Page 32 of A Love Most Fatal
When there’s nothing else soft for her to throw at me, she seems to realize that now is not the time for her indignation. She makes the face I recognize as an apology, and I make one back.
We sit on the couch and stare at my covered windows while Ranger settles on the floor between our feet.
“I think you should call her,” Jenna says after a sigh.
“What?”
“Tell her you’re freaking out and you need to know you’ll be safe.”
I’ve considered this and promptly dismissed the idea over a dozen times now. I’m pissed, obviously, but what really gets me is how much I enjoyed myself with her before the night turned sour. Vanessa was charming and funny and hot in a way that distracts me when I think about it for too long. If I call her, she might unintentionally remind me of these things, and what I need is to remember that she is dangerous and any affiliation with her is likely to get me killed or thrown into prison, or both.
But then I think about that kiss and how it was, without any doubt, the most affecting kiss of my existence, the one I will be comparing all kisses to going forward. What I need to do is forget all about Vanessa and that stupid kiss that I have angrily jacked off thinking about every day this week. She’s a criminal for Christ’s sake. I do not need to be thinking about her in any way, especially not in a horny way.
“Do you want to stay at my place for a few days?”
“Laura would love that,” I say. Her roommate, Laura, has long since tried to convince Jenna that I was not worthy of her friendship, and by being friends with me, she was perpetuating a series of things that I am not nearly online enough to understand, according to Jenna.
Laura tolerates me, and that is a trial for her. I can’t imagine how she would react if I was there for longer than twenty-four hours.
“She’d get over it.”
“It’s okay,” I say, and then stalk over to the window to look at Tony. She follows and peers over my shoulder as Tony eats a huge sub and bops his head to music we can’t hear. “I’ve got him.”
11
NATE
Tuesdays are,by far, the most cursed day of the week. It’s probably not the day’s fault, but we live in a society, and because we do, Tuesdays are cursed. It’s like a Monday without any of the notions that this can be a fresh new week, the steep incline to the crest of the hill that is Wednesday afternoon. Smooth sailing from there, but Tuesday? No.
Today, barely past 7 AM, things are already bad because I spilled Jenna’s and my Tuesday Iced Coffees down the front of my shirt before school. I thought I had an extra one in my car, or at least a sweater or something, but last month I cleaned out my trunk which was really a great thing for past-me to do at the time, but has left current-me almost late for work in the last week of school, rushing home to change. It’s fine. It’s Tuesday.
I cruise up my apartment building stairs and my neighbor must have taken his Adderall early this morning because the reggae is already blasting. (I asked, he said he can’t code without it, and really, who was I to keep him from his livelihood?) My shirt is still sopping wet, sticking to my chest, and my pants are soaked too. I am about to unlock my door when I see that my handle has been busted and is hanging loose from its socket.
Light from the big windows I’ve started leaving open for Ranger comes through a small crack between the door and shines onto my dirty ass shirt.
I weigh my options because I honestly do not have time for this, but I’ve been gone for just over an hour with the gym and the coffee run, so if someone broke into my damn apartment they might still be here. I could call the police, but I can’t stop thinking about what Vanessa said about the cops eating out of the overflowing fists of the city’s criminals. She didn’t say this in so many words, but I got the picture.
I didn’t see Tony outside the building, probably because he doesn’t need to watch my place if I’m not here.
I could call?—
No.
I’m not going to call the very person who is most likely the reason someone has broken into my apartment in the first place.
But then again, if it is her fault she should pay for my busted doorknob and whatever possessions have been stolen in there. Reparations for emotional damages, too. I can type up an invoice.
My right eye is twitching but I shake out my arms a few times to psych myself up. I need to be ready for anything.
Slowly, I push the door open with my pointer finger, opting not to call anyone until I know how bad the damage is. The door squeaks on its hinges and I stop, cursing the old building with its old fucking doors, and then resume my progress. I toe off my dress shoes and creep down the entrance hall to the living room which looks just as I left it. Nothing is too far out of order, as far as I can tell, but Ranger isn’t sprawled out snoozing in his usual sunny spot.
I whistle for him, and he barks in response. My head snaps to the sound and he’s sitting in front of my bedroom, tail thumping against the wood floor.
“C’mere,” I whisper and, after whining and walking himself in a circle three times, he does. I scoop him up and kiss his head a dozen times before venturing onward, him still cradled in my arms like a newborn. My bedroom door is shut, which I swear is not how it was when I left this morning, but if a burglar wanted something from my apartment, it probably wouldn’t be my old clothes.
It takes four deep breaths to get my feet to move forward, and I don’t put Ranger down because I’m too afraid that he’ll get snatched by the boogey man in the rest of my unexplored apartment. I slowly step across the floor to my bedroom and the wood only creaks in the one spot it always does, the one I should have avoided, but still nothing sounds from beyond my bedroom. No sudden movement, nothing jumping out at me from my bathroom or cupboards.
A car honks from the street below in its normal fanfare, and it nearly makes me scream or throw up or, I’m not sure, my adrenaline is so high.