Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
W hen a person is as poor as I am, we can make a hundred dollars stretch. Did I buy a new outfit with my hundred dollars? No. No, I did not. I went to a charity closet and replaced my clothes. I saved my two hundred dollars and went home. Well, to the apartment I’m squatting in.
People are all kinds of stupid, and you just have to find the right kind of stupid if you’re going to be living hand to mouth.
I hung out on the college campus the last month of the semester, listening to students until I found the right person.
He has his own apartment, he’s all paid up, and he’s gone for the entire summer.
Guess who’s watering his plants.
I probably should let them die since he didn’t arrange for anyone to care for them, but I can’t just watch them wither because he’s a bit dumb. Plus, it’s the least I can do since I’m sleeping in his bed and washing blood-soaked clothes in his washing machine.
On the plus side, no one in this apartment complex has even questioned who I am and why I’m living in his apartment.
The neighbors have zero interest in me, and that’s perfect.
I figure if I can get and keep a job for a few months, I’ll be able to afford putting a deposit on a space of my own.
Otherwise, I’ll have to keep house sitting under the radar.
Oooh! I wonder if there are professional house sitters.
I could do that! I wonder how someone gets into that kind of thing.
Something to look up at the library today.
Thankfully, there are plenty of libraries in this godforsaken city, and the one I went to wasn’t even the closest one to the apartment.
It was just the biggest one within walking distance.
Well, everything is within walking distance considering I walked several hundred miles to get here, but I mean a reasonable walking distance.
I don’t want to spend hours walking to the library.
If I’m going to do that, I’ll need some better incentive than shitty internet speeds and old computers.
Since I have some extra cash—thank you, sexy mass murderer—I stop by a food truck run by one of the few men I know who’s managed to work himself off the street. His name is Lionel Manchkin, and he’s the closest thing I have to a friend.
When I get to the front of the line, Lionel gives me an impassive once over before calling out to the cook behind him. “Manchkin Special!” He shakes his head at me. “Still looking for a job?”
I nod and shrug and hand over five dollars.
He hands me back two dollars and two quarters. “I heard about the diner. They said there were two survivors.”
I nod again, point to me and point to the cook behind him.
“You and the cook. You’re one lucky bastard.”
I shrug again. I am pretty lucky, but I don’t think Lionel knows how lucky I am, and if he did, I don’t think he would agree.
“I might have an opening for an overnight detailer coming up. Come back to me if you haven’t found a job in a week. I’m one write up away from firing my current guy.”
I nod again and take the egg, bacon, and cheese sandwich he hands me before slipping away.
For two dollars and fifty cents, Lionel gave me three pieces of toast, four eggs, two slices of cheese and four pieces of bacon.
It’s the sandwich that only Lionel can order for someone, and he only lets his friends have it.
It’s nothing special except that it’s a lot of food for cheap, but it’s sometimes the only food I can afford for the day, and Lionel knows that.
He doesn’t give anything away for free, but he makes the burden of homelessness less burdensome by providing food to some of his old friends.
I eat half the sandwich and wrap up the other half before getting on the subway.
One of the few things I pay for is a monthly pass.
I might be able to walk all over the city, but it’s not feasible if I really want to get out of the gutter.
I have to be able to move if I want to keep my prospects open.
“Don’t do it.”
Holymotherfuckingshit.
I look up so fast, I’m pretty sure I give myself whiplash. The guy is on the subway! Future husband! But maybe this isn’t the best thing, because now I’m looking around and almost everyone in this car has a weapon out and they’re all staring at my man. Dammit.
I should probably be worried about why so many people are trying to kill this guy, but I’m wearing my nice shirt, and I still have half a sandwich left, and I’m pretty sure my man is probably going to kill me too because once is coincidence, twice is suspicious, but meeting three times like this is downright proof that I’m probably someone he should kill.
I mean, in his head, not in mine. I’m totally an innocent bystander with bad luck (or is it good luck?), but if I were him, I’d probably kill me on principle.
Especially since I can’t defend myself.
Since no one is paying me any never mind, I scoot over the seats and into the furthest corner I can find, curling into a ball with my arms over my head in case of falling body parts.
“Santanos wants you dead, Fox. It’s our job to make sure Santanos gets what Santanos wants.”
I guess my future husband’s name or moniker is Fox since that’s the second person to call him that.
Fitting. The man is a total fox. Not a silver fox yet, he needs a few years for the silver to start coming into his dark hair, but I can totally see him as a sexy silver fox in about a decade, and I’m so here for that.
Ugh. Closed-box gunshots are deafening. Since I’m already mute and don’t want to lose my hearing, I plug my ears with my middle fingers, keeping my arms crossed over my head. Yay for the preservation of my hearing, boo for getting startled by the deadweight of a body that falls on top of me.
I’d complain, but I don’t have a voice, so I can’t.
When the gunfire stops, I push the body off me and scowl at the blood pooled on the paper covering my sandwich. I huff my annoyance and look up to find Fox looking at me with his head cocked. I hold up my food and point to the blood ruining it before chucking it at the man in a fit.
Honestly, why are so many people trying to kill him?
He doesn’t even try to duck the projectile. He just let’s it hit him in the leg—yeah, I do not have a throwing arm.
I stand up and check my clothes, unsurprised to find them in ruins again and sigh as the train starts slowing down for the next stop.
Looking around at the bodies I hang my head and shake my fist at Fox.
If he weren’t the love of my life, I’d be a bit more piqued, but I guess I’m just glad he’s alive.
A hand closes around my fist, making me gasp as I look up, remembering too late that three times is definitely reason enough to kill me. Locking eyes with the man’s dark hazel orbs, I’m surprised to find curiosity rather than murder in them.
The relief that he’s not going to kill me brings a huge smile to my face. I pat his sticky chest with my free hand, pulling it away bloody. I mean, we’re both pretty gross, but when I look at where I patted, I can see a hole in the fabric and think maybe my love has been shot.
I widen my eyes and look up at him, projecting concern. For a brief moment he looks surprised before suddenly he’s pulling me out of the subway car, onto the landing, and pushing us through the crowd of onlookers who’ve stopped to gawk at the gore.
No one even tries to stop him from kidnapping me.
Yep. Those fuckers just let the guy pull me right out of the station and onto the street.
He hails a cab, and before I’ve even processed what is happening, because ohmyfuckinggod he grabbed me and my arm is all tingly, Fox is holding my face and looking deep into my eyes like he’s as in love with me as I am with him.
“Address?”
Huh?
“What’s your address?”
Oh. Dammit. Now the awkward part where I have to figure out how to communicate while being mute and unable to write. I can type, don’t get me wrong. I can read and type, obviously; I use the internet all the time, but I never learned to actually write my letters, so…
Also, I guess our love connection is totally one-sided. Not that I blame the man; he doesn’t know what a catch I am yet. He’s been the one doing all the mating dance stuff, and I’ve just been watching from the sidelines like a mook.
“Address, Mr. Fox?” the cabbie asks while stupidly taking his life into his own hands.
I widen my eyes at the gun the man pulls and points at Fox, who immediately breaks the guy’s arm by bending it in ways it should not go, takes the gun, and stabs the cabbie with a knife that appears out of the air like magic.
Well, that fixes the problem with having to tell him my address.
“Address?” Fox asks again as he gets out of the cab.
Never mind; the problem is not fixed.
I watch in awe as he pulls the cabbie out of the car and then sits in the driver’s seat. So this is happening. Yay.
The best thing I can say about the whole cameras in cars thing is that it makes it really easy to type my address into the GPS directions thing. I don’t even have to try to explain to my future husband why I can’t answer his question. Love it.
Fox doesn’t waste time or words; he follows the directions, passes my apartment complex, and parks at the back of a grocery store about five blocks away.
Since I walk to this grocery store occasionally, I don’t mind the distance and figure he probably parked this far out so that no one would know where to look for my body if he’s going to kill me.
I don’t think he is.
I have no reason not to think so, but I trust my gut, and my gut tells me we’re going to have a long and sexy love affair, not that he’s going to kill me for having really bad luck.
I scoot my ass out of the backseat of the cab and turn my best smile on Fox, pointing to the grocery store since I have zero food in my apartment. Not my apartment, but you know what I mean.
He glances down at my bloody clothes and then to the grocery store, so I shrug to let him know that no one is going to care we’re covered in blood. They’ll probably assume it's a flash mob thing or something.
Since he doesn’t object, I take his hand—I’m totally willing to risk death for some hand-holding—and lead him into the store.
It’s the guns and ammo that cinches it for us.
We get a lot of looks, but mostly they’re amused, because normal people just can’t imagine that someone would seriously tote around this many guns and this much ammo, and they certainly assume that anyone covered in blood wouldn’t go out in public like that.
Obviously it’s fake, because we’re in a public place acting like we’ve done nothing wrong.
I mean, I haven’t done anything wrong, except maybe now I’m aiding and abetting, but that’s just how the cookie crumbles when the love of your life is so good at killing people.
Grabbing a buggy, I push it one handed, because why would I ever let go of my future husband’s hand if I don’t have to?
I walk Fox through the store, gathering food, a couple of first aid kits, and other things that could be useful if he expects to not get a blood infection from being shot.
Yes, I assume he’s been shot since there’s at least one hole in his clothes.
After making sure I can carry everything, I unload the items into the self-checkout, and then point to the screen when it demands payment, giving Fox my expectant eyebrows.
Half of Fox’s mouth turns up in a smile as he shakes his head and pulls out a hundred-dollar bill and feeds it into the machine.
I pat his arm to let him know he’s a good man, then grab our stuff in one hand—yes, it’s heavy; no, I’m not letting the injured man carry it along with his hundred pounds of weapons—and lead him outside, walking back to the apartments while holding his hand again.
Yeah no, I won’t be letting go any time soon.