Delayed by Nathan Kingsly (the false prince TXT) 📗

the break room, I choke on the smell that lingers from food cooked on the earlier shift. The most pungent odor is fish, as it manifests on my tongue. “You need to start packing your own fucking lunch.”

“That’s what you’re for, Mr. Betty Crocker.” I want to wipe the grin off his face.

“Fuck you, dig out some change and go to the death machines to get food.” Walking past him, I grab my lunchbox from my locker.

“As if you could live without me.” His hands in a position to receive.

“Dick.” I bark out as I roll my eyes. “How hard is it to make a goddamn sandwich?” I throw one at him.

He catches it with surprising swiftness. “Don’t throw that word around, or I’ll start thinking you want mine.”

“In your dreams.” I take a bite of my sandwich. The ham is sweet while the honey mustard balances it out, the crunch of the lettuce loud in my head, and the pepper jack cheese leaves a lingering heat as I swallow.

“Nope, apparently in yours.”

“Shut up, and eat your free sandwich,” I say around another bite.

“Yes. Mr. Betty.”

Growling, I wish I had something more to throw at him. “Just wait; you’ll regret talking shit when I’m gone for a few days.”

“I’ll survive.”

“We’ll see.”

After we’ve eaten our sandwiches, we go back to work and don’t talk until the early morning when we get to our cars.

"Hey! You want to hit the gym? Scout for a good time?" Brian asks, his eyebrows attempting to tempt and failing.

"Come on, dude, we just got off work. I’m tired as shit.”

“Chill, man, I was just offering. You could have said no." He taps on the hood of his car.

"You would have pushed until I said more than no." Unlocking my car door, I swing it open.

"Yeah, I would have." He says through a shit-eater grin.

“My point exactly.” Glancing in the backseat before sliding in, I shut the door of my car and lock it, not caring what he says before getting into his own. Probably another attempt to get under my skin. When will he learn that it rarely works? He’s a dick but the only friend I have.

The drive back to the three-story building I call home is uneventful, exactly the way I like it.

Checking around the parking lot and the upper-level terraces, I know I’m alone. Before I get out of my car, I unlock my glove box and pull out my nine-millimeter. Ejecting the magazine, I cock back the barrel, and the unshot bullet tumbles out into my palm. After reloading it into the magazine, I jam it inside the well and slide the chamber back. A peace settles over me, knowing that a bullet lays in wait if I happen to need it.

With another check around the perimeter, I get out of my car and shove the gun down the back of my jeans, covering it with my shirt. Hitting the button to lock my car, the sound spikes my nerves. It will take ten seconds instead of seven if I need to climb back in. Breathing in and out through my nose, I steal back my resolve.

With my first step across the lot, my heartbeat picks up. By the time my shoe hits the flight of stairs, it’s pounding in my ears. When I make it down the walkway to face my front door, sweat beads on my forehead. I’ve done this countless times, and every time I expect something different.

With one hand, I unlock my door.

It smells of my body wash and the coffee I brewed before heading to work. Leaning against the door, I hold my breath as I listen to the quiet of my apartment just to be sure before turning and locking the door’s deadbolt and applying the chain.

Walking to my bedroom, my ass hits the bed, and I let out the breath I've been holding since getting out of my car.

The beats of my heart level and everything starts to slow to normal. Getting up from the bed, I place my gun against my back to the nightstand before heading to the bathroom.

Turning on the shower, I undress and walk naked to my bedroom to dump clothes into the hamper and grab a clean pair of boxers. By the time I make it back to the bathroom, there’s fog starting to mist up the mirror, and I know it’s the right temperature. Letting out a sigh as the first of the spray hits my tense muscles, I roll my shoulders and tilt my head from side to side to loosen up.

Bringing my hand up, I locate the source of the sting coming from my calloused hands. A new blister formed, angry and red. Damn things pop up all the time. I make another reminder to invest in work gloves, though I know I won’t follow through. Mia has that right at least; my follow-through is shit.

Waiting another few seconds for my body to relax, I grab the soap and wash off the day. Shutting off the spray, I grab the towel off its perch and dry off; before snapping my boxers over my hips.

Not bothering with anything else this morning, I head to my bedroom, closing and locking it behind me, before getting under the covers. The scent of day-old soap and fibers from the fabric of the pillow wafts when my head hits. The sliver of light coming through the blinds cast a spotlight for them, showcasing their dance in the airflow I wouldn’t see otherwise.

As they disappear from sight, I let the buzz of everyone else’s day lull me to sleep.

I feel groggy as I come to, but my hands are already searching for my gun on the nightstand. The sound again jolts the rest of me awake as I crouch down on the floor next to the bed, the gun in front of me as I take in my surroundings. My bedroom is clear, the lock still intact. Standing, I pull the blinds back,