Chapter 3 Riley
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Riley
My apartment was a shoebox.
A tiny, cramped shoebox above a tattoo shop, and I loved it with the kind of affection reserved for things you can’t afford to replace.
The walls were thin enough that I could hear the buzz of tattoo machines during business hours.
The heating was temperamental at best, hostile at worst. The shower took seven minutes to warm up, which meant seven minutes of standing naked in my bathroom questioning every life choice that led me here.
And there was a mysterious stain on the ceiling that I’d named Gerald rather than investigate. Gerald had been there when I moved in and would probably be there long after I was gone. We had an understanding.
But the apartment was mine. The one place Damien didn’t have a key to anymore, not since I changed the locks six months ago after he showed up drunk at two in the morning, pounding on my door and demanding I let him in.
The guys from the tattoo shop had to escort him out.
Dom had looked ready to throw him down the stairs.
I’d pretended not to be disappointed when he didn’t.
I kicked off my shoes, dropped my bag on the floor, and faceplanted onto my secondhand couch.
The cushions smelled faintly of the lavender fabric spray I used to mask the smell of whatever the previous owner had been doing on this couch that not even the best clean crew couldn’t take off.
I didn’t want to know. Some mysteries were better left unsolved.
The signing was over. I survived. Damien was probably plotting my demise somewhere, but that was a problem for Future Riley. Present Riley was going to lie here and dissociate until her brain stopped replaying the sound of his hand hitting her face.
My phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then started buzzing continuously because my group chat had apparently decided now was the time for chaos.
I pulled it out and squinted at the screen.
TIPSY PAGES & MIDNIGHT KISSES (the inner circle)
Jade: RILEY HOW DID IT GO
Jade: We had to leave before the end!!
Jade: Margo had an emergency client call and dragged us all with her
Margo: “Emergency” is generous. Man wanted to know if he could hide his boat from his wife.
Sloane: Can he?
Margo: Legally? No. Creatively? Also no. He’s an idiot.
Sloane: What kind of boat?
Margo: Why does that matter?
Sloane: Just curious about the scope of his stupidity.
Margo: A yacht. He wanted to hide a yacht.
Sloane: From his WIFE?
Margo: In his brother’s name. Like she wouldn’t notice.
Sloane: Men are absolutely useless I swear to god
Jade: ANYWAY can we focus??? Riley how was the rest of the signing??
I stared at my phone. How did I even begin to explain what happened after they left? A six-foot-seven blonde stranger walked in and called me “mate” and I felt a lot of things all over my body?
Just normal Tuesday things.
Riley: It was... a lot.
Sloane: Define “a lot.”
Riley: Damien was Damien. I handled it.
Margo: “Handled it” how?
I didn’t think all of them saw the scene so I explained it to them.
Riley: I may have provoked him into slapping me and then made my cheek redder so everyone would see.
Jade: RILEY. THAT’S WHY IT WAS RED?
Sloane: I’ll fucking murder him
Sloane: I have access to needles and ink. I can make it look like an accident.
Margo: That’s not how accidents work.
Sloane: You don’t know my methods.
Jade: Are you okay though?? Like actually okay??
Riley: I’m fine. It wasn’t even that hard. More shock and rage than pain.
Sloane: That doesn’t make it BETTER
Margo: She’s right. That’s still assault. I can recommend a lawyer friend if you want to press charges.
Riley: With what evidence? My word against his?
Margo: Witnesses saw your face.
Riley: Witnesses saw me walk out with a red cheek. I made it redder myself. Any halfway decent lawyer would tear that apart.
Margo: I hate that you’re right. Sometimes I hate my job. Lawyers are evil
Sloane: I still vote murder.
Margo: Noted. I’ll draft the alibi.
I needed to change the subject quickly.
Riley: Also a weird hot Australian guy showed up at the end and called me “mate.”
The chat went silent for approximately three seconds, then exploded.
Jade: WHAT
Sloane: EXCUSE ME
Margo: I’m going to need you to elaborate immediately.
Jade: HOT???
Jade: AUSTRALIAN???
Jade: MATE????? as in werewolf mate like your books or just friendly ‘hey, mate’??!
I found myself smiling despite everything as I typed out the story.
The blonde woman, Thessa, who was friendly and weird.
The man who walked in after her, tall and intense and looking at me like I was the only thing in the universe worth seeing.
The way he said mate like it meant more than the Australian slang explanation his sister offered.
Sloane: So let me get this straight. A hot stranger walked into your signing and looked at you like he wanted to devour you?
Riley: That’s... an accurate summary, yes.
Jade: This is a BOOK. You’re living in a book!! YOUR book!! I’m so jealous rn
Margo: Or a true crime documentary. Could go either way.
Riley: Thanks for that, Margo.
Margo: I’m a realist.
Jade: How hot are we talking? Scale of one to ten?
Riley: I don’t know. Eleven? Twelve? He was really tall.
Sloane: Height isn’t a personality trait.
Riley: It is when you’re 5’6 and he’s literally ducking under doorframes.
Jade: DUCKING UNDER DOORFRAMES
Jade: Riley this is your book boyfriend come to life
Jade: What else?? What did he say?? Did he ask for your number??
Riley: He asked who hurt me when he saw my cheek.
Sloane: ...okay that’s hot
Margo: That’s concerning. He doesn’t know you. Why would he care?
Jade: BECAUSE IT’S ROMANTIC MARGO
Margo: It’s a red flag, is what it is.
Sloane: Sometimes red flags are hot
Jade: And some of us are color-blind anyway, so
Margo: That’s how people end up on dateline
Riley: His sister said he’s from Australia. The “mate” thing is just slang there apparently.
Jade: Do you believe that?
Riley: I don’t know. Maybe? It sounded different though. More intense.
Sloane: Intense how?
Riley: Like it meant something specific? I don’t know how to explain it.
The conversation devolved into theories about the mysterious stranger.
Jade thought he was a secret billionaire, possibly royalty, definitely destined to sweep me off my feet.
Margo thought he was either a stalker or a hallucination brought on by stress and suggested I invest in pepper spray.
Sloane reserved judgment but demanded I text her immediately if he showed up again, along with his height, weight, and any identifying features that might help her find him if he turned out to be a problem.
Eventually, the chat shifted to Thursday book club logistics.
Jade: I’ll bring the cheese plate!
Margo: Vodka. Obviously. I’m grabbing three bottles.
Sloane: I’ll bring myself. That’s enough of a gift.
Riley: I’ll post on the main page tomorrow. Theme is “morally gray love interests who would commit murder for you.” Seemed fitting.
Margo: Art imitates life.
Jade: Or life imitates art!! MAYBE HE’LL SHOW UP AGAIN
Sloane: Jade, please.
Jade: A girl can dream!!
I put my phone down, feeling lighter than I had all day. Now I just needed food, sleep, and to stop thinking about gray eyes that flashed amber in bookstore lighting.
That last part was going to be a problem.
***
An hour later, I realized I had nothing to eat except a jar of pickles, questionable leftover Chinese food that might qualify as a science experiment, and half a sleeve of stale crackers.
My fridge was a graveyard of good intentions and expired yogurt. I opened the door and stared at the contents like they might magically transform into a meal if I believed hard enough. They did not.
I considered just not eating. Spite and caffeine had sustained me this long. I was basically running on fumes and stubbornness at this point. Adding food to the mix might throw off the delicate balance.
But my stomach growled loud enough to echo off Gerald the ceiling stain, so grocery store it was.
I grabbed my jacket, shoved my feet back into my shoes, and headed out into the night air.
The tattoo shop was still open downstairs, the buzz of machines audible through the floor.
I waved at Marco through the window as I passed.
He was working on someone’s back piece, a massive dragon that wrapped around their shoulder blades.
He nodded in acknowledgment without looking up.
The grocery store was three blocks away, a small family-owned place that had somehow survived the arrival of the big chains by sheer force of stubbornness.
Mrs. Kim had owned it for forty years. She knew everyone’s name, everyone’s business, and everyone’s preferred brand of cereal.
She also judged your purchases silently but thoroughly.
I once bought three pints of ice cream and a box of wine, and she looked at me like she could see directly into my sad, single soul.
Tonight I grabbed the essentials: bread, eggs, cheese, a frozen pizza, and a pint of ice cream I absolutely didn’t need but absolutely deserved. Mrs. Kim raised an eyebrow at the ice cream but said nothing. Small mercies.
The cashier was a bored teenager who didn’t make eye contact, which was my favorite kind of human interaction. No small talk, no questions, just beep, beep, beep, here’s your total, goodbye.
Perfect.
Lysmont at night was quiet. The streets emptied out after dark, people retreating to their homes like the town had a curfew nobody told me about.
I’d walked this route approximately four hundred times.
I knew every crack in the sidewalk, every flickering streetlight, every corner where the neighborhood cats congregated to judge passersby with their unblinking eyes.
I was three blocks from home when I felt it.
Eyes on me.
The prickle started at the back of my neck. Someone was watching me.