13. Michael

Michael

“ D amn it, Nutella! Get away from me!”

It was two-thirty in the morning and I’d just gotten home from a late shift at Sweet Cocktails. A vicious virus had made its way through my staff, and I was down to a skeleton crew right now. Olga’s cat had gotten into the habit of waiting for me by the door when I came home, presumably hearing the elevator dinging, and swiping at my ankles when I came through the door.

I’d gotten pretty good at thwarting Nutella’s attacks, but tonight I was exhausted from working a double shift, and the cat caught me unaware, his claws finding a sliver of bare skin between my pant leg and my shoe.

Even though Olga and Nutella had been living here for two months now, Nutella refused to warm up to me. I’d even tried bribing the little bastard, bringing him fish from the restaurant, and still he hated me. Olga assured me it wasn’t personal, but I still was determined to win the little furball over.

If he didn’t kill me first.

“What happened?”

I looked up from examining my ankle to see Olga in the hallway looking sleepy and adorably rumpled. She was wearing an old football jersey that hit her mid-thigh, and her usual wool socks. My girl always had cold feet. Um, I mean my friend always had cold feet. As I studied the jersey I felt a rush of something that felt like jealousy. Whose jersey was that? An ex-boyfriend?

“Nutella caught my ankle and drew blood,” I told her, still staring at her from where I was crouched on the floor. From this angle her bare legs looked a mile long.

“Oh my God! Nutella! You’re such a bad boy!” she scolded.

As her cat skulked off she grabbed my wrist, pulling me up to stand. “Go sit down in the kitchen, I’ll get the first aid kit.”

I started to tell her I was fine and not to worry, but I liked this caretaking side of Olga more than I wanted to admit. I obediently went into the kitchen, rolling my pant leg up and kicking off my shoe and below-the-ankle sock.

Olga returned with the first aid kit and gently lifted my leg up onto another chair, squatting down so she could get a good look at my scratch. A thin trail of blood oozed from the scratch.

“It doesn’t look too deep, but cat scratches get infected pretty easily,” she said, “I’m going to disinfect it.”

I was studying the dark hair that formed a curtain around her face instead of paying attention, so when the alcohol wipe touched the cut I jumped and hissed.

She placed a hand on my shin, and I felt a little zing where our skin touched.

“Don’t be a baby,” she said, but there was no sting behind her words, unlike the alcohol wipe which was stinging like crazy. “I’m almost done cleaning it.”

After she was satisfied that she’d killed any bacteria that had ever come into contact with my ankle, Olga applied a thin layer of antibiotic, then affixed a large band-aid. It took everything in me to avoid suggesting that she kiss my boo boo and make it better.

“There you go.”

She looked up at me from beneath her lashes and with her being on her knees, my filthy mind took off on a path it shouldn’t go down. I felt my dick twitch at her nearness and hastened to put my foot back on the floor before I popped a boner right in front of her like a randy teenager.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” I said, my voice husky.

“It’s the least I can do after bringing my crazy cat into your home.”

Our eyes met and held, the air seeming to heat up around us. My desire for this woman coursed through my body, warring with the knowledge that I was firmly in the friend zone with her. I was desperately in love with her, but there was no way I was going to ruin our friendship or make her comfortable.

Even though having her in my space was a unique form of torture, I loved living with her. We were compatible, had a lot of fun with each other when we spent time together, and other than her asshole cat, we had the perfect thing going here.

Although maybe it would be even more perfect if we could take things to the next level. If only I knew if that was something she was interested in…

I cleared my throat and stood up, then quickly looked away as I realized I was standing in front of Olga while she was still on her knees. Desperate to get away before she realized that I was starting to get hard, I turned to the side and reached behind me to give her a hand up, then started moving out of the room.

“I’ve got to go to bed,” I said, my voice sounding weird to my own ears. “Good night, Olga.”

“Good night, Mikey,” she said softly, a thread of confusion in her voice.

I raced off to my bedroom, tore off my clothes, then I got into bed and fucked my hand until my dick got soft enough to go to sleep. When I fell asleep, I dreamed about Olga on her knees in my kitchen.

I went to work Thursday, and there was no sign of Olga or her damned cat when I got home from my shift around one in the morning on Friday. Assuming they were already in bed, I headed into my bedroom. When I woke up late Friday morning, I knew instantly that something wasn’t right in the apartment. I couldn’t say why, but I just had a feeling that something was wrong.

After taking a leak, I headed into the main living area. Nothing was amiss, so I turned on the coffee pot. Then I noticed that Olga’s fancy travel mug was still by her espresso maker. Every night she set out her cup by the coffee maker, and not once in all the time she’d lived here had she forgotten it. Olga was fanatical about her coffee.

I headed down the hallway on the other side of the apartment, listening carefully. I didn’t come down this way very often – wanting to give Olga privacy – but I knew that she kept the door open at night so Nutella could come and go. Olga’s door was partway open and through the doorway I could see her curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, Nutella sleeping right by her butt.

After a few seconds of debate, I decided to wake her up.

“Olga!” I called. “I think you’re late for work.”

She stretched her legs out and groaned. “Not going. Sick.”

She sounded terrible. I didn’t hesitate to push my way into the room to her bedside.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, crouching down so I could see her face.

Her face was flushed like she had a fever, and what I could see of her skin looked clammy. She opened one eye, then the other, and seemed to focus on me with difficulty.

“Dunno,” she mumbled, her voice scratchy. “I’m cold. But sweaty. I feel like I ate glass, then got run over by a truck.”

“Oh my God.” I placed the back of my hand against the skin of her forehead. She was burning up. “I think you caught what all my employees had.”

Even though I didn’t do it on purpose I immediately felt guilty about bringing home germs and getting her sick. I wasn’t normally a worrier, but seeing Olga like this was freaking me out.

“I never get sick,” she sighed, closing her eyes again.

“Does your boss know you’re not coming in?” I asked as I heard her phone vibrate against the nightstand.

She frowned. “Boss?” she asked, like she’d never heard the word.

She curled back into a tight little ball. Over her hip, Nutella narrowed his eyes and hissed at me.

I grabbed her phone off the bedside table and disconnected it from the charger.

“Isn’t Mark your boss?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“He’s texted you five times, is it okay if I send him a message and let him know that you’re not coming in?” I asked, scanning the first few words on the latest message that flashed on her home screen. “It looks like he’s worried about you.”

“Uh huh,” she mumbled.

I held her phone up in front of her face to unlock it, then fired off a text to her boss letting him know that Olga was in bed sick and giving him my phone number in case he needed it.

“Okay, Mark knows you’re going to be out today,” I said. “I’m going to get you some water and medicine, okay?”

Her only response was a pained groan.