"And I don't have a nameplate on the door, so you don't have to worry about seeing my name," he told me without any prompting or questions from me.
"I never even thought of that."
"Only just moved in a few weeks back, you see. Well, a couple of months." He shrugged as we walked, but there was something in his demeanor that had switched on me. Like he felt duty bound to give me something, an explanation but not the full story.
Maybe he'd switched his job, or lost one, for all I knew. Been thrown out of his last place? No, he didn't seem the type to give a landlord any trouble. But then I hardly knew him, so wasn't best placed to judge.
Didn't stop me being willing to go home with him, and given that I'd already had my most precious possession in his mouth and he'd done nothing but given me an orgasm sweet enough to make my head spin, I reasoned I'd be safe enough.
"One of those things I haven't got around to," James added, and I wondered if he was expecting me to surrender to my curiosity and ask why he'd moved. What his backstory was.
"As long as you don't live in a slum, I don't mind. Too much." I winked, relieved we could now see each other's facial features and expressions.
Sure, I could look at him now but the strange thing was I couldn't really read him.
Scarlett Parrish "My flat is the best that money can buy," he said proudly, adding a grin, and I wondered if it was fake jollity, employed to cover over whatever he wasn't telling me. "Okay, the best that I can afford."
There was no elevator in his building.
"Sorry, top floor. Bit of a climb."
It was just as well there were only four floors in this building; I'd looked up and counted the windows before entering, just in case. "Doesn't matter. I've got legs." Although they were still just a little shaky from earlier. We'd walked here at quite a pace to keep warm, but I suspected I was still feeling the effects of that knee-trembler up against the brick wall. Not that I was complaining. It was definitely a feeling I could put up with. "As long as it's worth it in the end."
James looked back over his shoulder. "Oh, it will be." And carried on climbing.
I shivered, but not from the cold this time, even though we were in a stone-and-concrete building. I had no doubt that what he promised was the case.
"And here we are," he announced, unnecessarily but hospitably.
I leaned on the balustrade as he unlocked the front door and he stood aside to let me enter first.
"Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly," he said in a singsong voice as I walked past. The door clicked shut behind me, not a terminal sound at all, but one which underlined what I was --- we were --- doing.
"You'll note for your convenience I enabled my telepathic powers before I left home tonight and cleared away anything that could identify me. James it is and nothing more."
"Sure you haven't left any letters lying about?" I teased.
"Pfft. Letters? Everyone e-mails these days."
"That how you keep in touch with your family?"
He nodded. "Yep." There were no emotional clouds in his eyes to suggest a rift with his loved ones.
Good, I thought, not knowing why this pleased me. Good for him. "All bills secreted somewhere safe?"
"Good God, man, what do you think I am? I'm Scottish. We don't pay bills. We run up debts to utility companies then do a moonlight flit. It's the Caledonian way!"
"Are you ever serious about anything?"
"As little as possible. Now. Fancy something to drink? Coffee? I've only got instant, I'm afraid. I'm more of a tea-drinker."
"How terribly, terribly British of you."
"You're not wrong. I even go to a local import shop to get my favorite teabags, what, what, tally-ho, and all that. So. Tea? Coffee? Juice? I guess I mean soda, don't I?"
"No, I'm all right, thanks."
"Sure you don't want to keep yourself preemptively rehydrated?"
I cocked my head and gave him that look. The "do try to behave, except, not really" look.
James laughed and hung his jacket up. "Take your coat off if you like. I'm just going to put the kettle on. Jeez, I never feel more British than when I'm surrounded by Americans. It makes me want to say God save the Queen and have the Union Jack tattooed on my arse."
"Shit, you don't, do you?"
"You'll just have to wait and see. Have a look around, entertain yourself while I'm in the kitchen."
I hung my jacket on the hook next to his and did as he'd suggested, looking around while he made himself a terribly, terribly British cup of tea in --- and I had a peek just to check it out --- the tiny, galley-style kitchen.
"Two clocks?" I pointed at the wall. Stupidly. Of course he'd know he had two clocks. It was his apartment. "Is that...?"
"The time here and in Glasgow, yes."
"That's very romantic of you."
"Romantic? Me? Piss off."
But I couldn't help noticing the color rising in his cheeks as he turned away to retrieve something from one of his kitchen cupboards.
There wasn't much room to roam about and investigate in the small hallway, but there was still a lot to look at. Framed photographs were dotted here and there on spare patches of wall that weren't occupied by coat hooks or doorframes. "What's this one?" I called through.
"You're looking at the photos?"
"Yep. The red brick building." It looked very grand, like a museum or something. "Wait, got it." A nearby photo gave the game away. A close-up shot of the entrance, over which gold lettering proclaimed "Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum." Above that, a weatherworn, time-damaged statue of someone I had not a hope of identifying. A religious figure, clearly --- the
