2. Maddie
Chapter two
Maddie
The sound of guitar chords being strummed echoes through the thin walls separating my apartment from Nick’s.
“I’m going to kill Nick.” I stick the earplugs back into my ears. They keep falling out. I hit the pillow again and turn onto my side. My sleep schedule is also off because I stayed up too late last night for New Year’s Eve, celebrating at my friend Lily’s party hosted at her fiancé’s place.
The earplugs hurt. I take them out.
I sit up and decide to work on one of my little felted miniature creatures.
I’m selling them at the New Jersey miniature show in two weeks, and I need more stock.
I take out my wool, needles, felting mat, pull on my finger protectors (before I poke my fingers with the needle because I’m tired) and start working on a little black dog.
Nick’s voice carries through the paper-thin wall that separates my apartment from his. He’s singing about not being able to trust anyone and worried someone likes you not for you, but for what you represent.
That’s not something I have to worry about. But it makes me sad that he does.
I know he’s not dating that woman claiming to be Cara. Our wall is so thin, I’d hear any other activity. I should be grateful I only hear music.
He’s singing about loneliness and feeling like you can’t share your deepest feelings and fears because you’re afraid that person will turn away and never want to talk to you again.
I can’t help but listen.
How does he know these feelings? He’s a frickin’ rock star.
Okay, he’s not mega-famous yet, but he’s getting there.
He has a fan club. His YouTube channel comments are filled with comments like: “I love you,” “Your music helps me to get up in the morning,” “You got me through a dark place,” and “Your voice is all I need.” And as far as I’ve seen at concerts, he’s incredibly grateful to them all.
He takes the time to chat with them but yet maintains a cautious distance.
At least he’s never had someone he dated tell him—I shake my head.
I will not repeat what my ex said about my kissing ability.
He also broke off our relationship abruptly.
And that’s the second time that’s happened.
While I was thinking that we were growing closer, getting to know each other’s inner quirks and foibles in the short time we’d been dating, my last two boyfriends were plotting how to tell me that it wasn’t working for them.
I sigh. It wasn’t like I’d thought it was perfect, but I’d been willing to give it a chance. Both times.
I add eyes to my miniature dog. It’s done.
I crawl back into bed and count sheep. It doesn’t work.
It’s the music from next door, yes, but I’m also excited about this possible story.
If I can prove corruption at the highest levels of the New York City government—that a commissioner or deputy commissioner of a city government agency is taking bribes—that will be huge.
It can even affect the mayor and the upcoming elections.
A front-page story about bribery will prove that I should be promoted and assigned officially to the city politics beat.
Right now, I’m listed as a reporter on published articles, but I’m not assigned to any beat, so I can be given any local story to cover.
I want the beat listed after my name: Madeline Hughes, Reporter—City Politics at The Intelligencer .
It’s between Sarah (or Nemesis, as I prefer to call her) and me.
There is no way I want to be left covering parades while she is interviewing the mayor about the latest headline news.
Not when I’ve worked so hard and she’s coasting on connections.
Not that I don’t love a good parade. And not that the world doesn’t need more feel-good stories.
But I became a reporter to fight corruption—to make sure the bad guys don’t win.
I turn again and pull my cover over my head. Now I’m hot.
Nick’s voice is still in my ears. I hate to ask him to stop when he’s deep in his music magic.
But I do not function on six hours of sleep.
It’s almost midnight. I’m meeting my source at seven a.m. to confirm that he was asked for a kickback in exchange for contractor work at a public housing development.
I’m so lucky that I met that mom, Tasha, at the library event today.
As soon as she found out I was a reporter, she said that the senior leadership at the Infrastructure Department might be corrupt. This could be a huge break.
The Infrastructure Department is responsible for overseeing the city infrastructure, such as its public housing, led by Commissioner Johnson, who has a pristine reputation.
But then, could it be one of the three deputy commissioners who serve under him?
They are each assigned specific public housing developments.
They’re also responsible for licensing for commercial establishments and doing safety inspections, among many other things.
That’s another area ripe for bribery. I need to be on my toes later.
Now, Nick has moved to the fire escape. And he must have plugged his headphones into his amp, but he’s still singing. Softly.
It’s no use. I’m wide awake. Maybe if Nick talks it out, he’ll feel better, and he can go to sleep. He must be exhausted too.
I get out of bed, stick on a bra, slip my feet into my big bunny slippers, and open the window that leads onto our shared fire escape.
Nick doesn’t turn around. He probably can’t hear me with those huge headphones.
I walk over gingerly. Bunny slippers were not a good choice for walking on these iron slats. It feels like parts of my feet slip right through the empty spaces. I stare straight at the back of his head because no way am I looking down through the slats to see how far up we are.
I reach him and gently tap him.
He whips around. “Are you serious? I’m using headphones.”
“I can still hear your voice as you sing.”
Nick huffs. “What about those ‘super comfortable’ earplugs I got you?”
“They’re not super comfortable. They’re instruments of torture.”
“Okay, okay. Let me write one more stanza. I’m almost done.”
“Fine.” I lean against the wall and wait.
He turns and looks at me. “Having you drill a hole in the back of my head is not helping.”
“I can’t imagine why not,” I say. “Access to the inner thoughts of Nick Devlin.”
Nick faces me as he takes his guitar off and writes down the last few notes and lyrics. Strands of his wavy brown hair fall over one eye as he concentrates, and I clench my hands involuntarily. His hair is the kind that makes me want to run my hands through it.
He closes his notebook with an exaggerated flourish, and his deep-green eyes meet mine.
Sometimes I can’t believe he’s my neighbor and a regular guy, because he’s just so good-looking.
It’s to my benefit that his music playing at all hours is so annoying, or I’d probably be more gooey eyed around him.
“But why such a sad song?” I ask. “I thought your concert went well.”
“I wrote a happier song earlier, but then I had to balance it out.”
“Wouldn’t want to be too happy. Then there’s nothing to write about,” I say.
“There’s some truth to that. And aren’t you the pot calling the kettle black, Ms. I-can’t-keep-covering-these-feel-good-stories,” he says. “What’s your lead?”
“Absolutely confidential?” I ask.
“I’m not talking to any reporters,” he says. “Except you.”
Always a pleasure when Nick reminds me how much he hates reporters.
“I might have a lead on a kickbacks story.” I want to jump up and down with excitement. This could be the story that makes my career. If it’s true.
“Seriously? That’s amazing,” Nick says. “How did you get the lead?”
“I was volunteering at Lily’s library event, reading books to preschool kids to entertain them while their moms had a networking session.
I met one mom, Tasha, who had a leaking showerhead in her bathroom.
Her building’s property manager hired a contractor to fix it, but he made it worse.
Although she complained about him, he is still doing ‘work’ around the housing development.
Another plumber—her friend’s brother—fixed her shower, and she recommended him to the property manager, a woman named Beatrice.
But when he pitched his services to Beatrice, she told him he needed to pay a bribe.
I’m meeting with him and another tenant who had shoddy work done by the first contractor. ”
“That’s huge,” Nick says.
“Right?” I grin.
“Alright, I’m done, and I won’t keep you up any longer. Go forth and save the city from corruption.” His eyes are shining at me.
Times like this, I really like Nick.
As he stands up—way too close to me—my heart buzzes, and I really hope that he can’t hear my heartbeat.
I turn to go back inside, but then I remember I forgot to tell him about my research on this YouTube woman. She is a scam artist. And her name is not Cara.
I whirl around but too quickly. Somehow, I trip on an uneven slat, twisting my ankle. Ow! Pain races through me. I’m falling.
Ooooh.
I can see the sidewalk below through the slats, and my stomach is in a free fall.
Until I’m caught by Nick and pressed against his chest.
“Got you,” he says.
I look up at him. I can’t move. Pain is still shooting through my ankle. I grit my teeth. It will fade. I need to wait it out.
“Are you okay?”
“I will be,” I say through clenched teeth. “My ankle.”
How am I going to cover my story tomorrow? I can’t believe I sprained my ankle.
Nick sweeps me into his arms and sits back down with me on the plastic crate he’s added to the fire escape.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
“I’ll be fine. I need to wait for the pain to subside, and then I’ll be fine.”
We sit there, me cradled in his arms, as the pain slowly lessens. I gingerly turn my ankle to make sure I still can. It’s not broken—just sprained.
As the pain lessens, I am suddenly very aware that I’m sitting in Nick’s lap, leaning against his chest. He’s all muscle. His body is so hard. I knew he was in shape, but this is a whole other level.
I’m probably squashing him. I move to get up, but he tightens his arms.
Pausing, I look up at him and then duck my head, afraid that he’ll see how much I want to stay right here. In his arms. Surrounded by his warmth. He smells like cotton laundry and fresh air. He swallows, and his Adam’s apple moves. I want…
But I’m a reporter. Rock stars and reporters are not compatible careers.
A reporter is behind the scenes and not necessarily recognizable.
I want the focus to be on any story I’m covering and not my personal life.
Whereas Nick is singing about his feelings publicly and has a fan club who surround him when he plays at Craic and Laughs.
I’m not the type of woman a rock star dates, anyway.
Especially if the parting words of my ex about his having no desire to kiss me are to be believed.
And the last thing I want is for Nick to realize I find him attractive.
Then he’d probably feel the need to be more aloof so as not to encourage any feelings.
He seems to be careful to be respectful but reserved with his fans. He might even pity me. Ugh.
I jump up, yelping as I land on my foot again.
“Really, Maddie?” Nick stands, grabbing my arm. “Don’t hurt yourself just to get away from me.”
“I’m okay now,” I say. “It doesn’t hurt as much.” The pain has retreated.
“Don’t collapse and fall on my guitar over there.” He gestures with his head towards the red guitar leaning against the iron railing. “She’s my baby. You don’t want to live with the guilt that you hurt my first child. Let me help you.”
“Okay,” I say grudgingly, holding up my hand. “Heaven forbid one of your guitars is in danger.”
“I’ll carry you to your window. Do you think you can get in by yourself?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll ice it and bandage it up, and I’ll be fine.
It’s not the first time, as you know.” Last year, I was running for an interview, and I went flying face down on the uneven pavement.
I missed the interview, and my rival at the paper, who apparently was following me, met my source first and scooped my story.
He sets me down by my open window, and I gingerly climb back into my apartment, being careful not to put too much weight on my injured foot.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, concern swimming in his eyes.
“I’ve been better,” I say.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s not your fault,” I say.
“What time is your interview tomorrow?”
“I’m meeting the contractor at seven at Tostje’s coffee shop. He has a job near the Seward Park development at eight. Afterwards, I’m meeting Tasha and the other mom with the same issue.”
“Make sure you ice that and put your foot up on a pillow when you sleep. Do you need my help?”
No. My hormones will never settle down if Nick plays nursemaid.
“It’s not that bad,” I lie. “I don’t need your help. I will ice it and use a pillow, Nurse Nick.”
He glares at me.
“Oh, and I came out to tell you that woman is a total scam artist,” I say. “She swindled some older couple out of their life savings and served a short jail sentence. I’ll send you the link to what I found. Maybe it can help you with your denial—that she’s not someone to be trusted.”
“I’m sure it will die down.” He winks. “But I’m touched by your concern.”
Then he gives me that slightly crooked and mischievous grin—the one that makes all his fans’ hearts melt. I hate that mine does too.