I lean against the rail as I speed toward the penthouse floor, willing the meal I had several hours ago to stay where it is. I imagine there isn’t much in my stomach, but vomiting would be more than I can handle. All I want is to lie down and not move for twenty-four hours, give or take a day.

I must nod off briefly, because between one long blink and the next I’m looking at the penthouse foyer. I’m woozy as I leave the elevator, and in my uncoordinated state I manage to lodge the end of my crutch in the stupid gap in the floor. I yank on it, which sends a violent shock of pain through my body, shorting out my brain and turning my vision into the Milky Way.

I groan a few expletives, and the crutch pulls free, causing me to stumble forward. I go down, because my brain and my body aren’t able to handle the level of pain I’m still in, despite the excessive amount of medication they pumped into me before sending me home—which should definitely tell me something about the severity of my injury.

My entire body breaks out in a cold sweat, and my stomach roils. I heave a couple of times but manage not to throw up. I lie in a heap on the floor for a few long seconds. I know it’s no longer than that because the elevator doors are still open.

My key card is lying on the ground, right over that stupid gap between the elevator doors. As they begin to slide closed, I roll over and try to grab the card. That movement causes another vicious spike of pain to shoot through my groin. I feel like my balls are going to rupture and explode. Through a haze of black and stars I can make out the edge of my key card. I catch it with the tips of my fingers and drag it toward me. The doors hit my hand, and I lose my grip. And my freaking key card drops down the narrow gap.

I don’t have to look down the hole to know my card is gone. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, my body covered in sweat, and breathe through the nausea.

This really isn’t my day. For a moment I think about my neighbor and the state she was in the first time I caught her out here in the hallway, with her broke-down suitcase and disheveled, slightly manic expression. I imagine I must look a lot like she did.

Eventually I drag myself into a sitting position. I arrange my crutches and slowly pull my body upright. Then I hobble pathetically over to my door. “Fuck,” I say to the sock hanging from the knob.

My brother has company, and this is his very sophisticated Bat-Signal. I rest my head against the door and knock. I’m unsurprised when he doesn’t answer. I also text but get no response. Usually on game nights I’m out pretty late, and I assume Nolan has decided to take advantage of that, despite my having talked to him about slowing down on the number of randoms he brings back here.

I need the key card to get in, and to obtain a new one I have to go back to the lobby. I don’t think I’m capable of making the trip at the moment, so I decide to wait out my brother’s company by taking a nap against the door.

CHAPTER 8

COUCH GUEST

Stevie

I don’t get back to my apartment until almost midnight. The dessert place we went to after the pub was licensed, so we drank spiked coffee and ate cake on the outdoor patio. I don’t have a client until ten tomorrow, so technically I can sleep in.

I’m greeted by an interesting sight when I reach the penthouse foyer. My jerkwad neighbor is propped against the door, a set of crutches lying next to him, head lolled awkwardly to the side. Maybe he lipped off to someone bigger than him and finally got the payback he deserves for being an ass. I smile at the thought.

The ding of the elevator doors doesn’t rouse him, so he must be out cold. I note the white tube sock dangling from the doorknob as I pass. In college, it was the universal symbol for Do Not Disturb. I thought he lived alone. Other than the endless stream of women, he’s the only person I’ve seen coming and going from his apartment.

I creep closer and grimace at the line of drool on his chin. I also notice what looks like a bruise on his left cheek. Maybe I’m right, and he did get into a fight. I consider leaving him out here, but if he has a concussion and dies as a result of a brain aneurysm, I’ll feel guilty. Also, I’ve never seen a dead body, and I don’t want to start now.

I knock on his door, hoping someone will hear me. No one answers after a full thirty seconds, so I try again, but still nothing. I kick Jerkwad’s foot, which in hindsight probably isn’t the best idea, considering the crutches.

He sucks in a gasping breath, and his lids flip open on a deep groan.

“Sorry about that,” I say.

He blinks a bunch of times and looks around, apparently confused. He groans again and touches the side of his face where the bruise is.

“You okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Fine. Took a nap.” He grabs the edge of the doorframe and tries to hoist himself up. Half a second later he’s back on the floor, this time lying on his side, one leg completely straight and the other one pulled up closer to his chest as he groans.

“You don’t seem fine.” As far as observations go, it’s a pretty obvious one.

It takes him a good minute of deep breathing, during which he breaks out in the sweats, before he can manage to right himself.

It’s getting awkward with how long it takes him to recover, so I do what anyone else would do in such a situation, despite his having been a huge asshole to me. “Can I help you get into your apartment? It might be more comfortable than sleeping out here in the hall.”

He clears his throat, but it doesn’t do anything to help with the gravelly quality of his voice. “I’m waiting for my brother’s company to leave.” He motions to the sock on the door.

“Is your place the sex pad or something?”

“Only when Nolan’s on a roll.”

Nolan must be the brother. “So he uses your apartment for sex?” That seems . . . awkward. More awkward than our underwear battle.

“He lives with me.”

“Oh.” Huh. Maybe I’m wrong about him being a womanizing douche. Maybe he just has the douche part covered.

“I’ll wait out here until his flavor of the night leaves, which will hopefully be soon.” He leans his head against the door and closes his eyes. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Almost midnight.”

He cracks a lid. “I’ve been out here for hours. I told him the sleepovers had to stop.”

“It’s nice that you’re willing to give him privacy for his fuckfest or whatever, but I think it’s safe to let yourself in at this point, don’t you?”

He flings a hand out in the direction of the elevator and lets it flop to the floor. “I lost my card down the shaft; otherwise I would’ve let myself in a long-ass time ago.”

Seeing him like this frames him in a different light. It doesn’t make me dislike him less, but I feel kind of bad for him. He’s obviously badly injured, and being stuck out here in the hall all night would suck a lot.

“Do you want to wait it out at my place until Screwpalooza is over? You’re more than welcome to lie here all night, but I don’t think it’s going to be comfortable, and considering how late it is, you may be here until morning. Unless you’d rather me help you back down to the lobby so you can get a new card.” He doesn’t look like he’s in any kind of shape to do more than lie there, but I figure I’ll give him options.