That night I return home with the squeaky door closing behind me.

At three AM, it's dark in this apartment, with streetlights shining through the blinds in stripes across the living room. The mustard-colored sectional takes up most of the space, with a rustic coffee table and a flat-screen TV in front of it. I try imagining Angie sitting on the cushions with legs propped and an ankle crossed over the other. Did she snoop through my things? And how did she get in?

The succulents sitting on the built-in bench in front of the window are undisturbed. Which means she didn't use the fire escape. But Angie is a clever woman—one with resources, so my eyes drift to the file still sitting on the dining table.

So, I walk over and snatch it.

If there's anyone who can get more information on Richie Reddy, it's probably her and I need to prepare myself for whatever plans this son-of-a-bitch has because I am not getting ambushed.

As tired as I am, I pour two fingers of rum from the minibar across the dining table. My apartment is small, with the kitchen and living room being one space, and a short hallway leading to where the magic happens. Yet, as I stand between the table and bar, the place feels huge. Or maybe it's loneliness echoing off these walls? I'm still not used to coming home to no one. Maybe I should get a dog?

The rum swirls around the glass, coating it in a temporary amber hue before bringing it to my lips, but I pause. Would anyone even care if something happened to me?

Shaking my head, I push the wallowing away because it's not like me to throw such a pity party—especially all by myself. So instead, I guzzle the booze and open the folder. Nothing will happen to me because I won't let it.

An hour passes and half the bottle of rum is somehow empty as I go through every detail Angie collected. From medical records to dinner date receipts. She didn't just do her homework, she slept with the fucking teacher for extra credit because damn, I've learned things about my ex I wish I hadn't. Like the salacious relationship she had with her father's colleague at seventeen years old. And the scandal it caused at his work, leading to her father's resignation after he filed statutory rape charges. What bothers me more, is that she never told me. Did she not trust me? Was I not a safe place for her to unload her secrets? Because she knows all of mine. I trusted her with them.

And trust is the most important thing to me.

When I get to the end of the folder, I find a note with the handwritten words, call me.

Ok, Angie. I'll call you.

The screen is out of focus as I search for her name on my phone and when I finally find it, it's under, Psycho Killer, Run Away. It rings twice before I hear her sleepy voice.

"Hey, handsome. It's about time you nut-up."

"Angie, I... Need your help."

"Yeah, and why should I help you?" Noises in the background suggest she's shifting in bed and I bet she wears lingerie that barely covers her skin. I slap my forehead because I still need to get laid and the sound of her voice is going straight to my Johnson. "What will you do for me in return, handsome?"

"I won't kill your ex, so don't even start with that psycho shit."

"Sure, ok, whatever you say, but one of these days you'll agree."

"No. I won't."

"Right," she purrs, sending my mind back to the bathroom at Bruno's, and I shiver. "So tell me, what can I help you with?"

"I need information on a man named Richie Reddy." Her line goes silent for several beats, so I pull the phone into view, checking the connection. The timer is still ticking on the screen when she finally exhales a deep sigh.

"Why do you want information on him."

"I just do."

"Well, then we don't have a deal."

"Fine." I grip the phone. "He's Mindy's ex-husband and he threatened me tonight after I threw him out of the club."

"Richie Reddy is Mindy's ex?" she snorts.

"I'm getting the feeling you know him?"

"I know of him. And I know he's one bad dude. I'd steer clear."

"Does this mean you'll help me?"

"Maybe. What will you do for me in return?" she counters.

"Want to come over?"

"Be there in thirty," she says and the line goes goes dead for real this time.

I almost call her back to give her my address, but then I remember, she's been here before.

She even sat on my fucking couch.

∆∆∆

Dark curls cascade down Angie's back as she stands between the living room and kitchen, rotating slowly. She's only been here for all of two minutes yet her presence is filling the entire room like a sponge soaking up water. I roll my shoulders—preparing myself in case she lunges to attack. There's mischief in her eyes as she glides them over me.

"It's a lot smaller than I thought," she says.

"I thought you've been here before?"

"Me? No," she chuckles.

"But you knew the color of my couch."

"Doesn't mean I was here. I have my resources. As you can see..." She motions to the open folder on the coffee table. "Glad you finally read it."

"I'm not."

"Aw." She purses her lips. "Didn't like pulling the sheets back on your ex? Listen, handsome, it's better to know the truth than walk around oblivious. Now you can be angry for the right reasons and start healing. Move on."

"I have moved on."

"Have you?" She arches a brow. "Because you seem to hit the punching bag pretty hard for a man who's moved on."

"So now you're spying on me at work?"

"I don't have to. That's why I have sources and it's apparent you have daddy issues."

"Excuse me?"

"I may or may not have dug into your past too."

"And?"

"And your stepfather was a wife-beating asshole who was killed in self-defense one night."

"Yep. May he rest in peace."

"Do you rest in peace?"

"I sleep like a baby."

"You mean, you wake up every few hours crying, hungry, and need your nappy changed?"

"Funny."

"You know what is funny?" She taps her chin. "How your stepfather beat the ever-living fuck out of your mom's face to the point she was unconscious when the ambulance arrived, yet somehow she managed to bash the back of his head with a baseball bat... hm, interesting."

"Yep. Self-defense."

"At least that's what the police report says." She winks.

"Sure does."

"And lucky sixteen-year-old you got away with manslaughter."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I wasn't there."

"Right." She winks again. "Looks like you have sources too."

"Yeah, well now I need your sources," I say as I begin circling her. My hand grazes her lower back when I stop mid-stride and whisper in her ear, "So help me."

"You've been drinking, haven't you?" She swivels her head and narrows her gaze.

"Maybe."

"Most definitely." She side-steps and sizes me up. "Just the other day you stared at me as if I'm the devil and now you stare as if I'm wearing your lunch."

"You're attractive." I shrug.

"And you're drunk."

"A little buzzed, but not drunk."

"Mm-hm." She smirks and lifts the empty bottle of Flor de Caña from the table, examining it. "Interesting choice."

"I like rum from the Motherland." I shrug and she sets the bottle down, her piercing attention shifting back to me.

"So tell me, handsome, why did you ask me to come over?"

Those cold fingers of hers trace a line down my abdomen, causing it to flex. She grins before slipping them into my sweats—teasing as she swipes them back and forth across the elastic band. Her question is answered by the bulge growing in my jockeys and we both know exactly why I asked her over. Our eyes face off in a silent duel as we stare at one another. I dip my head, grazing her lips with mine, and then press firmly. This time her kiss tastes like peppermint but I bet mine is trash thanks to the booze.

"You're gonna regret this." She pulls away.

"Do you even care?"

"Nope. But you will."

"Are you wimping out on me?" I cock a brow.

"Never. I've already forgiven myself for past and future sins." Her cold hand drifts deeper into my sweats as she tugs my bottom lip with her teeth. "Now giddy-up, handsome. I'm gonna ride you until you're cross-eyed."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Like the go-getter she is, she takes my hand and leads the way to the bedroom. With every step, I convince myself this is a good idea and I'm just keeping my enemy close. Spies do it all the time.

With every step, I think about the warm wet feeling about to hug my dick.

But deep down, I know it's weaving me further in Angie's web.

Fuck.

I'm a moron.

But a moron who's about to get laid.