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Bar?"
    All I can think is shit...I've met half the damn world at Modo's.
    "You left with a friend of mine? Uhm...Shane?"  He looks so hopeful.  As if I'll remember a name.  I go out of my way to avoid names.  It'd be easier if he gave me some identifying details of the guy's body instead, like tats or earrings.  Maybe a severely broken nose or obvious scars.  Any details that would be useful in a line-up would work for me too.
    I already know that this little discussion is going to go sideways on me.  I either hooked up with my new, hottie-neighbor's friend, or I turned him down.  That can only mean that my hottie neighbor is about to classify me as either a slut or a bitch. 
    I'm disappointed already.  With a body like Aidan's, I was hoping he was going to say I'd hooked up with him a year ago, and that he wanted to help me remember.  I can think of at least five different positions that might jar my memory.  And then, five more, if those didn't work. 
    "Sorry," I say.  So sorry...and in more ways than one.  "I don't remember him."
    "No big deal," Aidan shrugs with a grin.  The moment is broken with a ring from my cell, located somewhere inside my apartment...wherever I dropped it last night.  I'd ignore it, except that this particular ringtone sounds like glass shattering and the sound is reflected in my spine every time I hear it.  I wince.
    "Well, nice talking with you," I say and I duck back into my apartment. 
    Before I close the door, I catch his smile.  Warm, genuine, incredibly sexy.
    "You too," he says as I shut him out.
    The glass shatters again.  I scout the room in a frenzy, overturning couch cushions and looking under the coffee table, before I trace the sound back to the kitchen sink.  I pick up the phone as it shatters a third ring inside the basin.
    "You there, Lyddle?" A deep voice asks.  The name makes me quiver against my will.  It radiates out of my spine and it's hard to tell, even for me, if I hate it or if it totally turns me on.  He started calling me Lydie first, and then he switched to Lyddle.  It's exactly how he's always made me feel.
    "I'm here," I say.  I step over to the coffee pot and refill my cup.  "What do you want?"
    "I was wondering if I could see you."  His voice is as professional and detached as a physician calling with bad news.
    I swing open my kitchen cupboard and take down the bottle of Jack.  Only about an inch of liquor left in this bottle, I slosh it into my cup.  Swirl it.  Take a burning gulp. 
    "I thought we agreed that wasn't a good idea," I say.  He chuckles, as if I have no idea about what is good or bad.
    "I never agreed and I think it's a fabulous idea.  We just need to talk."
    "We never just talk.  And it hasn't even been a week, Desmond."
    "But I miss you," he says, a soft hook on the end of his words.  He knows I'll come.  I hate that.  "Don't forget to bring your portfolio."
    I only forgot once, but he's reminded me every single time ever since, like a newspaper on the nose.  I take another good slug of my begin-the-buzz breakfast, swallow it down and say, "Alright. Where?"
    "My place."
    " Your place..."
    "Don't be like that," he says, but he drops his voice to a thick and sexy timbre that disguises the reprimand.  He really wants me to come.  That alone tingles.  "We need to talk .  Do you need me to insist, Lyddle?  Is that what you want?"
    " Alright --I said alright."  Tiny grains of hope spin inside me, they always do, no matter how absurd they are.  I still frown the response and hang up.  If he catches a whiff of my hopes, he'll only smash them.  He does it every time.
    I take the last gulp of my straight-black-and-hammered and straighten my shoulders.
    "Alright," I tell myself.
     
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    There is a knock on my door at the worst possible moment.  I can't find my rings. 
    I pull on my suit coat and check my pockets, but those damn rings are still missing.  I ignore the knock and keep searching, feeling