A Dance With The Devil
DANI
I hang up the phone for the third time. The line goes to voicemail again right before I slam the kitchen phone against the wall.
Three calls. No answer. And a bunch of questions for a man I don’t even know. Sweating, my bare feet tapping against the hardwood floor, I pace for the fourth time between the living room and kitchen of Bishop’s loft. My loft.
Despite the cool air in the two-story apartment, my neck is sticky, the cami I’m wearing is clinging to my hard n*****s, and my ankle-length skirt is blowing in a breeze my pacing has created. I can’t stop chewing my thumbnail, and I sweep a wave of reddish-gold strands of hair over my shoulder as I reach for the phone again. I press the phone between my shoulder and ear. My fingertips hover over the keypad o
