Chapter 14
Mary
Istayed too long at Grandma’s earlier. Told her I’m fine.
Happy. Lied right through my teeth about Evan, about work.
She’s been through enough. She doesn’t need my mess dripping all over her kitchen table.
So I smiled, cleared her tea mug, kissed her cheek, promised I’d come by tomorrow like everything’s normal.
It’s not normal.
Now that I’m home, I should shower, wash off the day’s stress sweat. But my plants are begging for water; the dry Vegas air’s turning my basil into a drama queen, leaves curling like they’re personally offended.
So here I am, out on my balcony, barefoot, with Gordo weaving through my herb pots; fat, orange, and not even mine.
Essie’s, from 2A. The basil’s drooping, the rosemary’s holding strong, and the spinach is still pulling its lopsided survival act, but I’m barely noticing because my brain’s a dumpster fire.
There’s a crumpled wad of bank papers in my purse—stolen ledgers I printed like an idiot—and a death threat looping in my head like a TikTok earworm: Stop digging if you want to live.
Oh, and there’s whatever that was on Grandma’s porch. Dark, wet, looked like blood. Maybe it wasn’t—maybe paint, maybe a dead rat, who knows—but it was enough to make me grab the hose. I didn’t even think, just sprayed until it was gone. Now I can’t stop seeing it.
Should I report this? To whom? Vegas Metro? Yeah, sure. Hi, Officer, I think my boss is hiding something shady, and there’s fresh blood outside my grandma’s house.
And then what? I tell them about the call?
They’d probably just nod, take my statement, scribble something on a sticky note, and then shrug while I get turned into a missing person on the six o’clock news.
I sigh. Long and quiet.
“Meow.” Gordo butts his chubby head against my ankle, purring like a broken lawnmower.
“You’re not even my cat, dude,” I mutter, nudging him with my toe. He flops onto his side, belly spilling over my thyme, totally unbothered. Essie—downstairs in 2A, probably face-down after her third hotel shift—would murder me if she knew Gordo’s up here mooching again.
I’m this close to dragging Gordo inside when something moves across the courtyard. Third floor. Corner unit that’s been empty since New Year’s Eve.
Three guys on the balcony.
Huge.
Like, Marvel superhero audition huge. Tall, built, and way too hot for this roach-infested hellhole.
I blink—hard—because… no way.
No freaking way.
Desert Palms doesn’t get guys who look like they stepped out of an Instagram thirst trap.
This isn’t The Strip, with its oiled-up models and fake-tough guys flexing like they’re Viking warlords but still cry if the valet scratches their Tesla.
This place can’t even keep the hot water on half the time.
The first guy’s a tank—six foot something. Broad shoulders, arms like he bench-presses cars, dark brown hair, overgrown and sun-bleached at the ends, shoved back like he’s daring you to look away.
He lifts his hand. Just a casual little wave, like we’re old neighbors swapping sugar.
My hand lifts before my brain catches it. I wave back. Because apparently, I have zero survival instincts left.
My eyes keep moving. Next to him… Taller? Leaner? Hard to tell. He’s all angles. Black gear, sleeves shoved up to show forearms covered in ink I can’t read. He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at everything else.
I swallow, shift my weight, but my hand’s still up. Like a moron. My eyes slide past him, deeper into the shadows behind them.
There’s a third man. He stays half in the dark, just behind the other two, like he wants it that way.
For a second, he shifts—like he’s about to pull the first guy back with him.
The streetlight flickers just enough to catch the edge of his face, hair pushed back, a sharp jaw that is familiar. His eyes hit mine—
No. It can’t be. No freaking way.
It’s him. The guy from Jasper’s apartment.
The one I groped like a total moron at a yard sale, my hand on his— Oh, God, don’t go there.
My cheeks burn, hot enough to fry an egg.
I was trashed that night, chugging wine like it was water.
How do I even know it’s him from this far?
It’s that stance. Broad shoulders squared like he owns the night.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
I yank Gordo’s fat tail, dragging him back inside. He yowls like I just canceled his lifetime supply of tuna.
Sorry, buddy, survival first.
I slam the sliding door shut, flick the lock. Like that’s gonna stop Mr. Tall, Dark, and Groped-By-Me from kicking it in if he wants to.
My back hits the wall. I slide down it like my legs just checked out. My palms are slick. My shirt’s stuck to my spine. I can’t breathe right. Like I’ve just run a marathon in flip-flops.
No. No. Nooooooo.
Did he see me? Does he know it’s me? God.
I brace my elbows on my knees, forehead in my palms. Gordo curls up next to me like nothing’s happening.
Calm down, Mary.
Maybe I didn’t even see him. Maybe my brain’s just pulling tricks. Because really, how would I know it was him? I was so drunk that night I couldn’t even find my own shoes. For all I know, I groped a lamp and apologized to the fridge.
But… what if it’s him?
“Urgh!”
I groan into my hands. I’m stuck here on my own floor, hiding from a maybe-man I maybe-molested at Jasper’s place. Or maybe he was just a random guy, and my brain’s playing connect-the-dots.
Even so, my stupid body doesn’t care. My heart’s doing gymnastics in my chest, my palms won’t stop sweating, and every tiny creak in this apartment has me flinching like I’m about to star in my own murder documentary.
I swear I’m not moving. Not until they’re gone. Not until my soul leaves my body and relocates to a tropical island far from men with suspicious tattoos and kill-you eyes. I shift. My butt’s numb. I shift again. Pins and needles shoot down my leg. Great. Now my whole left cheek’s dead weight.
I whisper to Gordo, “Don’t you dare move. If you knock something over, I’m putting you on Craigslist.” He stretches one paw dramatically and flicks his tail across my face. Rude.
Five minutes pass. Ten. Twenty? Time doesn’t exist anymore; just my squeaky breath and my brain replaying the World’s Most Embarrassing Drunk Grope on repeat.
I wiggle my toes to get the feeling back.
When I’m ninety percent sure my legs won’t give out and dump me face-first onto the floor, I crawl up the wall like I’m scaling Everest.
Deep breath. I’m fine. It’s fine. They’re probably gone. Right? Probably off murdering someone else. Or getting boba. Who knows.
I crouch-walk to the sliding door like I’m a low-budget spy. I swear the floorboards creak just to betray me. I duck. Pop back up. Duck again. Gordo watches, tail twitching, definitely judging.
I press my face to the glass, one eye squinting through the gap in the curtain. My breath fogs the pane. I swipe it off with my sleeve. Nothing. The street’s empty. The spot where they stood? Empty. Like they were never there. Like I hallucinated the whole thing.
No tall guy. No tattoos. No shadow man glaring like he wants to break my door in. Just my sad little balcony and the flickering streetlight that needs replacing.
I stand there for a full minute, half expecting one of them to pop up right in front of the glass like Boo! and give me a heart attack.
Nothing. I let out a breath so shaky it probably rattles the window.
“Okay,” I whisper to Gordo, who’s licking his butt and ignoring my crisis. “It’s fine. They’re gone.”
Gordo pauses, gives me a look like, “Why are you talking to me?” then rolls over and starts licking his own balls instead. Zero respect. None.
I close the curtain so fast I nearly rip it off the rod. Then I double-check the lock. Then I triple-check.
I must’ve gone paranoid. I have to be. Whoever they are—if there even is a “they”—it probably has nothing to do with me. I’m not that interesting. Nobody’s watching me. Nobody cares.
Gordo clearly doesn’t. He’s already parked by the sliding door, yowling at me like I’m the world’s worst butler for not letting him go sniff the patio for the millionth time today.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter. He answers with a louder meow. He’s relentless. “Not happening, man. We’re on lockdown.”
He throws himself against the door for dramatic effect. I press my forehead to the wall and wish I could trade lives with Gordo.
I wake up face-first in cat fur. Gordo’s massive orange belly is smashed up against my cheek, like he’s trying to suffocate me out of love.
I can feel the grit of yesterday’s makeup on my skin, taste stale breath, and my work shirt’s half-buttoned and wrinkled to hell.
I guess I passed out here on the couch. Real professional. Real adult.
Gordo’s licking my chin. I shove him back. He plants one fat paw right on my boob for leverage. Disrespectful bastard.
I’m trying to decide if it’s worth peeling myself up when I realize I’d been dreaming.
Not about winning the lottery or my mom being alive.
No, my brain’s got jokes. It was him again.
Tall, broad, dark hair, green eyes that look at me like they own me.
I don’t even know his name. I kissed him once, if you can call falling into his mouth while drunk a kiss.
Great. So now he lives in my subconscious rent-free, too. Gordo, get in line.
A knock. Sharp, soft. Makes me flinch like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. I roll halfway off the couch, check my phone. Not even six.
Who the hell—?
Gordo jumps down, tail up, and does his little victory trot to the door. Rubs his fat head against it like he’s trying to fuse with the wood. Purrs so loud I swear the door rattles. I envy how easily he loves people who feed him.
Another knock. A whisper through the old door. “Mary… Mary, you awake?” Essie. Right. Cat thief status: busted.