“I’m sorry for losing my temper.” He’s back in the living room holding a pair of boxers and an oversized Coldplay t-shirt, his focus on the hard beige floor.

I stay seated on the couch in the same spot he sat earlier, arms crossed, look on my face unforgiving. For an hour I’ve been sitting here wondering what to do, wondering if he was going to come back or just leave me to sleep out here with no blanket or pillow.

I picked at my cuticles, hummed Pat Benatar songs, stared pointlessly at the blank TV screen wanting to turn it on, hoping that turning it on would make him come back, but in the back of my mind not really wanting him to come back, lazy and in the end unwilling to turn it on. I rehearsed what to say once or if he came back but never came up with a good enough opening line. For an hour I’ve been sitting, sitting, wasting away. Why did he let me come here? Why did he wait for my shift to end, drive me to the drugstore so that I could get travel-size toiletries, and bring me here only to freak out on me? And why all of a sudden now that it’s too late, after he dragged me into this by pulling a gun on me---no fuck that---by giving me a cigarette… did he decide that he wants to be “done” with me? Am I really so disposable? Because I don’t think I am. I’ve been nothing but helpful and patient.

Finally, I say, “I helped you.”

And his eyes are just as sorry as his verbal apology. “I know.”

But it’s not enough. “I let you sleep in my house, on my couch after you robbed me at gunpoint.”

“I know…”

“I didn’t call the cops on you…”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I haven’t told Ember who you really are…”

“No, you didn’t…”

But that’s still not enough. My feelings are genuinely hurt. “I’ve been nothing but helpful and patient.”

He throws his focus back to the floor. “I know and I’m sorry.”

Which upsets me. I find myself repeating, “Nothing but helpful and patient.“ …Find my throat tightening, eyes beginning to blur. I’m beginning to cry. “Helpful---” Beginning to sob. “---and patient.” Beginning to fall apart. I am still no longer afraid, but when I said I was ready to embrace this I was being overly confident. Until this is all over I think I will always be overwhelmed.

He sits on the coffee table and sets the clothes in his lap, his voice in an attempt to soothe me. “I know and I’m really sorry. I took my frustration out on you and I shouldn’t have. Without you this would all be so much harder to bear.”

And it’s in this moment that I have the strongest impulse to kiss him. To grab his face and pull him closer to me, and taste him, but I can only regard him with cloudy eyes, wait for that impulse to subside, and grab the clothes from his lap, walk off in what I think is the direction of the bathroom.

I have to rinse my face.

“Justin.” Hushed whispers, I shake him once. “Justin, are you awake?” Twice. “Justin!” Repeatedly until finally he throws back the blanket and sits up.

He’s not alarmed, just sleepy. “What’s wrong?”

I make space for myself on the edge of the couch and push my bangs away from my eyes. “I can’t sleep.” He smirks and gives me what can actually be described as a non-sexual “once-over;” and I ignore the fact that it makes me feel slightly unattractive. “I’ve been thinking.”

He raises an eyebrow. “About?”

It was strange when it crossed my mind, yet it was one of the greatest solutions. “Embezzlement.”

Drowsy no more he sits up straighter, his body leaned in closer to mine. “What?”

I look at my hands and try to ignore his bare chest, the heat of his skin from being under the blanket, the sudden tingling sensation between my legs, and the realization that what I’m suggesting could put me in jail. “There’s a safe in Allen’s office---my manager. I know the code.”

But he shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, Moi…” He says this as if I’m a little girl that’s just woken him up to tell him that I can’t sleep because there are monsters under the bed. As if to say, Oh, Moi… don’t be ridiculous. He sighs. “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Then don’t ask me.”

He looks at me sharply and says firmly, “I don’t want you to do that.”

But aside from it being illegal it really is great! It’s perfect. It’s so simple and easy it’s foolproof. And no one besides us has to get involved, no innocent bystander victims, no guns, no getaway cars, no mess… which is what we’d be dealing with if we went with Plan B and robbed a bank.

He lies back down and stares up at the ceiling. “Please go back to sleep.”

“But Justin…”

“Go.”

But I can’t just go. I have a good idea that can save him, save us.

I decide not to try protesting again. I don’t move. Just peer down at him taking in his still exposed chest, the blanket now folded down at his waist. He’s lean, toned, flawless tanned skin, soft hair trailing from his navel to the band of his shorts. I want to touch them, merely graze them with the tips of my fingers, lay down beside him and let him hold me.

But he sits up again. “I said go back to sleep.”

“Just listen to me…” And before I know it he’s shoving the blanket aside furious and yelling, “Go back to sleep, Moi!”

Which is sexy. And infuriating. “Don’t yell at me!” But now we’re both yelling.

“I’m not trying to yell at you but it’s like I have to yell at you or else you don’t get it! Go. Back. To sleep!”

Chest heaving, I watch his lips move, and I still don’t get up to leave. I can’t believe it, but it dawns on me that I like this. In fact, I like this too much. The danger, the frustration, the insanity of it all, it’s exciting me… way too much. I hate that he’s overreacting, that he’s found yet another unfair reason to be pissed at me, and I hate that this makes me wish that he’d just take me right now. So much so that I envision it happening, him throwing me back, pulling down his shorts, forcing himself through the hole of his boxers into me so thick and fulfilling.

I find myself moaning and close my eyes so that the fantasy will pass. And when I reopen them his anger is replaced with confusion. He wants to say something but I’m guessing he’s unsure of what just happened.

So am I. But to answer a question that needs to be asked, yes Justin. I am extremely horny and need sex bad.

I can only clear my throat, embarrassed and finally leave the room.

“You like it rough.”

I glance at him over my shoulder. Clearly, I am not going to live this down anytime soon, but I still attempt to pretend that it didn’t happen. “Good morning, Justin.”

“You like when I yell at you… don’t you? When I tell you what to do? If I manhandled you, if I hit you a little… kinky shit like that.”

I sip my coffee and try again. “Your mattress is a piece of shit.”

But he just leers at me, a mischievous grin on his face. “Admit it.”

Ugh! “Admit what?”

He say through laughter, “That you like it rough!”

Which makes me sort of growl with annoyance and the suppressed urge to punch him in the face. This is still very embarrassing and that grin is so friggin cute it’s a haunting reminder of why he’s teasing me in the first place.

I throw my focus on the steam coming from my coffee. I can solve this. These immature games are best dealt with by showing apathy.

But he’s walking towards me and suddenly apathy is a distant memory, so distant I can’t even spell ‘apathy.’ Why is he walking towards me? The scent of soap indicating that he just showered wafting towards me as well.

“C’mon… it’s really not such a terrible thing to admit…”

So to diffuse my anxiety I blurt it out. “Embezzlement, Justin.” He stops. I look up at him. “We were talking about embezzlement and you didn’t let me finish.”

He rolls his eyes and takes a few steps backwards. “I told you no.”

“But…”

“I told you no and I meant no, so don’t ever bring it up again.”

So now I roll my eyes.

“I’ll give you a ride to work later. What time do you start?”

Trying to change the subject? I start at none of your goddamn business. But rather than say this, rather than say anything, I dump my mug still full into the sink and storm past him. I have to get out of this place.

“Moi…” he follows me into his bedroom, where my bag is sitting on the floor by the closet. “Moi, wait…” I grab it and head for the door. “I’m trying to protect you; I got you into this----” Of course he’s blocking me, every step to the left I take, he takes, every step to the right… “And if I let you do what you’re suggesting you’ll only dig yourself deeper until you’re so far gone---Moi!” He grabs me by the shoulders, ending our little dance, and sighs. “Until you’re so far gone you won’t ever be able to come back.”

I shake him off. He lets me, his hands fall down to his sides.

He gives me a look that I think is supposed to inspire hope and mollify things. “I’ll think of something else, okay?”

But it’s not okay because I am already so far gone that I can’t ever go back and I’ve already thought of something and it’s brilliant and maybe all of this started out as his problem but now it’s our problem and he’s so goddamn hot, seriously hotter than any guy I’ve ever encountered in my life---this predicament we’re in making him even hotter---that I’d never forgive myself if he died. I mean, aside from looks he’s… nice.

I stare at my shoes and don’t say anything.

“…okay?”

I shrug.

“You didn’t tell us you had a girlfriend…”

“Holy sh---” I turn around almost as soon as I open the door and walk back inside.

Mario and Luigi are posted in the doorframe.

Justin who has followed me still insisting that he take me to work, asking what time I start, stays letting the door swing so wide open that the doorknob hits the wall. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“You go to her job then bring her back to your place…” speculates the chubby one. Mario.

“Bootycall maybe?” ponders the one with the tat on his neck. Luigi.

Mario smiles. “Nothing cures stress like a good fuck.”

“’Cause you are stressed right?”

“I’d be stressed if I owed a shitload of money.”

“Which you do.”

“Which you do.”

Which he most certainly does.

Okay. I clasp my hands together as if to pray---because it would definitely do me some good to pray---and watch them. These guys are scary… in the sense that they don’t look like your typical thugs and they don’t sound particularly threatening, yet they totally will not hesitate to fuck you up… because that’s their job. Their job is to stalk and kill people.

Justin’s rigid. His stillness equivalent to that of a deer startled, paused in headlights.

“The Boss is still waiting for his money.” He doesn’t even twitch as Luigi advances towards him. But I do.

I’m almost tempted to cover my eyes as Mario chimes from the doorframe, “The Boss hates waiting.” Because this is bad, this is straight out of the movies could never fathom anything like this happening in real life bad.

Luigi is in front of Justin, leaned into him, his lips at Justin’s right ear. “It’s a miracle he’s giving so long to pay.”

“And for that, others would’ve been settled their debt.”

He begins to circle around him. “But not you, eh?”

“I guess push come to shove he can pawn off princess over there.”

And before I can even take offense Luigi stops having found himself back in front of Justin, and says, “I guess.” His voice is so steady it’s really quite creepy. The look on his face so scrutinizing… it’s fucking unnerving. “But The Boss doesn’t like sloppy seconds.”

Him punching Justin in the stomach though?

Enough to almost make me shit my pants.

Oh my God.

Everything just got unbelievably terrifying again.