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11. Hayden

ELEVEN

HAYDEN

"Can't we just hire movers?" I grumble, stepping into the elevator. Cramped and overdue for a cleaning, it hardly fits two people, which could be said about the rest of Juliana's apartment complex—and I've only seen the lobby.

She shakes her head, hitting the third floor. "I'm not paying for that."

Concerned for my designer jeans, I shy away from the dingy wall, brushing up against her. But I regret it immediately, as her rosy shampoo floats through my nostrils, right up to my brain. Who knew a girl in a ponytail, yoga pants, and an oversized Star Wars T-shirt could prove so distracting.

When the elevator opens, she practically bolts from my vicinity. Not that I mind, as I trail her down the narrow hallway, appreciating the way her hips sway in her tight pants. Like a man spellbound, I watch shamelessly, until the thought of Jeremy ruins everything, specifically his fist slamming between my eyes. Suddenly, the vinyl flooring and chipped paint on the walls are really interesting.

"I could pay for it," I say, when she stops at a door. "Just like I paid for the movers who cleared out your new room, which has an incredible view, by the way." Her brows lift curiously, only to furrow when I mumble, "Though, not as good as my room."

She scoffs, sinking her key into the lock. "Even if you did pay, I don't want strangers touching my things. I have valuables, just so you know. Nothing I want broken out of carelessness... Besides, I already rented a U-Haul."

The snarky response I had primed and ready rockets right back down my windpipe. She's going to drive a U-Haul? In the city? Knowing I'll likely be her unwilling passenger, dread washes over me, but not as much as when she opens the door, unveiling a nightmare I'm instantly wishing to wake from.

Three words sum it up quite nicely.

Nerd. Shit. EVERYWHERE .

Cyberpunk posters on the walls. Retro gaming consoles that I can't put names to sitting comfortably inside glass cases. A decked-out PC, sporting—

"You gonna help, or just stand there in the doorway?"

Juliana's sass drags me from my fixation, as I note the hand propped on her hip and the heap of empty boxes stacked beside her.

Great.

The door swings shut on my entrance, followed by a loud thud. Blinking, I look past the total nerd haven and take the apartment in as a whole—if I could even call it that. Sure, studios are quite common in dense cities like New York City, but I didn't know they came this small.

The whole room is much longer than it is wide and can't be more than a hundred square feet, utilizing the precious space down to the last foot. Floating shelves mark the walls, tiny cabinets stack up to the ceiling, and a two-person couch stands next to a Murphy hideaway bed that folds out into the kitchenette.

This place is even tinier than her mom's growing up. Sick bile rises up my throat, full of sympathy and anger, and suddenly I can't move her into my place fast enough.

"Enough with the pitiful looks, Mr. Judgy. I happen to like my apartment just the way it is." Against all odds, pride flows from her, putting a damper on my emotions.

I tilt my head, examining with a new perspective. Aside from the nerdish knickknacks, there's a certain charm to the space, similar to her bedroom back home. A deliberate arrangement of furniture accented by aesthetic blends of pinks and purples, forming a moody vibe with a surprising amount of natural light.

A large bin gets shoved into my hands.

"Chop, chop."

I press my lips into a thin line. Defiant pride or not, she's still coming home with me.

Four hours later, I've carried more overly stuffed bins than I cared to count down to the U-Haul, effectively aging my lower back at least thirty years, and we're not even finished yet. Almost, but a few stragglers remain.

Her couch. A nightstand. Several lamps. Miscellaneous bathroom and kitchen essentials. And, most notably, the beast that is her computer. To clarify, I don't mean her laptop, although I wish that were the case. I'm referring to the geeky battle station over in the corner, in front of the apartment's only window, fading an array of RBG lights in and out like alluring breath.

"How do we go about packing this monstrosity?"

"Huh...?" Her voice breaks through the clattering of pots and pans. "Oh, that'll go very last."

I approach with caution, as if one misstep might disrupt the quiet hum of the tower, or scrabble the indiscernible lines of code displayed across three monitors. But I quickly think better of it; there's not a wire in sight for me to mess up. With a shrug, I sink into her girly, pink gaming chair, and study the gibberish some more, unable to deduce a splinter of meaning.

"Really? You want to wait? This seems... important."

"It is." Her voice comes up beside me, the sound pleasant in my ears. "It needs to have maximum run-time, so we'll pack it last and set it up first."

I squint, noting a section of green code vertically zooming up the screen, seemingly writing itself. An automation, of some sort. And here I am, Hayden Kingston, player of players, the smooth operator—or the rake of New York City, as my friends like to say—debating whether to ask about code.

C.O.D.E...

There's no valid explanation, except that I fell on our last trip to the truck. Or that it came from her fingertips, so I have no such restraint.

"This, right here." I point at the moving part. "What in the world is that?"

She sucks in a breath, then hesitates. "You really want to know?"

No! my internal instincts scream in my head, that'd normally steer me into acting unimpressed and subtly demeaning her little project. But instead, like some pussy-whipped amateur, I nod.

Her eyes light up instantly, and when she flashes the most genuine smile I've seen since storming back into her life, my heart contracts.

"That's a Python script. It handles quite a few things, actually. Namely, running Cosmic Kitty Defense's servers. So, things like user authentication, error handling, ensuring players are on the most up-to-date version, stuff like that."

I nibble on my lower lip, suddenly a clueless date for the second time in twenty-four hours. "So... that's why it's so important?"

"Mhmm," she hums. "Without it running, users couldn't connect and play."

"Which is what moving will do."

"Correct. But I have a solution. Which reminds me..." Her hands fly onto the keyboard, her body half-way craning over mine. My teeth sink into my bottom lip on a sharp breath.

Maybe there are perks to being an amateur...

"I host my own server because it's cheaper, but I can move it to a cloud hosting service temporarily..." Her nails click-clack along the keys, the movement jiggling her ass cheeks ever-so slightly. I don't hear half of what she's saying as the light streaming in through the window illuminates her body like a tempting feast.

"Oh, really?"

She hums again. "I bought cloud space yesterday and even scheduled the code for the move, but the cloud server has lower RAM than my own hosting, so players might experience some lag..."

Whether she notices her compromising position or not, she arches farther, reaching for the mouse. The front of her shirt droops toward the floor, granting a delicious view of her stomach. My lip flops out, my mind turning up utterly blank, when I catch a pair of twin diamond studs sparkling back at me.

Blood rushes straight to my groin. When did she get her belly button pierced?

Thick with arousal, I clear my throat, speaking directly to her backside. "How will you deal with that?" I scoot to the edge of the chair, concealing my raging hard-on beneath the table.

She sighs deeply, grazing her thigh against my forearm, which glues to the armrest with an ironclad grip. "There's not much of a fix, aside from sending an email to my newsletter subscribers about it, which is what I need to do now, before we finish packing."

Keep her talking, keep her talking...

"Wow, that's impressive. How many people are on your email?"

"A couple thousand."

Honestly impressed, my eyebrows raise, but not as much as when her shirt slips farther. I cock my head to the side, like a hungry voyeur in a window who finds something he likes with just the right angle. Juliana's bra is lacy and blushy pink, almost as flush as the top half of her breasts spilling out of the fabric.

At this point, I'm ready to drop to my knees before her and beg, if only she asked, seeing as every flick of her wrist, every tap against the keyboard, sends those perfect tits swaying, pressing my cock harder against my zipper. I shift in my chair, relieving some pressure, only for her to laugh about something I can't even register anymore. The convulsions bounce her breasts harder, exposing the slightest sliver of her nipple.

God, help me.

I grind my teeth, all but failing to block out the images running rampant through my mind. Flashes of Juliana bent over this very table, the waistband of her yoga pants cinched around her thighs and ponytail wrapped tightly around my fist. With every thrust, I bury my cock deeper, tug her hair harder, until she's staring wide-eyed at the sky, moaning something precious on her tongue. Something I can't accurately put a sound to and now crave so desperately to hear...

My name.

My name on those sweet lips, overcome with ecstasy. She could name her price— any price— and I'd write the check right now to hear it, just this once. All she'd have to do is hand me the pen—

"That should do it."

At the exact moment she pushes off the table, I whip my head back to where it belongs, scoot my chair forward, and sit up straight, hiding my situation from her view. Testosterone still rages through my veins when our eyes connect, hers with a na?ve innocence as her shirt falls back into place.

What the hell is going on? Since when has a little cleavage made me as hard as a rock?

Noting my cramped position, she cocks an eyebrow, but before she can question it, I slip on my signature smirk, the one I know gets under her skin.

"I, uh..." She blushes, swiping a lock behind her ear. "Hope I didn't bore you to death."

I wink, holding our eye contact without wavering, a glimpse of my fantasy resurfacing when her blush deepens. "Not at all."

I stalled for ten whole minutes before you-know-what went down, by rightfully complaining about my aching joints and muscles. Yet, I'm still rocking a semi-chub and avoiding thinking or looking in Juliana's general direction at all costs, while collecting the final things from her now nearly barren apartment.

Aside from her computer, the final items we've yet to collect lie behind a skinny pantry door, next to the oven. I twist the knob, swing the door open, and—

I freeze midway. Uh... Okay, not a pantry.

Creaking the door fully open, that dread pools into me once again, as I stare at no more than twenty shirts hung on a tiny rod. This is her closet? Everything she slips onto her back in the morning fits in here? I take in the tiny space that can hardly accommodate for my size, noting the mini dresser and the three pairs of shoes slotted underneath.

The longer I look in silence, I expect an oncoming wave of anger. But one never comes. Only sickness. And the insatiable need to wire transfer every last cent from my checking account into hers. I would, right this instant, if I didn't know her so well. Her pride would never allow it, which means I'll have to get crafty.

In due time.

With a solemn expression, I pack her clothes, each Legend of Zelda, Pokémon, and Lord of the Rings T-shirt lifting the corners of my lips a little higher, until I can't seal them any longer. "Think you need another graphic tee?" I tease.

Her response is immediate. "Only if you buy another pair of yacht shoes to match."

My jaw drops and defenses shackle high. What a garbage stereotype. Does it look like I'm on a yacht right now? I'll answer that. No, I'm not, because I'm stuck here breaking my back in a concrete prison. And even though Daddy's Money is my sole identifier, that doesn't mean I can't wear something more refined and sophisticated like a pair of...

I look down, finding my feet adorned in navy suede and leather laces.

Shit.

Eyes bulging, I whip a one-eighty. "Hey, I didn't pack up your entire apartment on a Friday just to take lip from you."

"Oh my god, Hayden, you're such a girl!" Lips spewing, Juliana laughs contagiously. I turn back toward the empty closet, hiding my smile. "If you're so tired, then I'll take the next bin." Her footfalls sound behind me.

A quiet grumble is my only reply, as I stash away her last item, a heavily worn pair of checkered Vans she practically lived in throughout high school.

"But seriously, thanks for finishing up the clo—" Her sentence cuts short, followed by a short silence. "You missed something."

Facing her, I stand to my full height, which is a good full head taller than her. "Did I?"

She looks around my shoulder, pointing. "My apron. It's hanging right there."

I arch an eyebrow, following the direction of her finger, finding The Caffeine Cove at the end. "Why would you need that? I'd like to think you don't keep souvenirs of places that don't accept tips."

"Uhh..." She chuckles awkwardly. "I can't go to work without my apron."

"And why would you need to keep working?" I ask, earning a flurry of rapid blinks.

"So I can pay rent."

Ohh, my sweet, silly Jules.

I chuckle. "Come on, now. I'm offended. You really think I'd make you pay rent at my place?

"What?" She shakes her head, her face screwing up like she's getting directions from a toddler. "No, not your place. Here. I need to work so I can pay rent here."

My shoulders sag, utterly deflated. "But you're moving out."

"Yes, temporarily."

Wearing a scowl, I look around the tiny space.

She scoffs. "Are you seriously about to ask why?"

"Uhh, yeah. The place is hardly big enough for a bed."

"You're an ass, you know that?" She shoulders past me, snatching her apron off the rack. "I live here because it's cheap. And, yes, my part-time day job might be below the likes of someone like you and, sure, the owner is a total bitch who's taking advantage of me, but at least she doesn't fire me the second she finds out I'm an entrepreneur during lunch breaks, like my last ten jobs."

Each crack in her voice is another stab to my heart. "Juliana," I say lightly, "I'm—"

"And for the record"—she breezes past me once more, carrying the final bin—"a lot of people would kill for this apartment, even if no one will notice the sudden vacancy, because it's so small I can never host anyone. In this part of the city, micro-studios—especially ones that stick to their monthly rent, year by year—are like striking gold. I had to apply five times before I was accepted, and I don't intend on losing this unit, while I'm off playing your fake girlfriend, only for me to have nowhere to live once I move out of your—"

Unable to stomach another second of her struggles, I grab her by the arm, halting her a foot from the front door. "Then don't."

She inhales a sharp breath, before a silence encroaches between us, until she dares to break it. "Huh?" she breathes.

"I mean..." As the weight of my words finally hit me, I swallow thickly. "Until you're on your feet. After the deal's over with, I wouldn't kick you out right away, not if I knew you'd end up in a place like this."

Meeting my gaze, an incredulous look blooms across her features. "You would..." She jerks her head away. "No, you're talking crazy. I don't need your help. I can make it on my own."

She turns back to the door, grunting as she tries for the door handle with her elbow. When I reach for the bin to offer help, she mumbles, "I got it," and balances it on her knee with one hand and swings open the door with the other.

There's that pride.

I follow her down the hallway. "Jules?" Quickening her steps, she shakes her head in disapproval. "Fine. After the deal, keep your room, and I'll charge you rent. Whatever it is you're paying here." She shakes her head again, and continues to do so, until we reach the elevator. "That sounds fair, right?"

"No. It doesn't. It sounds like charity."

"Not to me."

"Really?" She purses her lips, avoiding my gaze. "I pay six hundred a month here."

I nearly choke on my own saliva, but somehow manage a straight face. Six hundred dollars? For an apartment in New York City? I've never heard of such a thing.

When I remain silent, she presses, "Compare that to whatever astronomical rent you're paying each month."

Fifty thousand. Easy.

If I were renting it out.

I don't have the heart to tell her the building's one of Kingston Entertainment's many investment properties. My father personally owns every upper-floor unit in the luxurious complex, among others, in his staggering real estate portfolio. He moved me into the penthouse several years ago, which may seem outrageous to someone unaccustomed to such wealth, but it's not in my family.

Besides, my apartment's not much to gawk at. Not when compared to my brother's estate, which he inherited from our late-paternal grandfather, after our father passed it straight down to him.

Just to him.

"Is it really so hard for you to accept help?"

"I did today. When I asked you to help pack."

More like told me, I keep to myself, rather than throwing off my side of the argument.

She steps into the elevator, which hardly fits herself and the bin. I fold my arms, remaining in the hallway. "That wasn't such a big ask," I lie, as the dull ache in my shoulders intensifies, right on cue.

"No? Like you said, it's Friday. Mid-day, even." Her tone is stubborn, yet she eyes me curiously as the doors begin closing. "Didn't you have work today?" she asks, right before they seal shut. Leaving me in silence, staring back at my metallic reflection, her question hits like a haymaker straight to the ribs.

And a reminder of all the stories I'm juggling.

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