Jesus, he must have looked more pathetic than he realized if Damon thought he was on drugs. Micah knew he hadn’t been getting enough sleep – and that, combined with stress at work, had created some impressive circles under his eyes, but to make the leap to drugs? Seriously?

Damon didn’t seem convinced by his incredulous denial. “Yeah, because a prostitute strung out on heroin would be so unusual.”

“Fuck off, asshole.” Micah had called the man a plethora of names in his head since he’d met him – an overbearing ass, a sexy, but bossy jerk, etc. – but this was the first time that he was genuinely upset with Damon. “You broke into my apartment like some kind of fucking stalker, and you think you can demand answers from me? I said that I’m not on drugs, and I don’t really give a shit if you believe me or not.”

Damon stared, and if Micah’s face wasn’t already warm from berating the man, the intensity of it probably would have made him blush. He was also a little worried for his sanity. There was no way he should have been so comfortable calling a frickin’ mafia boss names. Yet Micah could honestly say he wasn’t scared that Damon would hurt him.

Yell back, sure. Insult him some more by calling him a liar, okay. Micah thought there was even a slim chance in his stupidly optimistic brain that Damon might finish backing him up against the front door and have his wicked way with him.

“Being busy today doesn’t explain why I found the phone I gave you powered down on your kitchen counter while you were clearly out – without it.”

Micah wasn’t sure if he was disappointed Damon didn’t body-slam him into the door, pleased the man apparently believed him about the nonexistent drugs, or annoyed that he’d ignored everything else he’d said to circle back to the phone issue.

Just tell him the truth, the logical part of his brain urged. It sounded an awful lot like Tessa.

What? That I’m not a prostitute?

Not that truth. Just tell him that you’ve been ignoring the phone because you can’t be his gigolo. You know, since he’s a frickin’ mafia don. Except don’t let him realize you know that last part.

Micah took a deep breath in through his nose before purposefully pushing past Damon. Surprisingly, the man let him. “Look,” Micah said sternly to his microwave, not quite working up the nerve to turn around and face Damon, “to be honest with you, after having time to think everything through, I just don’t think this whole thing is a good idea.”

A pause.

“I thought we both agreed you’d carry the phone with you,” Damon said, sounding confused.

Fuck.