she hung up.

I heard heavy footsteps in the hall and
checked the clock in the kitchen. It was one forty-five. Probably
package time.

I opened the door and stepped out. There was
the box, on the welcome mat outside Antony’s door. A woman with
plum red hair pulled up in a twist was bending down to pick it up.
Her gold hoop earrings were big enough to brush the shoulders of
her brown pleather coat. She was skinny as a rail—whatever that
meant; I’d never understood what kind of rail that referred to—and
on the short side. She balanced the package on her arm while she
fumbled in her bag.

I wasn’t sure what I should do in this
situation. Was she stealing the package? Was she one of the Tuesday
or Thursday nighters? I hadn’t seen her before.

I had to say something.

“Hey there!” I chirped brightly. “I was
supposed to pick up that package for Antony.”

She turned to me, her brow rumpled, lips
duck-faced in mild disdain as she looked me over. “Oh yeah? Don’t
worry about it.” She took a huge, glittery key chain out of her bag
and slipped a key into the lock.

The heavy footsteps I’d heard before
thundered around the corner. It was a little kid, a boy who, by my
uneducated guesstimate, was probably four years old. “Tony!” the
woman barked. “Get in here. We gotta change your clothes before we
go see Daddy.”

Oh. My. God.
The player had a
wife.

Chapter
Three

There was a knock on my door at eight o’clock. When he hadn’t shown
up earlier, I’d assumed Antony had just gotten his package and
figured that his wife had brought it inside. That had been a huge
relief; I didn’t want to see him.

What people did in their private lives was
their business. I didn’t make it a habit to harshly judge anybody
when I didn’t know their circumstances. But the…philanderer had
flirted with me. Nobody told someone they hoped they were a cam
girl without meaning it as a compliment.

Since I hadn’t expected to see him, I hadn’t
changed out of my PJs. And, I really didn’t care. I wasn’t about to
help some greasy pervert cheat on his wife, especially when he had
a young son. I opened the door, blowing some limp strands of hair
that had escaped my ponytail out of my face. “Yeah?”

He looked taken aback by my hostile tone.
Good. He needed to know where I stood on the subject of adultery.
“Um, I just came by for my package?”

My stupid nipples had no idea I was disgusted
by him. I crossed my arms again. “It’s in your apartment. Your
wife
picked it up.”

“Did she?” He didn’t have the grace to look
ashamed. Ugh, how gross. “That’s weird.”

“Why? Did she deviate from the schedule?
You’re lucky she didn’t catch you back here having a nooner with
some woman that isn’t her.” I started to close the door, and he
planted his big hand against the metal.

He didn’t try to force the door open any
wider; that would have alarmed me. He just halted its progress and
said, “No, it’s weird because I don’t have a wife. So, either some
crazy imposter came by claiming to be my wife and then stole my
package, or my wife is a time traveller from the future whom I
haven’t met, yet. Or, and this is probably what actually happened,
my sister came by to pick up her son’s laundry.”

“Your…” I shook my head. “You’re Antony, and
your ‘nephew’,” I made finger quotes, “is named Tony.”

“And, his mother’s name is Antonia, and we’re
both named for our father, Antonio Frances DeLuca.” He paused. “You
really thought I was cheating on my wife?”

Oh man. Uncomfortable in the extreme.
“Y-yes.”

“Because of the…” He gestured toward his
apartment.

“Yeah. In hindsight, that looks kind of—”

“Rude and judgmental?” There was absolutely
no sense of humor present in his words. “You know what? You’re not
as quiet as you think you are when you’re masturbating. And, it’s
not just Tuesdays and Thursdays. Be a courteous neighbor and keep
it down. And stay out of my business.”

I choked on my gasp, and it came out as a
backwards shriek.

“Have a good night.” He turned away from me
in disgust, and I stared after him in shock.

He had to be guessing, right? There was no
way I made noise. I’d lived with roommates for years, and they’d
never said anything.

I grabbed my phone. I didn’t know if Sarah’s
much needed sex date was on-going, so I called Dawn.

“On a scale of none to my neighbor’s Tuesday
nights, how much noise did I make while I was masturbating?” I
demanded.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t put you on speaker
phone.” Dawn laughed. “Are you being serious right now, or are you
reading me a funny Tweet?”

“No, I’m dead serious. Could you guys hear
me?” I cast a nervous glance at the insidious shared wall. Could he
hear me talking right now?

“I don’t know. Maybe once or twice. Your bed
squeaked a lot, was that it? I thought you were just tossing and
turning.” I could almost hear Dawn’s shrug. “What is going on with
you?”

“I really messed up. I thought sex neighbor
was married, and I kind of called him an adulterer—”

“Wait, what? How do you ‘kind of’ accuse
someone of adultery? Is he even married?”

No, but I assumed he was. I saw a woman and a
little boy named Tony going into his apartment.” I added for
clarification, “Sex neighbor’s name is Antony.”

Dawn made a thoughtful, concerned noise. “So,
you barged into this stranger’s personal business and accused him
of cheating on a wife that I assume does not exist?”

“She does not,” I admitted.

“This is why we didn’t want you to move out,
by the way. You need almost constant supervision.” She sighed.
“Remember when we told you not to bake him a cake to tell him to be
quiet having sex? Now might be the time for a cake. A genuine
apology cake.”

“I thought it might be.” I eyed the clock.
“I’ll make it tonight and take it over there in the morning.”

“That’s good thinking. Hey, did you hear from
Sarah today? I tried to call her like seven times, and she never
answered,” Dawn asked, shifting conversational gears.

I brightened up. “Yes! Her phone is probably
off because you wouldn’t stop calling. She had a one-night stand
that overlapped into today. If her phone is still off…”

“Go, Sarah!” Dawn exclaimed. “Phone
high-five!”

“At least one of us is living that New York,
Sex In The City
dream.” I went to the kitchen and started
pulling down ingredients. “Meanwhile, I have an apology cake to
make.”

I’ve always thought that the best way to
express emotions is through food. And, remorse is an emotion that
makes food taste extra good. The only thing I had the ingredients
for was a nice yellow cake with buttercream frosting. Not the
fanciest baked good in history, but it would have to do.

At times of emotional turmoil, baking
centered me. It had always seemed part chemistry, part witchcraft.
Maybe if I’d gotten an apprenticeship instead of a college
orientation packet, things would be different. I mean, obviously, I
wouldn’t have been able to afford this apartment, and I wouldn’t
have met Sarah and Dawn. If I rationalized that we meet people for
reasons, I would have eventually become friends with them. And, it
wouldn’t matter where I lived; I doubted that baking would prey on
my worst fears like everything else did, now.

“Just go to school, and you can decide then,”
my mom had told me. Then, two years later, Dad had said, “You’ve
already got half your credits. It seems silly to drop out, now.”
I’d stayed, all the way through. Then, it was, “Sweetie, this is a
job some people would kill for, and you want to spend time with
flour on your hands?” and “You know I hate to agree with your mom,
but Leslie is right. You can’t waste the degree we paid for. Take
the job. There’s no money in baking, anyway.”

I pushed down the pain in my chest. My
parents had never been particularly warm or supportive. I’m sure
they loved me, I just wasn’t sure that their idea of love and my
idea of love were the same. There was a difference between wanting
the best for your child and wanting them to be happy. I think the
reason Mom and Dad hadn’t seen that was because their parents had
done the same to them. They both had gotten “the best”, but I’d
never seen either of them happy.

It was easy to lose myself in beating egg
whites and measuring out flour. It toned down the loud, worried
thoughts in my head. It
didn’t
help me tune out the sudden,
rhythmic thumping in the other apartment.

Let it go. You’ve been really rude
tonight, you can just ignore it,
I told myself. But it wasn’t a
Tuesday or a Thursday.

Then, it got louder.

Son of a—
I grabbed my phone and put
in my earbuds, blasting Imogen Heap at maximum volume. Maybe I
wouldn’t give him this fucking cake, after all. Maybe I would just
keep the damn cake and eat it myself.

* * * *

Even after
therapeutic baking and the cessation of the oddly non-vocal sex
next door, I could barely sleep. I kept going over the “why” of
everything in my head. Why was I so bothered by my neighbor’s
nocturnal activities? He’d stopped being loud—aside from that brief
retaliation—and it was none of my business who he fucked, even if
he was married. I was still nervous about making a good impression
and being friendly. I’d made a cake.