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I drank Hot Boy in, with a fondling gaze, his deep green eyes, drawing me forward for a taste. He'd asked if I live here and right now, I was glad that I did.

"Yeah."

"Small world." He extended his hand toward me. "Sam…Sam Evans."

His hand squeezed mine.

Smooth palms and long fingers.

I bit my bottom lip, to hold in a sigh.

What in the living hell is wrong with me?

Maybe, he'd let me get him out of my system. Maybe, even tonight.

"Mercedes Jones. First floor...Apartment 1A."

"Mercedes," he began, "I remember you."

His eyes darted down to my scrubs and supportive shoes and I felt frumpy. Not at all sexy.

Not that he'd thought I was last night, either, with my tight jeans and low-cut top.

"You work at the University hospital?"

"Nope, the nursing home, on Hamilton Street."

He paused, like he was considering what to ask next.

His hot intense eyes, drilled through my layers, inspecting me for any underpinnings of truth. I decided to fill in some of the blanks for him.

"I'm taking college courses at Turner State, to become an RN. Working on the side, helps pay the bills. How about you?"

"Art major at the university. Got a year left. In the meantime, I work at Raw Ink on Vine Street."

I was more than familiar with that tattoo parlour. I'd been in the owner's bed, a couple months ago. Matt was built, inked up, and just the right amount of bad boy I'd needed for the night.

"I take it, you're a tattoo artist, then?"

Holy Mother of God! This man just got hotter. I looked at his arms, but saw no tell-tale signs.

"I'd think you'd have some tats on you."

My fingers slid over the back of my ear, near the tattoo I'd gotten, when I'd turned eighteen and finally escaped my mother's house.

He'd probably think it was amateurish at best.

"Nah, just a couple of well-placed ones."

His cheeks pinched into a grin and he looked down at his feet, almost shy about it.

His teeth were perfectly white and straight...and mesmerizing.

"Sometimes less is more, you know?"

'And sometimes more is more.'

My eyes roved over his stacked biceps and down the front of his jeans.

Having a fuck buddy in the same apartment building, could prove to be interesting…or a disaster.

I needed to reel it the hell in and remind myself, that this guy is not interested in me. Yet.

"Okay, gotta run," I said. "Good luck moving in."

I eyed his friend, who stood on the grass texting someone and I started to consider, whether he'd be a good prospect as well.

"Are you guys big partiers? This building is on the quiet side."

"Nope. Last night, was the extent of the kind of partying I do. And it's only me moving in up there." Woah! Sam was moving in...alone.

'Calm yourself, woman. He's...not...interested.' He turned back to the truck.

"See you later," I called, and walked off. I had to restrain myself from glancing back, more than once, to see if he was watching me.

He wasn't.

Disappointment and indifference, waged a war in my chest, as I saw my workplace appear in my line of vision.

Work was busy that day, between med counts, feedings, and bed changes and sometimes, I felt like a glorified chamber maid.

Some of the elderly were downright nasty...were probably always nasty, even before they became sick.

And then, there were gems like Mrs. Jackson. I'd become accustomed to seeing her kind eyes and soft wrinkles every day, for the last year.

I knew better than to get too close to the residents, because I'd said my share of good-byes, usually to empty bed sheets and untouched trays of food.

I wasn't really one to build emotional connections anyway.

But Mrs. Jackson, had somehow, broken through my barrier and befriended me. If I was being honest, she reminded me of my grandma, who died when I was twelve.

Feisty, strong-willed, and never minced words.

The total opposite of my mother.

No wonder, we seemed to understand each other pretty well.

"Is that a smile I see on your face?" she asked, as I entered with the extra pillow she'd requested. She could always read me well.

I'd just been thinking about Hot Boy Sam, living in my building.

"I wasn't smiling," I said, placing the pillow behind her neck. "You're imagining it."

"Mmm-hmm...Then why are your cheeks flushed?"

"Now you're just dreaming," I said, filling her glass with fresh water. "I think the meds are affecting your brain."

"Don't you play with me, girl," she said in her spirited way.

The bronze fingers of her good hand, reached for my arm. I bet she was a pistol, a force to be reckoned with, in her day.

"It looked like you were thinking about a man."

"No way. Never. Boys are stupid."

"Not all of them," she tossed back.

It was the same conversation, on different day.

Mrs. Jackson had a doting husband, who'd visited her every single afternoon, since she'd been admitted after her stroke.

He usually brought a fresh bouquet of flowers, or a Snickers...her favorite candy bar.

She doesn't have good use of her right arm or leg, but she's still lucid and appreciates every visit, unlike many of the other patients, who are riddled with dementia, or Alzheimer's.

"Unfortunately, you got the last remaining good guy, in the entire universe," I said, moving towards the door. "There are no more available. Maybe, I'll have to steal him from you."

"I may be old and sick, but I'd tackle you to the ground and fight you for him." I chuckled heartily.

"I believe you would, Mrs. Jackson," I said, waving. "I believe you would."

I loved our banter, it was the best part of my day.

Mrs Jackson was in residence, because her husband could no longer care for her, due to his own medical problems.

After her stroke, she'd needed around-the-clock care, which included feeding, changing, medication management, and physical therapy for her weakened limbs.

Her children were grown with lives of their own, and Mrs. Jackson had hinted, that she'd never burden them.

They visited her once a week and you felt the affection rolling off them in waves.

From snippets of conversations I'd heard, they had all offered to take her into their own homes, but she fought them tooth and nail. Told them they couldn't afford to lose their jobs, or provide for all her needs.

Since her admission, Mrs. Jackson has also had two smaller strokes, called TIA's .

Hopefully they wouldn't lead to the big one…the mother of all strokes, anytime soon. I'd sure as hell miss her around here.

I haven't seen Hot Boy Evans, since he'd moved in...outside of the one occasion, I brought my laundry up to the fifth floor, for old times' sake.

I'd heard hammering behind his door and figured, he was affixing something to a wall…maybe a poster of a hot girl, with blonde hair and long legs, the exact opposite of me.

I knew going up there, in the first place, was a bad idea, too stalkerish...even for me, so, after transferring my clothes to the dryer, I hightailed it out of there, setting a reminder on my phone, to check back again, in an hour's time.

Except, I fell asleep reading my nursing textbook, and by the time I rushed out of the elevator, to retrieve my clothes, I spotted Sam pulling my red lace bra, from the dryer.

"Planning on stealing my unmentionables, for your private viewing pleasure?"

Sam froze, with my D cup dangling from his fingers, his expression unreadable, except for a twitch in his jaw.

If this beautiful man could remain unaffected by sexy lingerie, then all hope for us was lost.

He had on a pair of cut-off khaki shorts, and I couldn't help, but to scan down his toned legs, to his calves, which were rock hard.

He turned towards me, a lopsided smirk hanging from his lips.

"This belongs to you, huh?"

"It does," I said.

I noticed, how he took in my shorts and pink heart T-shirt, his eyes lingering on my breasts, as if imaging me in that same bra.

"Care to borrow it…or maybe you want to see it on display?"

"Now that would be a sight." My cheeks became inflamed. Was Hot Boy's flirting voice, finally rearing its sexy head?

"Why are you doing your laundry all the way up here?"

"Habit, I picked up...while your place was vacant. The guy across from you, is never home, and the machine on my floor is always broken," I said, smoothing my hands down the front of my shirt.

I noticed how his eyes carefully followed my fingers.

"So, why were you picking through my things?" This is where Hot Boy Evans became flustered. He looked so cute.

"I…uh…you…" He ruffled his fingers through his hair. "I was waiting to dry my clothes and I figured I'd just move these aside, until the owner retrieved them."

"Okay, sorry about that. You have every right to do what you did...the machine is for your uses, not mine."

I inched closer and noticed the stubble on his chin. It made him look more rugged, and less clean-cut jock.

"I fell asleep reading about the finer points of infectious diseases."

"That would be hard to stay awake for. My textbooks aren't much better. Especially the Impressionist period."

His eyes scanned my short legs and stomach before, landing squarely on my eyes.

"I wouldn't take you for a nursing student."

"Really? What kind of student, then?" I leaned against the washer and inhaled his faint scent of coconut.

This one ought to be good. Not sure why his pause made my palms sweat, but it did.

"Um, I don't know. A business or marketing major, something more…" He trailed off and scratched the back of his neck, looking at the wall behind me.

"More what?" What did Hot Boy really think of me? Maybe I should've just been happy, he was thinking of me at all.

"More aggressive…cutthroat, I guess."

My face fell.

Right there, he was telling me, he knew I was after him, the other night. And somehow, I hated what he saw in me.

I did not go after guys.

They went after me.

But, he thought I was some sort of predator. And that made me want to prove to him wrong.

I didn't care about guys. None of them.

And I certainly didn't care what they thought of me. Except for now.

"Nope."

I pushed off the washer and moved passed him, to my clothes, my hip brushing against leg, and my knees almost buckled.

I hauled my undies and bras out, at supersonic speed, wanting to get the hell away from him and how he made me feel.

"Guess I've got a soft spot for the sick and vulnerable," I mumbled.

"That's admirable."

His voice was velvety soft, almost like a whisper.

It rumbled up my spine, to my hairline and I almost shivered against it.

I didn't say anything in response, because my mouth had trouble forming words, at that very moment.

"So, um, anyway, sorry for touching your stuff," he said, straightening himself.

I could feel his body directly behind mine, and the heat rolling off him.

Normally I'd have a seductive, or smart-ass retort for his comment, but nothing came.

I left the dryer opened and slinked passed him, to the elevator, pushing the down button a little too aggressively.

"Good night," he called.

When the rickety doors squeaked closed behind me, I let out the breath I had been holding.

A scraping sound woke me, out of a dead sleep.

I blinked at the ceiling, trying to get my bearings.

The noise was coming from directly outside my bedroom window.

Shadows played across the blinds and I saw the outline of a head and shoulders. My stomach seized right up.

Somebody was trying to break in, trying to pry open the glass.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears, and my fingers slid like sludge, toward my phone on the nightstand.

But the rest of my body was cemented in place. I couldn't move, as sheer terror enveloped me and held me captive.

Was this person going to rob me or rape me?

My breath shot out in sputtering gasps.

I'd taken self-defense courses three times, over the last couple of years and knew how to respond in this type of situation.

All I needed to do, was reach for my phone and dial 911, then run like hell out my front door.

But for some reason, I couldn't get my body unstuck.

I'd been in a similar, heightened, state of danger, when I was sixteen and had fought back.

This was the exact reason, why I kept my self-defense training sharp.

So why wasn't I able to respond now?

Living on the first floor of this apartment building, hadn't been my first choice, as a female resident, but it was my only choice at the time.

The sound of my window popping and sliding open, forced my heart to jam into my throat, and I gagged on my own saliva.

All of a sudden, I heard a deep voice shouting from outside.

"What the hell are you doing? Get away from that window. I'm calling the cops."

Then, there was a scuffling sound, a loud clunk, and then heavy grunting.

All I could gather is, that whoever was at my window, had dropped to the ground and started running.

I heard that same voice from before, yell,

"Son of a bitch! You're not getting away with this!"

Then, I heard panting, like he was in pursuit of whoever, had been about to break in. And still I was glued to my bed, my chest painfully throbbing, from breathing so damn hard.

Next, there was a voice beneath my window.

"Mercedes…are you in there? Are you okay? It's Sam…from the fifth floor."

I hadn't seen Sam in a few days, not since the dryer incident.

What the hell was he now doing outside my window?

I finally snapped out of it and bolted upright.

The relief I felt, caused my breaths to slide out of me.

"Y…yes, I'm here."

"Someone was trying to break in through your window. I called the police." He paused, breathing hard.

I imagined him bent at the waist, or leaning against the brick wall.

"I'm coming around the front. Can you open your door?" he asked.

Holy shit! My legs were wobbly, and I struggled to stand up.

Sam had run off the intruder. But what the hell had I done to help myself? Not a goddamn thing.

I could've been robbed, or raped…or killed, even. So much for taking care of myself.

Dammit! I didn't want to be saved…I wanted to knock that motherfucker out myself. And I didn't…couldn't.

"Mercedes?"

Now, Sam was at my door, his voice low, his knock gentle.

I hope this was worth your time. Stay safe and stay blessed.