Chapter 27 The Delivery Guy (1)

• I pulled my rattling van into this sleepy cul-de-sac, the engine coughing like it begged for a break. It was 5:47 p.m., and the sun dipped low, splashing orange across those perfect little suburban houses—manicured hedges, white picket fences, the whole damn dream. I was wiped, having hauled packages all day for people who barely looked at me, and this was my last stop. One more drop, then I’d be free. I grabbed the box—small, light, some random crap from Amazon probably—and checked the label: 17 Maple Lane. Adjusting my faded cap, I hopped out, sneakers scraping the driveway as I shuffled up to the door. The house screamed middle-class perfection—two stories, crisp white paint, like it waited for a sitcom family to spill out. I rang the bell, expecting a frazzled mom juggling a kid or some grumpy old dude in a bathrobe.
• The door swung open, and fuck me, I wasn’t ready for it. She stood there, maybe 32, brunette hair all messy-sexy, like she’d just rolled out of bed after a good time. Her body was insane—curves that could’ve made a saint sin, wrapped in this silk robe so thin I could see the shadow of black lace underneath. It hung tied loose, barely clinging on, and her lips curled into this smirk as she dragged her green eyes over me, slow and deliberate, like she sized up her next meal. “You’re late,” she purred, voice low and teasing, dripping with something that hit me straight in the dick.
• “Uh, no, I’m—” I stammered, clutching the box like it was a lifeline, “Tracking says I’m on time." She didn’t give a shit, just leaned against the doorframe, one hip cocked, letting that robe slip open a little more. I caught a glimpse of thigh—smooth, golden, begging for my hands—and my mouth turned to sand.