15. Alba #2
I screamed again, shielding my face from the spray of water coming from the sink.
In my hand, I held a plastic knob with a blue ring around a black C.
The cold water tap had snapped off entirely, with only a bit of the plastic remaining at the back, which directed the spray of water in a perfect arc toward my face.
I ducked and screamed again.
“Alba! Alba! What’s going on? Are you okay?”
I put my phone to my ear again. “My sink!” I screamed.
“Your sink?”
“My sink!” I confirmed. “It snapped!”
“What?” Vaughn sounded like he was on the move. I heard the outdoors, the sound of traffic, then sudden silence. “What’s going on? What do you mean, your sink snapped?”
“Not the sink—the—the thingy!”
“Slow down, Alba.”
I sucked in a deep breath and watched the spray of water. It fell just short of my bed but had landed directly into one of those drifts of laundry. A puddle spread and soaked my toes.
“Now, tell me what’s going on,” Vaughn said, his calm, warm voice piercing through the shock.
“I’ll show you,” I rasped, and my hands shook as I swapped the call to video. I filmed the fountain of water, then lifted my other hand into the frame to show him the knob.
“Turn the water off,” Vaughn exclaimed, like it was obvious.
I stared at the piece of plastic in my hand, then at the water. Feeling dumb and confused, I tried to plonk the knob back in place, which sent a spray of water blasting in all directions. I screamed.
“Under! Under the sink, Alba! There should be a shutoff valve!”
I dropped to my knees, opened the cabinet, and shoved away all the things I’d let gather there—cleaning products, odd pot lids, tomato-stained Tupperware—and looked at the network of pipes.
It looked horribly complicated. White pipes and then copper ones.
There was a flexible one snaking around the whole thing?—
“There should be a little brass valve,” Vaughn’s calm voice sounded from the phone in my hand. “Can you show me? Move out of the way so a bit of light comes through—there. See that little valve with the blue on the end of it?”
I blinked water away from my face and pretended it wasn’t a tear. I couldn’t even turn on a sink properly. Gulping, I focused on Vaughn’s voice and reached for the valve. “This?”
“That’s it, princess. Should just take a quarter turn—yep. Good work.”
The arc of water shrank above me, soaking my back and head, then turned to a dribble that went down the sink.
I sighed out my exhale, then slumped onto the floor.
Without thinking, I flipped the camera around and was momentarily stunned by the sight of my red cheeks, bloodshot eyes, wild hair half-plastered to one side of my head, and worn-out sleep shirt hanging off a shoulder, the other side of it soaked through.
Another scream slipped through my lips and I slammed the phone on the ground, face down so the camera would be covered.
“Alba!”
“I’m fine,” I said, shouting at the phone without moving it from its spot on the floor. “Um. So what time did you say on Monday?”
There was a pause. “Appointment’s at eleven. I’ll send the address.”
“Great. Yep. Thanks! See you then.” Being careful not to let any part of myself come into view, I flipped the phone around and hung up.
Then I slumped back against the cabinets and half laughed, half sobbed in relief.
The puddle had grown. I stretched out my legs, not caring that I was sitting in it.
When I finally gathered myself and stood, I stared at the carnage on top of my scant few square feet of counter space, the water on the floor, the mess of pot lids and cleaning products strewn all the way under my bed, and stomped to the bathroom to take a shower.
Everything would be easier after a shower.
Except it wasn’t.
As I stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, curling the ends of my towel around each other to tie it around my chest, there was a knock on my door. I jumped, glancing across the carnage of the studio apartment to the front door on the opposite side of the room.
“Alba!” a familiar voice called out. “Are you okay? Answer me.”
My eyes went wide. Vaughn was outside my apartment door. I blinked, momentarily speechless, trying to understand how this could possibly have happened.
My phone rang. It still rested on the bedsheets where I’d placed it before heading for a shower, and I glanced over to see Vaughn’s name on the screen. My pulse jumped. I glanced from my phone to the door, feet glued in place.
What… was… happening ?
Vaughn was here . Here, in my dumpy studio apartment, right outside the door. If I even cracked the door, he’d see the mess of laundry everywhere, the puddle of water that had soaked into everything. He’d see how tiny this room was, how filthy, and he’d finally realize just how far I’d fallen.
It was a messy, moldy, musty wreck . Kind of like me.
My heart hammered so hard my extremities tingled, and as Vaughn pounded on the door again, I was frozen with inaction.
I could call out and tell him to go away, but I suspected that would only make him more insistent on coming in.
I could stay exactly here, completely quiet, and hope he’d go away. I could?—
“Open it,” Vaughn’s voice barked, and a moment later, a set of keys jangled.
The door swung inward, and the building’s grumpy, ancient superintendent, Mr. White, stood in the opening, his eyes landing on my legs and climbing all the way up to the towel I held clenched at my breast. Behind him, Vaughn loomed, tall and broad, his brow wrinkled with worry, his blue eyes snapping to mine.
I made a noise, a pathetic little eep , which seemed to make Vaughn spring into action. He glanced from me to the super. One hand came up to clamp on the super’s shoulder while his other slapped over the other man’s eyes.
“Hey!” the old man said, and Vaughn hip-checked him out of the doorway. The old man made another outraged noise, but I barely heard it, because I dove back into the bathroom and locked myself inside.
My front door closed, and for a second, I thought I was alone, and a sigh of relief slipped through my lips.
Then, footsteps.
Vaughn’s voice came rolling through the closed bathroom door. “I was worried,” he said by way of explanation. “You weren’t answering my calls.”
“How did you get my address?”
“Your employee file,” he said.
“That’s a breach of privacy.”
There was a pause, then Vaughn said, “I thought you were in trouble.”
Still clutching at my towel, I slumped against the vanity.
I stared at the closed door, biting my lip, trying to pretend that my heart wasn’t melting.
He’d come to my rescue because he thought I needed it.
No one had ever come to my rescue before.
“I’m going to come out,” I announced. “You have to close your eyes.”
Vaughn hummed like he was considering his options.
I glared at the door.
“Fine,” he said, and I cracked the door.
Vaughn had his back to me, and I noted the presence of a big tool bag by the front door.
I slithered out of the opening and grabbed my bathrobe from the corner of the bed, wrapping it quickly around myself.
I tugged the towel out from under the robe and hung it up on the hook just inside the bathroom door.
Then I exhaled, crossed my arms, and said, “Okay. Now tell me what you’re doing here.”
Vaughn took one step and was across the room from me. He bent over and unzipped his tool bag. “I’m going to fix your leak.”
“You can’t just come here and fix my leak,” I protested, planting my hands on my hips as I kicked a mound of laundry under my bed to hide it.
It was wet, and I grimaced. I’d have to wash it all again, which would probably end up in me ruining everything I owned and burning the building down as well.
I picked up a couple of pot lids and a bottle of multipurpose cleaning spray and let them clatter onto the countertop.
The smear of egg yolk on my dirty plate stared back at me like an eldritch smile, cackling at my predicament.
Vaughn glanced over his shoulder and arched a brow at me.
“I can, and I did.” He stood up, holding a tool in one hand.
I had no idea what it did, nor did I care.
I was overwrought and overwhelmed. On the one hand, it was sweet that Vaughn had rushed here to save me from whatever he thought was attacking me.
But on the other, his presence was making me feel things.
Like the sweet, mournful yearning of wanting him to come to my rescue all the time, forever. And the hope that now that he was here, everything would be okay. And the mortification of him seeing my cramped, filthy living space.
And, as he crossed the distance between us and stood before me, eyes steady on mine, cologne temporarily banishing the musty smell of my apartment, I became keenly aware that I wasn’t wearing any underwear.
I gulped. “I, um, was in the middle of cleaning,” I said, waving at the spray bottle on the counter.
His lips twitched. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m usually very tidy,” I lied.
The twitch turned into a curve. “Oh?”
“You caught me on laundry day, is all,” I finally said, huffing.
Vaughn shifted, bringing his chest almost to mine. His free hand lifted up and pushed a strand of wet hair off my temple, which sent a zing of heat arrowing down my stomach. “I’m going to take a look at your sink,” he said.
My heart—traitorous, silly thing—sank when he didn’t lean down and kiss me again. Even though it was a good thing. A very good thing. Kissing him was bad. I couldn’t quite remember why , but I was sure it was.
I busied myself tidying up the rest of the tiny apartment while he hunched under the cabinets of my kitchenette, but his presence was impossible to ignore.
Anywhere I stood, I could see him from the corner of my eye.
I caught hints of his cologne if I got too close.
The sound of his breathing made my heart thump harder.
I’d just started folding some of the clean clothes on my sofa where there was a loud bang, and then a tearing sound. I jumped, then turned to see Vaughn crawling out from under the counters, holding a big piece of my cabinet.
“Oh my God, what are you doing? Put it back!” I said, flapping my hands.
Vaughn held up the piece of melamine to display a disgusting black patina crawling up the face of it. “Put it back?” he asked.
“I’ll never get my deposit back!”
“Alba. This is mold.” He held up the piece of cabinet.
I blinked at it. Then at him. Despair yawned open in the pit of my stomach, and I felt the mortifying urge to cry. Mold meant I’d definitely never get my deposit back. How did I deal with mold? How much would it cost?
Problems that would have previously been fixed with a phone call now seemed insurmountable. My chest began to feel tight. Breaths came faster. The landlord would blame me. I’d have to pay to fix it, and it would drain my savings and then some. I’d be kicked out. I’d be homeless. I’d have to?—
Suddenly, Vaughn was there, a wall of warmth and safety. His hands clamped around me, enveloping me in their warmth. “Alba. Breathe.”
“I can’t.”
“ Breathe ,” he commanded, leaning his face right up into mine, his big palms coming to cup my jaw on either side, his bulk shielding me from the view of my horrible, dank home.
I inhaled and exhaled with him, and the tightness in my chest began to ease.
The warmth of his hands soaked through me, and before I could stop myself, I was burying my head in his chest, sighing as his arms wrapped around me once more.
Nowhere had felt safe for almost a year and a half—longer. Nowhere except Vaughn’s arms. Tears prickled at my eyes, and as Vaughn’s hand stroked my back, I let them soak into his shoulder.
“Sorry,” I said, my voice muffled in his bulk.
“Don’t be,” he replied. Once I’d gathered myself, Vaughn pulled away slightly, but he didn’t let me go.
He guided me to the bed and sat down, pulling me down onto his lap.
His thumb stroked the tears from under my eye.
His gaze was utterly serious as he said, “Pack a bag, Alba. You’re not staying here tonight. ”
I stiffened on top of him, my forearms resting on his shoulders. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s a health hazard,” he said, tipping his head toward the kitchenette, where the moldy cabinet stared at us from on top of the counter.
“I don’t—I haven’t—” I shook my head. I don’t have anywhere else to go . Straightening, I shook my head. “This is inappropriate. You’re my boss. You shouldn’t even be here, and I can take care of myself.”
“Alba—”
I screamed as another loud bang went through the apartment. I jerked. Vaughn caught me, and we slid off the end of the bed and tumbled onto the floor. One deep breath later, I looked over to see one of the feet of my bed had snapped, and the whole thing had collapsed.
Vaughn looked at the broken bed frame, then at me. “Pack a bag,” he repeated, and his tone brooked no argument.
“The landlord…the mold?—”
“I’ll handle it.” His tone was final.
For a fraction of a second, I considered protesting. I considered pushing him away, because getting any closer to him would no doubt end in heartbreak and disaster, just like everything else. But I was utterly drained — and I had nowhere to go.
It would feel so good to let someone else take some of the weight, for once.
I nodded.
Vaughn exhaled, like my agreement was a relief.
“I’ll wait downstairs.” He helped me to my feet, and with my hand still clasped in his, he pulled me in and gave me a hard, demanding kiss.
Then he pulled away and speared me with an icy, angry look.
“You have twenty minutes. If you’re not in my car by then, I’m carrying you out of here. ”
I scowled at him and opened my mouth to retort, but he kissed me again and made me lose my train of thought. Then he grabbed his tools and stalked out the door, leaving me in my bathrobe, panting, wondering how the heck I was going to resist him now.