crave | 16+

III

JOSIE

A HARD KNOCK WAKES me up, and I turn over to my bedside looking at the time. Eight a.m. on a Saturday. The person who's knocking must be sick in the head, if they think I'm getting up from bed to attend them. They can come back in four hours when I'm well rested. Just as I feel my eyes drape close again, I hear the heavy knock again, and this time an angry grunt follows.

I groan and get up from my bed, only wearing a tank top and panties. Whoever is at the door, is getting a show today I will say that. I open the door, and rub my eyes before I look directly into someone's chest. Confusion hits me like a truck, before I raise my head, seeing a pair of hazel eyes on me, studying me like an agent looking at a crime scene.

"Mr. Christ!" I yelp, before smacking the door in his face. I quickly go grab a hoodie that stops a little over my kneecaps, and sprint to the bathroom taking a shot of mouthwash before sprinting back to the door. When I open it, he looks enraged and amused. Then his eyes swipe down my body and he looks disappointed.

"Josephine," he states, as he pushes himself into my apartment. The drapes are drawn to keep the sun out, and there's some leftover food scattered a bit everywhere. I run in right behind him, and the bag in his hand doesn't go unnoticed.

"I apologise for the mess, but it's not very common for uh" —I gulp as I watch him turning to meet my eyes— "Your boss to come knocking unannounced at eight in the morning on a Saturday," I gulp again, feeling my throat dry up. He shakes his head, and I notice the little nose scrunch he does when he takes a deep breath. God, please don't let me be the one who stinks.

His eyebrows curl, as he tilts his head a bit to the side. "Did you already forget?" he asks, and embarrassment seizes its way up my veins. Oh God.

"I'm not following," I say in a half-chuckle.

His face drops into something that looks like annoyance and I ready myself to throw him out of my apartment. The last thing he's going to do, is have an attitude in my home.

"I asked you three days ago if you wanted to be my plus one for a poker game. You said, and I quote: sure," he says, and I look around panicking. Shit I did say that. But to my defence, I thought he was kidding and making fun of me due to me nearly taking his life with my car a week before that.

"I- Mr. Christ I don't even have the right dress for a...poker night," I say, looking around in my apartment, trying my best not to look into his eyes.

"Elijah."

I avert my gaze back to him and now it's my turn to have an attitude. In surprise he takes a step closer to me which makes me take a step back. He follows me until I'm cornered into my wall by his very big persona. This is everything but professional.

"Mr—"

"My name is Elijah. Not Mr. Christ," he whispers into my ear, making me feel warm places I shouldn't feel warm. I don't know wether it's the super intense staring-contest we're having right now, or the fact that I'm going to hell and God is letting me have a taste of the heat. "Don't think of the dress. We're meant to match, so I bought you something."

My jaw nearly drops, and that's when I crouch under his arm that's pressed against the wall, finally being free of his spell. "How did you know what size to get?" I ask, looking at the bag in his hand. Sweet Jesus, Mother of God, it says PRADA on the bag. He bought me PRADA.

"I'll pay you back," I say as I watch him looking at his phone.

"You couldn't afford it," he retorts back. Asshole.

"Take it out of my pay-check, then."

He looks up smiling. "You don't make this much a month, Josephine." He puts his phone back into his pocket. I've never seen this man in anything other than a suit. I'm convinced he sleeps with one on too. "Is it really that bad that I simply thought of you?" he questions, his voice soft.

A laugh escapes my lips. "Am I meant to believe the whole I'm-Just-Thinking-Of-You act?"

His jaw tenses. Jackpot.

"Maybe you're just transparent and I knew you wouldn't have poker-night dresses lying around. I don't see any clothes lying around, actually, only a bunch of food you're too lazy to clean up, yes?" he points out.

"You don't like it? Theres the door."

He shakes his head, walking toward my sofa. He puts the PRADA bag down before walking back toward me. For a second I'm actually scared. Almost like it goes up for me that I know jack shit about this man. He could be a killer for all I know and he'd probably be so lawyered up that no one would believe it if my only friend thought it was him.

"You're too smart to be talking like you're in year 4, Josephine," he says.

"You know nothing about me," I point out.

"I know that you made sales go up by 40% with that Porsche commercial. That's talent," he says. "You know your audience. That's a trait many don't have."

I simply smile at him nodding my head in a polite way. For a second I almost forget the fact that I'm barely clothed standing in my messy apartment and that he's dressed like he's going to a funeral.

"Look, I have no problem being you plus one. I just think it's fairly early to come knock at my door with a dress I apparently can't afford," I try and explain to him. He just stares at me as if I'm speaking Latin.

"We're going shopping," he states as if I was meant to know that. I make a 'Huh?' face, which gets a little smile out of him. God bless, he can smile.

"I said we had to match tonight, Josephine."

"Then why have you woken me up at 8 in the morning, if you already have my dress handled? Still have no idea how you got my size right but it's whatever I guess," I deadpan all in one breath.

"Everyone knows it's easier to find a suit than a dress," he deadpans back as if it's obvious. I bring my hand to the back of my head and itch waiting for him to get the hell out now. Silence fills the room. I believe he's gotten the hint. He shakes his head walking toward the door.

"I'll be waiting in the car. I'm telling my driver to wait 20 minutes. If you're not down by then, I'll come pick you up tonight. But I really do hope you come down," he says all while his back is turned to me. Then he twists my doorknob and leaves.

I bury my head into my hands and scream. He's good. He's really good. I walk toward my bathroom and pee, before brushing my teeth and washing my face. I quickly pick an outfit, open a few windows and spend the rest of my 10 minutes eating the rest of some French fries.

When I make it down my apartment complex, I see a black SUV parked. Elijah rolls the window down on the backseat and smiles at me, before opening the door for me from the inside. The driver doesn't say anything to me as I take a seat.

"Did my pity-play work?" he asks after the driver has taken off.

"You're an asshole," I say not looking at him once.

. . .
he's better than the first version be fr