CHAPTER 12 Rowan
CHAPTER 12
Rowan
O n Saturday morning, I’m roused from a really nice dream about Charlie Cooper in which we were wearing little clothing and being very active by a few strong, sharp knocks on the front door.
Charlie. He could be surprising me?—
I race down the hall in nothing but my hot pink briefs and swing open the door. A woman, probably midfifties, is standing there holding a stack of papers. “Are you Floyd Bordner?”
So much for getting my hopes up. As usual. I shake my head.
“Does he live here?”
My hand goes to my hip, and I shiver as the cold desert air hits my bare chest. “Who wants to know?”
“What’s your name?” she asks.
I raise an eyebrow. “Again, who wants to know?”
She thrusts the papers into my hands, and I take them involuntarily. “Here is a copy of the summons and complaint in the matter Lancaster Apartments versus Bordner and Jones.”
“What?” Squinting at the small type, I rub my eyelid.
“You’re being sued. Or, rather, Floyd and everyone else who lives here are being sued. ”
I gape at her. “What do you mean?”
She takes a photo of the front door with her phone and fiddles with it, likely sending an email. “I can’t answer any questions about the lawsuit. I’m just a process server.” Turning on her heel, she heads down the rickety staircase.
The papers she gave me feel like they’re giving off an electrical charge. I close the door and stand in the hallway reading them. I don’t understand a lot of the words, like “unlawful detainer,” but I get the gist of it. We’re being evicted for nonpayment of rent.
Which is bullshit, because I’ve paid the rent. I’ve paid the rent instead of eating.
My nostrils flare.
While I want to stomp, I’m barefoot, so it wouldn’t have the desired effect. Instead, I pad down the hall to Floyd’s room and fling his door open so hard it hits the wall behind it, likely leaving a hole. He sits bolt upright in bed. His room has slightly more furniture than mine. Which is to say he has a real mattress, as well as a chest of drawers that’s littered with bongs, beer cans, and trash.
“Wha?” Floyd rubs his eyes.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” My fingers are itching. I should’ve brought my knife with me, but no, I’m just standing here in my underwear.
I’m sure I could get creative if need be.
He squints at me. “What are you talking about?”
Sweeping my arm out, I throw the papers at him. Some of them land on the mattress. Others fall to the dirty carpet. “We’re being evicted.”
Floyd’s jaw drops. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. Oh, shit. Why are we being evicted? I’ve been paying you rent.” Heat flushes through my body.
His open mouth turns into a yawn, which turns into a shrug. “I must’ve forgotten to send it in.”
My voice is dangerously quiet. “What do you mean you ‘forgot’? ”
“Um, I haven’t paid the landlord.”
“How long?” I ask. “How long has it been since you’ve paid them?”
He scratches his chin. “Maybe two or three months.”
“Two or three months!” I screech. “What the fuck?” I’m so tempted to hurt him right now. But I hold myself back. Floyd is skinny, but he’s also tall, and I learned my lesson about tackling guys bigger than me with Charlie—at least, doing so without backup and a good plan.
I may add him to my vengeance list, though.
His palms are up in a “Who cares?” gesture. “Relax, I’ll talk to him. We’ll get it taken care of.”
“With what money? I don’t have any income right now.”
“I could sell some weed.”
I scowl. “You don’t have any you haven’t smoked.”
“Just relax,” Floyd repeats. “Let me sleep. We don’t have to move out today. There isn’t a hearing date listed.”
“You’ve gone through this before?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry about it, man. I’ll figure this out in the morning.”
I’m definitely adding Floyd to my vengeance list. “It is morning!”
“Close the door on your way out.”
Huffing, I leave, slamming his door shut, and start pacing in the hallway.
What am I going to do for money? For transportation? For housing?
Because it’s pretty hard to be a ShareARide driver if I don’t have a car, and it’s pretty hard to rent a room if I don’t have any money coming in. And I can’t stay here if we’re getting evicted.
My hands are trembling. I’ve survived this week on Charlie’s leftovers plus the ramen and soup I had in the pantry, but that’s all out.
I don’t know what I can do .
Back in my room, I look around at my meager belongings. Some clothes. Deodorant and shampoo I keep in here so Floyd won’t use them. A couple BL mangas. ( Dick Fight Island is the greatest story ever told, and I will fight anyone—with my dick, if need be—who says otherwise. Unless they say it’s Dick Fight Island , volume 2. I also had to own Ore Miko and Birds of Shangri-La , but I’ve never had enough money to buy all the other manga I want for my shelves. If I had shelves. And don’t get me started on Secret XXX , which sounds pornier than it is. Although it’s plenty porny.) A vape I barely use. A sleeping bag on an air mattress, both from Walmart. My new phone and charger.
My phone. Charlie .
Before I know what I’m doing, I pick up my cell to call Charlie, but at that exact moment, there’s an incoming call from a number that’s not in my phone—which isn’t surprising, since the only numbers in there are Charlie’s and Xavier’s.
I’m about to decline the call—because who answers calls from numbers they don’t recognize?—but then I remember that almost no one knows this number. So I answer.
“This is Officer Ramirez from the Los Angeles Police Department. May I please speak to Rowan Jones?”
I scratch my bare belly and hunt around for a hoodie. “Um, this is Rowan.”
“Good news, Mr. Jones. I believe we have recovered your vehicle. We will need you to come in and identify it.”
My heart leaps. “Really?”
She lists off the make and model, and it’s my license plate.
“Oh my god, that’s great news! Where is it? Is it impounded?”
“No, we don’t impound stolen vehicles.”
“Okay. Where do I have to go?”
She lists the address, and my stomach sinks. It’s at least a two-hour drive away, and that’s if I had a car. The public transportation system in California sucks, and I don’t have the money for a ShareARide. Ironic .
Also … is Wilbur okay? I know I should be more concerned about my car, but in reality, I want my plant, too.
“Okay,” I say, after I’ve scribbled down the information on the back of a Taco Bell receipt. “Thanks.”
I’m going to need help getting to the police station. I hit the button for Charlie, hoping I’m not asking him for too much. He left me on read yesterday, which I don’t love. On the other hand, he said I made him come the day before, and he sent his health info, so… winning? Still, I hate to ask him for a ride. Again.
But sometimes a boy needs his daddy.
When Charlie appears at my door three hours later, his hair is more rumpled than when I saw him first thing in the morning at his house. It’s like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop. On the other hand, I’m clean and dressed and have had a healthy breakfast of my last off-brand Pop-Tart.
My heart leaps out of my chest at the sight of him, and I bite my lip. Charlie’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and work boots, and he looks like some kind of mountain man. I want to climb him. He smells like that hinoki lotion he uses. (I looked it up online. Out of my price range.) “You came,” I whisper.
“You called,” he says.
I stand there, fidgeting. “Do you want to come inside?”
“Yeah,” he says. He leans down and kisses me, and it warms up every cell in my body.
When we stop, I keep clinging to his biceps a little longer. “Thanks for coming.” Finally, I take a step back and let him in.
“Of course. You need your car. And besides …” He rubs the back of his neck. “I wanted to see you.”
“I know it’s not much,” I say apologetically, looking at the stained futon in the living room.
“It’s fine. This is where you are right now.”
“Not for long,” I mumble.
“What do you mean?”
I pick up the papers I was served with this morning, which Floyd left on the counter when he got up to eat cereal. “I paid my roommate rent, but he never paid our landlord. For months now.”
Charlie glances at the documents and crosses his arms. “Oh. Really?” His voice is dangerously quiet.
“So I’m a short-timer here.”
“Where are you going to go?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. There’s always someone with a room advertising online. I can find a place.”
“That’s not safe,” he says sternly. “You could end up with some kind of weirdo who’s going to hurt you in your sleep.”
“I’d like to see them try.”
He wraps his arms around my waist. “Rowan, I know you think you’re all badass?—”
I scowl.
“—and you are. But you aren’t invincible.” He rubs his face. “Dammit, this is a bad idea, but what if you come live with me until you get back on your feet?”
My expression morphs to one of confusion, while at the same time my heart rate speeds up. “What’s your perfect man going to think about that?”
“I’m not seeing him anymore,” Charlie says quietly, his hazel eyes locked on mine. He has very long eyelashes. “At least, not like that. I agreed to go to a work event with him, but only as a friend.”
I blink. “What?”
Charlie tilts his head to the ceiling and lets out a heavy sigh. “Fucking him when I’m … like this … isn’t fair to him.”
“Why not?”
He sucks his cheeks in. “It just isn’t.”
I’m in need of some serious time to process that. Does it mean Charlie has feelings for me? Or does it mean he felt guilty about what we did? Or did he realize the guy wasn’t for him, but he doesn’t want me, either? I’m not sure I like him going out with the guy, even if he’s not fucking him.
Shit, that’s a mess.
“Come stay with me,” Charlie reiterates.
I shake my head. “I can’t just freeload off you.”
Charlie gives me an intense stare. “You’ve been out of work for over a week. Where are you going to get money for another place?”
“I’ll figure it out,” I mutter, staring at the floor.
He puts a finger under my chin and kisses me, harder this time—until I’m breathless. “Pack your things. Let’s get you the hell out of here.”
Ugh, the command voice. I love that voice.
Some ingrained part of me wants to argue with him, but … let’s be honest, it’s a small part. Besides, it would likely be futile. “This is just temporary,” I say. “And I’ll start paying you rent as soon as I get some income.”
“You don’t have to, but if it makes you feel better, then fine.” He heads down the hall and swivels his head. “Which one’s yours?”
I nod to the door on the right, and he pushes it open. My room looks even more barren when I imagine what he’s thinking.
He scowls and puts his hands on his hips. “Grab your shit, and let’s go.”
It’s the command voice again. I’m helpless against it.
It only takes us two trips to get every single thing I own shoved into the back of his Land Rover. I flip off Floyd’s room when I leave. He never even came out to see what was going on.
Time for me to start over. Again.
At the police station, I show them my driver’s license.
“Is this your current address?” the officer asks, pointing at the card .
Funny how they ask that every time. They must know people move around a lot. “Um. No. I’m between houses.”
“Put down mine,” Charlie says, and he rattles off the address.
“We’ll be in touch if we find the suspects,” the officer says. “We may need you to identify them.”
“Okay,” I say, and am heartened when the keys are back in my hand.
I’m afraid to see what kind of condition those jackasses left my car in, but I suppose it can’t be that much worse than it already was. Besides, the car isn’t what really matters.
“I’ll show you to the lot,” the officer says, and Charlie and I follow him.
There, parked in the back, is my beat-up old Corolla. I cringe. Compared to Charlie’s car, it’s such a piece of shit.
But … I squint, and as I get closer, my shoulders slump. I press my lips together tight. My stomach clenches, and my heart feels like it’s shrinking.
“No,” I whisper, my hands flat on the passenger window.
Wilbur’s gone. Those motherfucking bastards . How dare they take him?
“We had to tow it here, because it was out of gas,” the officer says. “But we can give you a gallon or two to get you to a gas station.”
I’m barely listening, and my body’s started to shake.
Is it weird that I’d rather they’d found my plant than my car?
“Assholes,” I mutter. “Did they just use it for a joyride?”
“It seems like it,” the officer says. “If everything else is in place.”
“It’s not,” I say. “They took my … personal belongings.”
“What personal belongings?” the officer asks.
“I had a plant in there. It has sentimental value.”
More than sentimental value.
“I bet it’s long gone.” The officer’s tone isn’t unkind, but he clearly isn’t going to start a search for Wilbur. He’s got important things to do—which don’t include finding a grown man’s plant.
But at least with a trip to the gas station and maybe the car wash, I can be back in business.
The officer brings over a gas canister, and I get in the car and start it up. I try not to peel out of the parking lot, but I hate being around the police.
I follow Charlie down the street, and he pulls in at the first gas station he sees. Now is not the time to argue over the fact that there’s another station down the block with a lower price.
It occurs to me that, after I fill up, I could just leave. I could sleep in my car and get some trips going and get some money and go on with my life. But before I can check my bank balance to know how much gas I can buy, Charlie slides in front of me and slips his credit card into the pump.
It’s not the money. Or it’s not just the money. It’s his kindness.
Charlie may call himself an asshole, but I know the truth. He’ll bend over backward to help a stranger.
In that moment, I know something else, too: He’s mine.