Free Unsuitable Men by Nia Forrester Page B

for the first time that this was a man she did not really know, that she was alone with him in her locked townhouse, and that there was some pretty significant sound-proofing between her walls and those of her neighbors.
    “I’m expecting a friend for brunch,” she lied, trying to keep her voice light. “I really need to get some rest.”
    As she spoke, she walked over to her closet, she hoped casually, and slid her feet into her Keds. In her mind’s eye, she recalled that her keys were downstairs in the foyer.
    “If you need to get some rest, why’re you putting your shoes on?” he challenged.
    “I have to grab some things at the store,” she said.
    Her voice sounded less steady now, less confident. She was afraid to look directly at him, apprehensive about what she might see.
    “At this hour?”
    He was standing now, sliding his own feet into his loafers. Tracy watched him out of her peripheral vision.
    “The bakery opens in less than an hour.”
    “Lying bitches, man,” he said, his voice cold.
    Tracy froze. The fact that he said bitches , plural, somehow made it much creepier. She wasn’t even an individual to him, just a type of woman; a type he did not like very much, though he was willing enough to fuck that type of woman.
    Thinking about his relentless charm at the lounge, it was apparent that his animus only reared its head once he was done with you in bed. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to know that men who equated sex with anger were not exactly poster children for good mental health.
    A chill traveled down the Tracy’s spine.
    “Look, Kevin . . .”
    “ Kelvin !” he snapped.
    “Kelvin,” she said. “I just need to . . .”
    He shrugged on his shirt and brushed by her and out of the bedroom. Then seeming to think of a better idea, he stopped and grabbed her face in his hand, squeezing her cheeks painfully.
    “You’re a fucking whore,” he said between his teeth, his face inches away from hers. And then perversely, he planted one last, kiss on her lips, his sour tongue pressing into her mouth.
    Tracy’s eyes were shut, and when he released her, she froze in place waiting for what might come next. Hearing him descend the wood stairs, she opened her eyes and turned to make sure that when he opened the inner and outer doors, he actually walked down the steps and into the street. When she was sure he had, she ran downstairs and bolted the doors with trembling fingers and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
    Damn it! She couldn’t seem to stop shaking! Her first impulse was to call Riley, but it wasn’t even morning. She would be asleep and if Shawn answered he would be beyond angry that she called and woke his pregnant wife up. And she didn’t want to admit what had happened, not to him and maybe not even to Riley who she’d promised she wasn’t doing this anymore. The near-anonymous pick-ups and hook-ups had stopped, she’d promised her months ago. And they had, for awhile. Until tonight.
    And when Riley had expressed concern about what —and who—she might be exposing herself to, Tracy had insisted, I’m safe; of course I’m safe. I make sure of that. But she’d been lying. What she was referring to was using condoms—which she always did—when she knew that Riley meant much more than that. She wanted to know that Tracy was physically safe, and this little episode proved once and for all that in that regard she was becoming somewhat reckless.
    Tracy walked through her living and dining rooms, checking windows, drawing blinds. A man, whom she had let into her home, into her body , had called her a fucking whore . She crouched on the floor near her sofa as though hiding, but she couldn’t hide from herself. She was a fucking whore. She’d done this before, many more times than she cared to admit; picked up men who she didn’t care about, who she knew didn’t care about her just to help her feel something, anything for a few hours. Except she never did feel