Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Legs
It doesn’t take long for me to fall into a routine.
One that still involves throwing my guts up in the mornings and evenings.
And honestly, five out of seven nights too.
But I’m making it work. The tiredness is what’s killing me.
I don’t think it would be as bad if the asshole next door kept more sociable hours, but he seems to be on the opposite schedule of me.
If he has a schedule at all. I’ve never actually laid eyes on the person.
I’ve only heard them moving around their apartment and doing various other things that remind me daily of how thin our walls are.
Thankfully, I have the diner to keep me occupied.
Since I started working, the healthy wage Del pays me and the decent tips I’ve been earning means I’ve been able to squirrel a little of it away.
It helps that I’m too exhausted to think about going anywhere once I’m finished working, let alone spending money.
As I trudge up the steps to my apartment, I scan the area, finding it deserted, even though I’ve been feeling like there are eyes on me lately.
I’m not stupid. I know it’s Midas. He seems to be making an effort to hide himself now, though I’ve still caught him a time or two.
The funny thing is, I know it’s on purpose because he can move like a ghost when he wants to.
It pisses me off that he wants me to catch him.
I don’t need to see him to know he’s haunting me when I can feel that asshole everywhere I go.
I put the key in the lock, shove the door open, and hurry inside, eager to take a nice hot shower. I close the door and lock it, throwing the deadbolts for good measure. I toss the keys on the kitchen counter and freeze, my eyes on the mug on my drainer.
I walk over to it and flip it over, finding it clean, before putting it back as I rack my brain.
I was running late this morning. I’d only drunk half my morning decaf before returning to the bathroom to bring it back up.
By the time I was done, I had to practically run for the door.
I don’t remember washing the cup. I’m almost positive I left it still half full on the counter.
Feeling a chill wrap around me, I move through the kitchen area to the sitting area and look around to see if I notice anything else out of place. When I don’t find anything, I start to relax.
“I guess baby brain really is a thing,” I mutter, feeling stupid. I move to the window and glance down, half expecting to see Midas’s bike. But the parking lot is empty, save for a beat-up Chevy in the far corner that I’m pretty sure hasn’t moved since I moved in.
I close the blinds and move around the apartment, closing the others before heading to my bedroom. Still feeling a little on edge, I check the closet and under the bed before scanning the bathroom just to make sure I’m alone. With a snort, I look at myself in the bathroom mirror.
“You’ve been reading too many stalker romances,” I tell my reflection as I strip out of my clothes.
I need to get rid of the smell of grease.
I turn the shower on and climb under the spray, releasing a porn-worthy groan of appreciation when the warm water starts to ease the aches and pains of being on my feet all day.
I wash my hair and condition it before shaving my legs and armpits.
That’s about as much beautifying as I have the energy for before I climb out and wrap a towel around my body and one around my hair.
I grab my clothes and toss them in the hamper in the bedroom before sitting on the edge of the bed.
I reach for my moisturizer on the nightstand but come up empty-handed.
I frown and look around for it. I know I had it this morning because I put some on my dry hands.
Standing up, I wrap the towel tighter and move slowly around the room, that chill sliding over me once more.
When I still don’t find it, I pull on some pajama pants and a tank top, feeling strangely vulnerable standing naked in my own freaking room.
I walk over to the bedroom window next to the fire escape and look out.
There are bars blocking entry, which I’m positive is a fire hazard.
But right now, it’s making me feel a little safer.
A washed-up cup and missing moisturizer are stupid things to get worked up about.
I’m much more likely to be responsible for them than someone sneaking into my locked apartment to mess with me, but something triggered my fight-or-flight response, and I’ve learned not to ignore that.
I check every window in the apartment to make sure it’s locked and then double-check the door.
I lean against the cool wood as my heartbeat attempts to return to normal.
Whether I imagined it or not, there is nobody in my apartment now.
Nothing has been taken, nothing has been destroyed, and when I find the moisturizer in a completely ridiculous place tomorrow, I’m going to feel like an idiot.
I scrub my hands over my face and head back to the kitchen.
I need to eat even though my stomach is in knots.
I pull the fridge open and decide a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup will do.
I turn the radio on, needing to hear some background noise, and lose myself in the monotony of making food.
By the time it’s done, my appetite has come back, so I sit at the counter and eat until it’s gone.
I wash up, my eyes drifting to the cup on the drainer as I do.
I make myself a mug of cocoa and take it to bed, where I crack open my book and try to distract myself. It takes me a little while, but I lose a couple of hours before my eyes get heavy.
I place the book down and head to the bathroom to take care of business and brush my teeth.
Once I’m done, I crawl into bed and fall asleep within moments.
It’s fitful, but I get a solid four hours before the music starts up next door.
I shove my pillow over my head, fighting back the urge to scream into it.
Something has to give. I can’t keep going on like this.
I look at my clock with blurry eyes and see it’s only three am. “Seriously?”
I climb out of bed and stand still for a moment to see if I’m going to be sick.
When my stomach remains calm, I move to the closet, grab a hoodie to throw on over my tank top, and slip on a pair of sneakers.
I shove my phone in my hoodie pocket and make my way to the kitchen.
I grab my keys off the counter, along with the small knife from the block, and head for the door.
I check the spy hole first, and when I find the hallway clear, I open the door.
I glance around before stepping out and pulling the door closed.
I don’t lock it in case I need to get back in fast. Ideally, I’d leave the door ajar, but with how messed up my evening has been, I’m not willing to take any chances.
I walk the short distance between our doors and take a deep, steadying breath.
I slide my hand holding the knife into my pocket so I don’t look threatening and use my free hand to knock.
When I don’t get an answer, I knock again, this time louder.
With the music as loud as it is, I get no response, which serves to piss me off further.
I knock on the door until my fist feels like it’s bruised.
I take a quick step back when the door is yanked open by a rail-thin guy dressed in leather pants and a ripped white T-shirt.
He’s wearing thick black eyeliner, a studded choker, and has short spiky blond hair.
With squinted eyes, he gives off a Machine Gun Kelly vibe.
The outfit suggests he’s been to a club, so I guess I was right about us having different schedules. But still, this is beyond a joke.
“I need you to keep the music down, at least at night. I need to sleep, as does everyone else in this apartment complex.”
“I don’t see anyone else complaining.” He folds his arms across his chest, looking smug as he takes me in.
“Well, I am, so can you please turn it down? I’m exhausted.”
“Sounds like a you problem, lady.”
“It’s gonna be you problem when I call the cops.”
He takes a menacing step closer before stopping in the door frame. I grip the knife tightly and prepare myself, just in case.
“You threatening me?”
“I’m asking you nicely to turn the fucking music down. I don’t care if you play it all damn day, but please keep it down at night. I don’t want to have to call the cops. That would be a hassle for both of us, so just stop already.”
I feel tears spring to my eyes, which frustrates me more, but I’m so damn exhausted.
“Jesus, what is your fucking problem? This is my pad. I can do what I want,” he yells belligerently.
I shake my head and feel my shoulders drop.
He’s not gonna turn it down. A tear slips down my cheek, but I turn and walk away before the dickweed notices.
“Maybe you should come and join me, smoke a little, drink a little, might loosen you up a bit.” He mumbles something about frigid bitches, which earns a snort of laughter from me.
I can’t say that, as an ex-club girl, I’ve ever been called frigid before.
“I’m not down for smoking, drinking, or riding your dick, which I’m guessing is what you’ll want as payment.” I shake my head and sigh. “Guys like you are a dime a dozen. Do what you want, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
When I hear a scuffle behind me, I whirl around and draw the knife. The asshole stops a second before he grabs me. He freezes with his hand in the air, his eyes looking from me to the knife as he tries to figure out his chances.
“You’re all alone, little girl, out here in the dead of night. The nearest neighbors are all the way across the complex. Why do you think nobody cares about my music? They can’t hear it, and they won’t be able to hear you scream either.”