“Ah, thank you, sweetheart,” she says, shoving one into her mouth and talking around it. “I’ve been struggling with them for the last five minutes…damn arthritis. Hands are riddled with it, makes it hard to open things, packets especially. The marijuana makes it hard not to want to eat everything in sight, and it’s all in packets. Vicious circle, I tell ya.”

I laugh, and Cal stands slack-jawed and disbelieving that the sweet old lady in front of us is complaining about the munchies. It’s written clear as day all over his face that he can’t quite comprehend that she just said that out loud.

“You know you shouldn’t really smoke this stuff in plain sight of everyone, right?” I ask her. “It’s illegal; if a cop walks by, you’d be in trouble.”

Mrs. Heckles looks at me with a grin that tells me she’s not worried.

“Please child, what policeman is going to come over here and question what I’m smoking? I could be stark naked and dancing around wielding a gun and nobody in this city would pay a blind bit of notice. People these days are far too preoccupied. Always busy, walking around with their heads down as they’re surfing on the line, updating their face tubes with pictures of what they just ate for lunch.”

Cal’s laughter interrupts her train of words and her eyes sparkle as she looks him over. She stuffs a few more chips into her mouth and munches on them loudly before asking, “Now, now, whom do we have here?”

She smiles at me then looks back over at Callum, her approval etched just as deeply as the wrinkled folds of skin around her eyes and mouth.

“Mrs. Heckles, this is my boss, Callum Speight. Cal, this is Mrs. Heckles, my neighbor.”

Cal’s hand darts out to take hers, but she has different ideas. Her frail hand swats his away as she reaches up and pulls him down, planting a wet kiss to his cheek. Their height difference is significant; he’s folded in the middle and bending like he’s cuddling with a small child.

“None of that formal stuff where I come from, boy. I much prefer a little sugar with my hello’s.”

“I don’t have a problem with that, ma’am,” he answers. Amusement is clear in his tone. My eyes drift over to his as he dazzles her with a gleaming bright smile. Damn he’s pretty when he does that.

“We’ll catch you on our way out,” I tell Mrs. Heckles as I make my way past her to the stairwell, waving for Callum to follow.

“It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Heckles,” he says.

“Please, call me Mary. Nice to have met you, too,” she tells him. The dirty little old flirt, I think as Cal follows me up the stairs. I’ve known her for years and she’s never once asked me to call her Mary.

“I think I love your neighbor,” he whispers.

“She’d eat you alive,” I reply. He grins, and I smile to myself because I’m not joking.

There’s a note sitting prominently on my kitchen countertop, folded and placed like a tent, waiting for me to find it.

I look over to the door; it doesn’t look like anyone forced their way in here. My skin prickles. They either had a key to get in, or the locks are so useless they were able to pick them. I’m not sure which scenario scares me more; they’re both equally disturbing. I show Callum the note, and he assures me not to worry. It’s easy for him to say, he’s not the one who’ll suffer the consequences of not paying. I busy myself gathering up what I came back for. I can’t help but think back to Athena and her predictions as I’m folding clean underwear into my bag. That damn Death card, and the explanations she spouted At the time I had told myself I was looking for scenarios to match up what she’d said to me. Now I’m becoming more and more convinced she was spot-on. Everything she said fits.

Annie had fixed me a sweet tea when I’d gone backstage, visibly shaken and more than a little perturbed by my encounter with Athena. She’d laughed at first, thinking that I was over-dramatizing the whole confrontation. When she’d realized that I wasn’t putting on a show—that what she’d said had genuinely worried me, she swiftly told me that Athena was hired from an agency. She explained she had been booked out from the same company that offered flab-a-grams, middle-aged men with swollen beer bellies in rhinestone jumpsuits who, for a modest fee, would marry you and your partner, thanks to their online ordainment certificates. As an extra, they could even serenade you with a slightly off-key rendition of I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You. The chances of her knowing anything about the future were as likely as stepping outside the club and being hit by a meteorite. I’d laughed, but it would be just my luck. I played along, agreeing that she made a valid point, but inside I was still very much freaking the hell out. I still am.

I pull my romper out from my closet; it’s black with white daisies printed on it. Casual enough to not look overdone for an afternoon, but pretty enough to show that I at least made an effort. I begin to fold it carefully into my bag, but stop and decide to change now so I can be ready for when I meet Cole. Drinks in the park sound like heaven at the moment. I need to lose myself for a few hours, and Cole seems like the perfect distraction from ex-boyfriends, thugs, and sexy bosses.

I DON’T MEAN to stare, at least not at first. Her bedroom door isn’t closed all the way, and the mirror in the corner of the living room angles just enough to afford me a clear view of her peeling the tight ripped denim slowly down her long tan legs. I look away quickly, not wanting to invade her privacy but then my resolve crumbles to dust at the mere sight of her. I’m the worst kind of person: I realize that looking again would be a gross violation of not only her trust but also her privacy, but I toss that knowledge aside to sate my own desire and hazard another brief glance. She’s wearing a black thong and her shirt’s on the floor, cast aside with her pants. My pulse quickens, the air suddenly too thick to breath as I stand paralyzed, unable or perhaps unwilling to avert my inspection of her nakedness.

Her back is still facing me; the curve of her flawless pert ass has all the blood in my body redirected straight to my dick. I close my eyes and will her to close the door, but when I open them again, she’s still standing there, gloriously bare and unaware that she’s being watched. She stretches like a tired, lazy house cat, her back arching, her head falling back. I watch transfixed as she raises her arms, lifting them above her head and then pushing them out wide, enjoying the stretch. The throbbing ache in my pelvis intensifies tenfold as she moves to pick up a bra from somewhere low, just out of view. One perfectly formed breast and dark pink nipple snaps into view, and I feel dizzy with want. The thought of her bent over me as I take that nipple into my mouth and run my tongue over the hard bud clouds my judgment. Instead of turning away and letting her dress away from my prying eyes, I take a step closer to the mirror, hoping to better my view. My hardening penis is pushing painfully against the zipper in the tight confines of my pants, begging me to push them down and allow it to spring free. For a moment, I contemplate taking myself in my hand and easing the ache.

Get a fucking grip, Cal.

I take another step closer to the mirror, and the floorboards groan under the pressure of my boots.

I jump back startled as she turns, and I quickly look away from the mirror, calling out, “You about ready?” It’s a feeble attempt to cover up the fact that I was just watching her undress like a pervert.