Chapter 9
Rhett
The elevator jolted into motion, and I took advantage of the movement to press Troy against the wall, my tongue seeking entry between his lips as he moaned into my mouth. I wanted him inside me.
“Pretty sure this is an HR violation,” Troy said against my lips.
“I want to HR-violate you all over the apartment.”
“How did you ever get laid with those kinds of lines?”
I pressed forward, grinding against him. “I know how hard you are. You must like my lines.”
His eyes drifted down over my body. “I do. All of your lines. But we should keep it civil in the elevator. Someone could get on.” His hands slid around to cup my ass, pulling our hips flush together. He wasn’t following his own advice.
“Don’t care,” I said, nipping at his bottom lip.
The elevator dinged, and Troy gave me a gentle shove as the doors began to slide open. “Behave,” he whispered, straightening his shirt with a smirk that promised retribution later.
We stepped out into the hallway, and I was just reaching for Troy’s hand again when I heard it—yelling, angry and threatening, coming from the direction of our apartments.
“Let me in, you fucking bitch!” The voice was male, slurred but aggressive. “The zoo guy said I’d love that package!”
Troy’s eyes met mine, all traces of playfulness vanishing as our first responder instincts kicked in. We broke into a sprint down the hallway, rounding the corner to find a man pounding on Aimee’s door, his fist connecting with the wood hard enough that I winced at the sound.
“I know you’re in there!” he shouted, kicking the door now. “This is my fucking place!”
Something red and violent surged through me, a protective fury that made my vision narrow to a pinpoint. Before I could think better of it, I closed the distance between us in three long strides and grabbed the back of the man’s shirt, yanking him away from Aimee’s door.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growled, spinning him around and slamming him against the wall opposite Aimee’s apartment. My forearm pressed against his throat—not hard enough to choke him, but enough to make it clear I wasn’t fucking around.
Troy stepped closer. “Jordan?”
I looked down at the man, realizing that behind the bloodshot eyes and filthy hair, I recognized this guy. He lived in the building. I wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.
“Get the fuck off me,” he slurred, struggling ineffectively against my grip. “That bitch stole my apartment! And my package.” His body vibrated with twitchy energy beneath my hold as he looked up at me with wide, dilated eyes.
“What the fuck are you on, man?”
Jordan’s eyes darted to the side. “Nothing.”
Troy was by my side, and he stepped closer. “That’s not your apartment,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. I recognized the tone—it was the same one he used with panicked victims during rescues, soothing but firm. “You live one floor down.”
“No. I live in 6B,” Jordan mumbled, some of the fight leaving him as confusion crept into his expression. “Have for years. Can’t tell me any different.”
I eased my pressure on his throat slightly but didn’t let go.
“You’re on the wrong floor, genius,” I said, still struggling to control my anger.
The thought of this tweaked-out asshole terrifying Aimee made my blood boil.
“This is the seventh floor. And that doesn’t explain why you’re calling our neighbor a bitch and trying to kick her door down. ”
His eyes widened, a moment of clarity breaking through his drug haze. “I’m on seven? Shit. I thought… I thought… The man in the lobby told me… Fuck, I’m fucked up. Sorry. I’m a little drunk.”
“Just drunk?” Troy asked.
“It’s just some Molly,” he mumbled, then tried to straighten up. “And a couple beers. Look, man, I’m sorry. I got confused.”
Troy’s hand settled on my shoulder, a silent reminder to ease up. “You’re scaring our neighbor,” he said to the man, his voice hardening despite its outward calm. “That’s not okay, regardless of what floor you thought you were on. Talking to women like that is not okay. You hear me?”
I reluctantly released my hold on the guy, stepping back but staying within striking distance.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said, watching as he rubbed at his throat where my arm had been.
“You’re going to get in that elevator, go down to your actual apartment, and sleep this off.
And if I ever hear you pounding on her door or calling her names again, I won’t be as nice. ”
“Look, I didn’t mean—”
“Save it,” Troy cut him off. “Just go.”
The man looked like he might protest, but something in Troy’s expression—or maybe mine—made him think better of it.
He shuffled toward the elevator, glancing back over his shoulder as if to make sure we weren’t following.
I jabbed the down button for him, maintaining eye contact as the doors opened.
“One more thing,” I said as he stepped inside. “We have some cop friends who’d love to hear about your illegal drug use. Keep it under control, man.”
“Fuck you, Troy’s friend. I’m not even that high. And I’d like to see you try. It’s not even illegal,” he muttered.
“Harassing women is, though,” Troy said. “Get some fucking help.” He held Jordan’s gaze until the doors closed, leaving Troy and me alone in the hallway. As soon as he was gone, I turned toward Aimee’s door, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
Troy was already there, his ear pressed against the wood. “Aims?” he called softly. “It’s just us—Troy and Rhett. That guy’s gone. It was Jordan from downstairs being an idiot.”
I moved closer, trying to hear any response from inside. There was a faint sound, and my chest tightened.
“I think she’s crying,” Troy whispered, his brow furrowed with concern.
I knocked gently. “Aimee? It’s Rhett and Troy.” I waited, then added, “Can we make sure you’re okay?”
When no answer came, I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. “Aims? Is it okay if we use the key? Just this once?”
I leaned closer, straining to hear, and caught what sounded like a muffled “yes.” That was good enough for me.
I pulled out my key ring, finding the spare Aimee had given us for emergencies—a decision she’d been reconsidering after our boundary-crossing incidents, but now I was profoundly grateful she hadn’t asked for it back yet.
The door swung open to reveal an empty living room. Aimee’s phone lay smashed on the hardwood floor, and on the kitchen island was an open cardboard box, its contents partially visible from where I stood. Was that a snake?
“Aims?” Troy said softly, taking a step in.
“Watch out for the snakes.” Aimee’s voice came from deeper in the apartment.
I moved closer to the box, my stomach churning at the contents. A snake lay still in the bottom of the box. The note was scrawled in block letters on lined paper: “REPENT OR FACE GOD’S WRATH.”
“What the fuck,” I breathed, anger flooding through me hot and sharp.
“Aimee, where are you?” Troy called out, his voice tight with concern. “The snake is dead.”
“More snakes,” Aimee’s voice cracked from somewhere deeper in the apartment. “There were more. They slithered everywhere. I’m in the bathroom. It’s the only snakeless room.”
My blood ran cold. I spun toward Troy, who’d gone completely still, his eyes darting around the living room like he expected serpents to materialize from the walls.
“How many more?” I called out, already moving toward the hallway where her bathroom was located.
“I don’t know! Two? Three? I saw them and I ran.” Her voice pitched higher, trembling. “Please get me out of here.”
Troy grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Rhett, man. You know I can’t deal with snakes.”
Troy, who ran into burning buildings without hesitation, who’d once pulled a guy from a car seconds before it exploded, was absolutely terrified of snakes.
“They’re probably just garter snakes,” I said, trying to sound calm and unworried. “Nonvenomous. They’re more scared of us than we are of them.”
“Bullshit,” Troy hissed, but he didn’t let go of my arm as we edged toward the hallway together. “Snakes aren’t scared of anything. They’re cold-blooded killing machines.”
“That’s not how—” I started, but movement in my peripheral vision cut me off. A small snake, maybe a foot long and thin as my thumb, slithered across the hardwood from under the couch toward the kitchen. It looked like a common garter snake, completely harmless.
Troy made a sound I’d never heard from him before—somewhere between a whimper and a growl—and climbed up my back, his arms wrapping around my shoulders from behind.
“Jesus Christ, Troy, get off—”
“Kill it!” he yelped. “Rhett, kill it!”
“I’m not killing a snake that’s probably more traumatized than we are,” I said, struggling to walk with Troy’s full weight hanging off me. “Aimee, we’re coming to get you, okay? Just hang tight.”
“Please hurry,” she called back, and I could hear the tears in her voice now.
I shuffled forward with Troy still clinging to me like an oversized koala, scanning the floor and walls as we moved. Another snake—this one slightly larger but equally harmless-looking—was coiled on top of the bookshelf in the hallway, probably seeking height to feel safer.
“There’s one on the shelf,” I reported, keeping my voice steady. “It’s not moving. Probably just trying to hide.”
“Probably trying to DROP ON OUR HEADS,” Troy corrected, his breath hot against my ear. “That’s what they do, Rhett. They drop from above and—”
I patted Troy’s arm where it was wrapped around my chest in a death grip. “They don’t drop on heads. That’s a myth.”
“Everything about snakes is a nightmare,” Troy muttered, but he loosened his hold slightly as we approached the bathroom door. “Aimee, we’re right outside!”
“The door’s unlocked,” she called back, her voice thick with tears.