Chapter Six
Selena
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“T hanks for the ride ,” I say when he pulls his car in front of my apartment in Los Feliz. “Come by tomorrow morning and we can ride to the bank together.” I can’t wait to get inside and shower. I’m filthy from the day's events. The ink on my hands has dried—I pray I can scrub it off.
Jamison turns the car off, following me out of it. I freeze on my front step. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“You can’t think I’m going to leave you alone. It’s too risky.”
“What do you think I'll do?”
“You could call...” he trails off, scanning around for people listening in. He spots the camera over my apartment's steel gate entrance. It could insure he's on his best behavior, so I don't tell him it doesn't work.
“Listen,” I say through my teeth, “you cannot spend the night with me.”
“It’s your only option.”
“This wasn’t in the contract.”
“No,” he agrees coolly. "Let's call it an amendment, like the one you made."
Unsure what to do and not wanting to draw attention from my nosy neighbors, I unlock the main gate. “Whatever, let’s talk inside.” Chewing him out in private will be smarter. There are things I want to say that shouldn’t be heard by anyone else.
He trails me as I ascend to the second floor. My apartment doesn’t have an elevator, a fact I don’t mind for me, but more than one renter has trouble getting in and out of the building. My scummy landlord doesn’t care. That's also why my rent is bare-bones cheap.
“Come inside,” I say sarcastically, “make yourself at home.”
Jamison gives a cursory glance around my apartment. There’s an unmade bed in one corner near the bathroom, a window AC unit bigger than the fridge, and a dented stove that I store things on top of because it gives off a funny smell when I turn it on.
“Small,” he notes.
“Barely enough room for me. And only one bed. See? There’s no way you can sleep here.”
“I’ll lie on the floor.”
My jaw drops open. “You will not.”
“Would you rather share the bed?” He asks, lifting his eyebrows at me.
My heart jumps sideways and I look pointedly at the fridge. “My bed can’t fit us both.”
“Is that the only reason you don't want me in it?” He chuckles darkly.
Flushing, I storm over to the fridge. Digging inside I fish out a bottle of water. “I can’t offer you much,” I say, chugging half of the bottle in one go. I let out a relieved gasp. “But I do have water and boxed mac and cheese.”
“No steak and lobster in there, I take it.” His grin is more taunting than pleasant. He’s getting under my skin.
Finishing the water, I toss the bottle in my tiny recycling bin. My place is small, but I made room for that. “I’m taking a shower. Entertain yourself somehow.” Not waiting to hear whatever cutting remark he has lined up next, I shut myself inside my bathroom.
The presence of a wall, thin as it may be, between me and Jamison helps me relax. I twist the lock on the knob out of paranoia. Can a locked door stop a killer like him? I wonder.
Turning the shower on—the water heater sucks, it needs time to warm up—I open my cupboard beneath the hard-water crusted sink. My phone is balanced on a stack of toilet rolls. Jamison thinks I'm stupid, but he has no clue how much thought I put into planning Sanford's murder.
My screen blinks the notification from Uber at me. Jessie, my driver, who patiently waited for me after I ordered the ride, and didn't ask why I wanted to be dropped off a block away from the convention center, has thanked me for the tip. I left it ahead of time. I had no intention of dying today, but it was always a possibility, so I'd made sure to pay him extra for being an unwitting participant in my mission.
Thanks, Jessie, I think, tapping the 5 stars icon. I quickly browse social media for any news about the murder. My eyes widen when I catch the trending topics.
Man found dead at Anime Blast.
Body discovered inside Red Roof Inn.
Cause of death pending, police looking for more info.
My heart pounds; I sit heavily on top of my toilet seat. The big breaths I suck in taste stale from the steam building all around me. This... excitement is a mix of giddiness and anxiety. Knowing that his body was found, that the police are hunting the killer—hunting me—has my mouth drying out. I gulp in the steam, but it doesn't help.
They aren't hunting me, I remind myself, glancing at the door. They'll be after Jamison. Though I'm definitely a suspect, too. All my covering of my tracks won't save me if someone does find out I was there. Jamison will be the one they arrest, you didn't pull the trigger. He beat me to the act with his butcher knife. That still annoys me, but on one hand, I have to count my lucky stars.
The police won't let me walk away if I wait until they find out I was in that room. Talking to them first... turning Jamison in... it's the only way to keep me out of prison.
Frowning worriedly, I step into the scalding water. It pelts my skin intensely, taking my mind away from the cops and the killer in my home. The hot water acts like a purifier. Tilting back my chin, I shut my eyes, allowing it to wash over me until I don't just hear the pounding drops, I feel like I've become them.
But I'm not free of concerns... they just shift, layer by layer, until the main one is freed.
Valoria...
I miss you so much.
Crumbling to my knees, I allow myself to cry. Or maybe I can't stop the tears. I like to think I have some choice, though, because otherwise I'll feel weak. I don't have the time to feel weak. I have more things to do.
Another man to kill.
How am I going to find Caruso? I'd never heard his name until today. Asking around for him is risky since he's connected to Sanford. That's the first thing the cops will be on the lookout for. You hired Jamison, remember? He's a professional, he must have ways to find people.
Jamison...
Thinking about that dark-eyed man helps my tears dry up. Smears of gray ink swirl around the drain by my toes. He hates that I forced him to agree to my terms. It was like he'd rather shoot me than let me murder Caruso myself.
Wiping my nose I shut the water off, grabbing a towel. Who asked him to kill Sanford? And why? Did someone else have a grudge like mine? Not hard to imagine, scum like Sanford are bound to collect enemies. He probably has a catalog of girls he's hurt.
Pressing my face into the towel, I then use it to scrub the mirror. My reflection is a nightmare; puffy eyes and nose, flushed cheeks, wild strands of damp pink hair sticking to my throat. Valoria would chide me for being such a mess. When she took showers, she always ended up looking like those women in spa ads. Smiling as much as I can, I dry my hair then brush it straight. Water makes the pink look blood red.
The color of Sanford's throat splitting open.
Hurrying to blow-dry my hair until it's the shade of bubblegum again, I wind it up into a tight bun on my head. I'm about to step out into my apartment in just a towel when I freeze.
I'd forgotten Jamison is out there.
Clutching the towel tightly around my chest, I scan my bathroom twice, even though I know it's a waste of time. I'm not about to put on my clothes from earlier, they're sitting in a damp pile by the edge of the tub. I'm not the type to own a bathrobe, either.
It's fine. Just sprint across to your dresser, it's barely a five foot distance.
Except it isn't fine. The only way Jamison won't see me is if I'm invisible. I'm stuck with only one option.
Bracing myself, I open the door, scanning for Jamison.
He's standing right in front of me.
The dark-eyed man takes me in for a half second before turning around. "You could have warned me," he snarls, like I've pissed him off.
"Sorry," I mumble, not knowing what I'm even sorry for. He's in my home—he should be the one apologizing. Hurrying to my dresser I yank the top drawer open, spilling every set of bra and panties I own over my faux wood floor. My face burns up as I crouch, holding my towel in place while trying to gather everything. "Ugh, crap," I moan.
Jamison straightens up but he doesn't look back at what's happening. I'm relieved he's being polite—that's a first. Blindly snatching some undergarments, then a blue shirt and a pair of black shorts, I dart back to the bathroom, slipping on the wet floor and smacking my elbow on the sink.
"Fuck!" I shout.
There are footsteps—Jamison is approaching. Before he gets a close look at my frazzled self, I slam the bathroom door shut. I'm panting heavily, out of sorts over what should have been a very normal moment. I've taken hundreds of showers in this place, gotten changed freely, without issue.
You've never had a guy in your home before.
Running my hand over my face I stare at the ceiling, looking for some advice. The cryptic swirls of paint stare back at me. Shoving my legs violently into the white panties and high-waist shorts, I hook the bra and wrestle the shirt over my chest. My mirror shows a clean, well-dressed version of me. If my skin wasn't a canvas of rouge, you'd never know I was humiliated.
I don't know how long I stay in my bathroom, but when I come back out, Jamison is gone.