There’s a knock on my door bright and early, and I groan, rolling out of bed and padding over to open it. As soon as I’ve got the lock undone, the door flies open and there’s Zayd waiting for me, one forearm leaning against the doorjamb. He’s dressed in a torn, black tank top with a zipper sewn diagonally across the side. Paired with white skinny jeans and boots, he looks like a punk rocker from the ‘90s—but in a good way.
"Morning Working Girl," he says, whistling as he pushes his way into my apartment and looks around. "Didn’t expect the Brothel to look this nice."
"The Brothel?" I ask, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I’m too tired to be angry about it. Too tired to be concerned about Zayd tromping around my room. He reaches up and touches the crystals on the chandelier, letting them clink together with a soft tinkling sound. "Really?"
"It’s what everyone calls your dorm," he says with a shrug of his shoulders, like it’s no big deal. "You ready or what?"
"Ready?" I ask, checking my phone. There’s a text from Zack: Let me know you made it back okay? I worry about you with Tristan Vanderbilt. Oops. I was so tired last night that I forgot to check my phone. Plopping down on the edge of my bed, I send a quick response to let him know that I’m fine. "It’s seven-thirty in the morning."
"Long drive to the casino," Zayd says, turning to look at me. I keep my eyes on my phone, but I can feel his gaze burning into me like fire. When I lift my attention to his face, I see him studying my legs and realize with a start that I’m not wearing anything but panties and a tank top.
"Jesus Christ," I blurt as Zayd laughs, the sound following me into the bathroom as I slam the door closed and yank on the jeans from last night. When I open the door again, he’s still howling with laughter. "How long of a drive?" I ask, hoping to distract him. It almost works, but I notice his eyes are still lingering on my denim-clad legs.
"Dunno. Never been there before." He pulls his phone out, glances at the screen, and then taps out a text with his thumb before glancing back up again. As I browse through my other messages, I feel a pang inside my chest at one from my dad. I’m really sorry, honey. Please call me. My anger’s long-faded, and even though his words ring in my head—you forgive too easily—I decide I’ll give him a call today, see how his out-of-town gig is going.