Page 43 of When the Walls Come Down
I’d just finished a glass of water when I heard a sound coming from her apartment, but I couldn’t quite make it out. It might have been voices, but I couldn’t tell if it was her talking or the television. It wasn’t my intention to eavesdrop, but I missed her, and if things had gone my way that day, we would have been laughing and teasing each other over drinks and dinner and then I would be buried inside her by now.
In comparison, it was complete and utter bullshit.
So maybe I was being nosy. Maybe I was snooping and wandering into a dangerous territory in regard to her personal space, but I needed to hear her voice if anything. I just wanted to feel a little closer than we were.
I slid the door to the balcony open, the cool wind slapping me as I leaned out. I was right. I’d heard voices, but it wasn’t her talking or the television. She was listening to music.
The situation wasn’t ideal—especially because her taste in music wasn’t exactly what I’d pick, but maybe it could give me a few clues as to where her head was at. For crying out loud, we were both smart. Capable. Adults. We could figure out a way to make this work—and not just at work, but here too.
But, fuck, I hated that damn balcony. With its glass railing and sixteenth-story views, it felt like a death trap. Having a healthy respect for my own mortality, I avoided it at all costs.
But Maggie was out there.
And I really wanted to know what the hell that woman was listening to.
Curiosity had killed the cat, and I was about to be next.
Carefully, I army crawled out onto the terrace and tucked myself into the corner farthest from the ledge where I could get a better listen.
Was that…
No. Not Maggie Peach Light Gray Italian.
She said she didn’t like country. That it was a Southern stereotype, and I remember how she felt about those. However, over the traffic below and the buzz of the nightlife downtown, I unmistakably heard Garth Brooks’s “The Dance.”
I smiled to myself. That liar. That beautiful, headstrong, hell-bent liar.
With my back literally against the wall, I listened to the lyrics and how every so often she’d sing along. She sounded like a mule, not even a little bit good, but I think I liked that even more than if she’d been a songbird.
“My neighbor doesn’t listen to country,” I said when the song finished. “I suggest you get out of her apartment before she catches you. If you think when the police find you you’ll be in trouble, they’ve got nothing on the spitfire who lives next door. She’s a kickboxer.”
It was quiet and another song didn’t start, so I was absolutely certain she’d heard me.
“She sings along to country sometimes. You know, like, when she’s had a bad day. Besides, Garth is a crossover artist. Everyone knows that.”
We’d both had a shit-ton thrown at us—and it was only Monday. Also, I really, deep down fucking hated hearing she’d had a bad day. It should have been one of her best days. Starting her dream job and everything she’d been working for coming to fruition. And when everything boiled right down to it, none of this was either of our faults. We didn’t have to pit ourselves against each other.
Especially here. At our homes. After hours.
What we needed after a day like today was some companionship and a friend. Fuck it, if it had to be through a wall sixteen stories up, then so be it.
“You call that singing, Peach?”
“I’ll have you know I went to state in high school for chorus.”
“Was it the Georgia State Penitentiary? Because that makes sense.” I chuckled lightly, happy as fuck that the tone she was using had that Friday night feel. That I can take shit as well as I dish it out flare. “I didn’t see any prison time on your résumé. I suppose maybe it was part of the prisoner’s sentence? Seems kinda like cruel and unusual punishment to me.”
“Shut up. I was just getting warmed up.”
“By all means, don’t let me stop you. What’s next on the crossover-not-just-country playlist? Shania? Too bad you don’t have a tip jar.”
She laughed outright and relief streaked through my veins. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
After a few minutes, I heard her chair screech across the concrete, and then I almost shit myself when a little metal bucket flew over the wall, narrowly missing my head. It was tied to a bathrobe belt.
“Ow!” I exclaimed falsely.
“Shit, did that hit you?”
I held my chuckle back. “I’ll be okay. I’m tough. Remember the guns. I’m basically Rambo. So, this is your tip jar?”
“You gotta work with whatcha got, big guy.”
I got on my hands and knees, avoiding that glass railing at all costs, and crept back into my apartment, knowing just the thing to send it back over with. In seconds, I had the items I needed. Placing them in the four-inch-or-so-deep bucket, I gave it a tug. “It’s all yours.”
