Chapter 12
Rosie: Did you see the news?
Rosie: Amen, sister.
PEPPER
“That container does not leave the plant, understood?” Chase’s face is cold, unyielding stone as he barks into the phone and hangs up.
The tension hangs thick in the back of the town car and barely a word has been said since we left the manufacturing plant. I’ve never seen him this way, he practically vibrates with fury, every thick muscle clinging tightly together.
“It’s a clever plan, even you have to admit.” I tip my head as we cross the Manhattan Bridge at a crawl, the glittering buildings bathed in golden midday sun. Not a cloud exists in the sky above the city, and it reminds me of long summers lying in hazelnut orchards with a much younger Sunny.
Chase says nothing, his elbow wedged on the window ledge, a palm slowly dragging up and down his carved jaw, stubble scratching quietly.
For the first time, I feel for him a little.
Only a smidge. I can tell he’s shaken by this new development, and in part, that shows he cares.
Or perhaps he is just worried about the PR shitstorm he’s been weathering becoming worse the longer this thing goes on.
I do what I always do when I’m at a loose end, and babble away nonsensically. “I mean, what better way to steal shipments than to re-route them within your own system? It’s genius really—”
“Yes, thank you, Pepper. I’ve got the picture,” he gripes, shooting tempestuous eyes my way. He jams his finger down on a small button in his armrest, and speaks. “Norman, we’re dropping Miss Quinn off at her apartment and then heading straight to the office.”
“Understood, sir,” a faceless voice reports back through a hidden speaker.
“I’ll have Norman come back and take you to the hospital with Mr. Clay’s stuff,” Chase follows up to me this time instead.
I blink at him, heat bubbling up beneath my skin. “No you will not! You’re the one that nearly killed him off, you’re not lumbering me with all the life admin that goes with.”
“Pepper,” he spits out with apparent impatience lining my name, “I need to go back to the office and start handling this. I need to contact every plant and have them check—”
“I’m pretty sure that one of the perks of being you, is that you get to delegate.” I fold my arms over my chest. I’m a Taurus, and he’s the enemy. Does he really think he can match my obstinance?
“I am delegating—to you,” he drawls, that ever-lurking arrogance he carries bleeding through his stormy demeanor.
I scoff, unable to believe that just moments ago, I was actually feeling sorry for this ass.
“I know everyone else in your life bows and scrapes at your feet like you’re some messiah, but I’m not intimidated by you, and you are not the boss of me.
” The last part comes out sounding humiliatingly immature, but I grit my teeth and bunker down in my own stubbornness.
“Strong words for someone who can’t even handle a house spider.”
“Strong words for someone who maimed a sweet old man!” We glare at each other for a beat, and then another. He lifts one brow slowly, and before either of us knows what is coming, we’re laughing.
“Sweet?” Chase’s laugh is a deep and velvety thing, so low it’s almost a rumble.
“Okay, not sweet,” I admit, trying to shake off my traitorous smile. “But old.”
“What is that guy’s deal, anyway?” he asks, using one broad hand to rake through the dark, loose curls on top of his head.
“I honestly have no idea. He’s just…” I twist my lips up, looking for the right descriptor. “Curmudgeonly.”
“Ooft, great word.” Chase grins, and a moment so at ease it feels glaringly out of place settles between us.
I swiftly ruin it, because what the fuck? Jamming my finger down on the little matching button on my side, I hope it works the same for me. “Norman?”
“Yes, ma’am?” the smooth voice responds immediately.
“Change of plan. Both me and Mr. Walker are going to my apartment building, and then we’re both”—I shoot Chase a meaningful glower—“going to the hospital.”
True to his employment, the driver tentatively replies, “Mr. Walker, sir?”
The man in question scrutinizes me openly without an ounce of shame, seeming to measure me in some way, before dipping his head in a gesture not born of this century. “As the lady wishes, Norman.”
***
“Jeez, there is so much stuff in here!”
Floral print armchairs squish into the small space, corralled by dark bookcases that overflow with old novels and ornaments, some cubbies stuffed full of paperwork or mail instead. Everything in this room feels slightly disheveled, and a distinct whiff of damp scents the air.
“Is he a war veteran?” Chase asks from across the room, the back of his head visible as he examines the contents of thick velvet cases laying open on a console table. He keeps his hands in his pockets, but leans over to get a better look.
I pick my way across the brown carpet and join him, taking in the glittering medals nestled into silk cushions in a neat little line. In comparison to everything else in the room, these are polished and cared for.
“I don’t actually know a thing about him,” I muse aloud as the realization dawns on me.
I have a pretty good relationship with all of my neighbors—it’s hard not to while living practically on top of each other.
Then again, it’s hard to get to know someone who insists on presenting such an impossibly prickly demeanor.
I frown as I take another look around the room, and as I do so, Lord Bartholemew Whiskerington III winds himself around my ankles, meowing noisily and pausing to smack his whiskered mouth in satisfaction—having just demolished two pouches of wet food.
Yes, that is really his name. No, I cannot explain why. Except to say, he’s British?
Spotting a bureau pushed into one corner laden with photo frames, I carefully untangle myself from the cat’s orange stripey tail and make my way over, dodging the pile of old newspapers stacked next to an armchair and the metal walker which lays abandoned there too.
The photos—all black and white—display a young man and a very pretty woman. Her pale skin radiates through the image, eyes crinkled happily and her brunette hair curled neatly to her head.
“Holy handsome!” I pick up one of the same couple on the beach, wearing old fashioned striped bathing suits and sitting in the sand next to a detailed sandcastle, and bring it closer to my face. “Mr. Clay used to be a fox!”
“He’s probably single, if you’re interested.” Chase appears at my side, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling as he leans over my shoulder to take a look, that woodsy smoke scent fighting to invade my nostrils.
“And how do you know I’m single?” I shoot back, ignoring the obvious teasing.
He lifts one shoulder, a signature smirk crooking one side of his full mouth. “I have a pretty good instinct for these things.”
I roll my eyes and stick my finger in my mouth, making a pretend retching noise—something about this man turns me into a petulant child.
I’m rewarded by his own sparkling eyes taking a leisurely tour of their sockets.
Placing the photo carefully back on the table, I note that it is also free of the cloying dust that coats every other item of furniture in this place.
Just before I turn away, I spot an open notepad balancing on the corner, a word scrawled into it snagging my attention.
“What the…” I snatch it up and scan the words and times that form a log, my mouth dropping open.
“What is it?”
I turn the notepad wordlessly in his direction.
Pepper: 7.35AM
Sunny: 8.20AM
Sunny: 4.23PM
Pepper: 6.46PM
The log continues in this way, detailing mine and Sunny’s arrival and departure times for weeks. No doubt this is part of some scheme to get us ousted from the building, although god knows what wrongdoing this could evidence. We’re allowed to come and go anytime we damn well please.
“This explains why he's always hanging around in the hallway when we’re there.” I cast the notepad back down, a niggling feeling weighting my belly. “If we look hard enough, there will be a voodoo doll with pink hair and pins stuck into every limb around here somewhere.”
“Oh good, saves me from having to make my own.”
Say what you want about the guy, but he is rather witty.
He has a cuttingly dry humor that seems to tumble out naturally.
In another life, we might even have been friends.
I hate myself for noticing that, too. Just like the way I hate noticing the small freckle below his lip and the way his nose scrunches a touch when he laughs.
“I’m not sure how I feel about you wanting a doll that resembles me.” I pull out a drawer in the bureau just for something to do, and see haphazard pens sprawled inside, the old-fashioned kind that take an ink cartridge.
“The kind you’re thinking of wouldn’t do well at all with pins, Peppercorn.” Another quick retort makes its way across the room from where he opens a door. “Now, are you just going to stand there, or are going to get the bits you offered to for Mr. Clay?”
I scoff, making my way across the room. “I didn’t offer, you volun-told me.”
“Oh yeah, I did, didn’t I?” He takes a faux moment to contemplate this, and then plucks me into the room by my arm. I take in the drab bedroom, with plain grey sheets and net curtains draped across the window.
“Be a doll and go through his closet, will you?” Chase guides me gently toward the door hanging crooked, peeking through to a long row of hangers, while fishing his phone out of his pocket and beginning to fire off one-handed texts.
“I’m going to stuff you inside it and duct tape your mouth shut in a minute,” I grumble, flipping through a pile of neatly folded shirts.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I sing-song innocently, beginning to drag out items.