Chapter 4 #2
The moment I emerge from the side street, an icy gust sweeps in from the shore, slamming into me.
I shudder and quickly shove my arms into my sleeves, the wind cutting through the cotton of my T-shirt.
Ahead of me, the beach stretches out, the ocean a churning, endless expanse.
The Wheel rises on the horizon, its towering silhouette flickering with lights against the dull afternoon sky.
I walk north along the boardwalk, weaving between groups of tourists pointing at the casinos, their excitement bright and electric.
Couples huddle together in the shore’s iconic rolling chairs, blankets wrapped tight around them as they glide along the wooden planks.
Laughter drifts on the breeze, mingling with the scent of salt and fried dough from the nearby food stands.
It’s a short ten-minute walk to my apartment, but my feet carry me farther, drawn toward the beach, until I find myself standing in front of the Rum and Room.
I hesitate.
The thought of knocking on his door tempts me, just to see if he’s still there and if those hazel eyes would look at me the same way they did last night. But exhaustion drags at my bones, a heavy, inescapable weight. I’m drained, my mind too cluttered, my body too sluggish.
Instead, I turn away, stepping off the walkway, heading home. Maybe after a shower and a nap, I’ll find my way back.
By the time I reach my apartment, everything feels hazy. I climb the stairs on autopilot, fumbling with my keys. When I push open the door, Taylor’s head pops up from the couch.
Her friend’s does too.
They were lying down. Now, they’re blinking at me, glassy-eyed and slow, like they weren’t expecting me back so soon. The apartment reeks. Thick, pungent smoke clings to the air, laced with sweat and something sour.
On my flat screen, the old 1980s movie True Romance plays on mute.
I step inside and recoil.
It’s a disaster.
Dishes overflow in the sink, stacked in unstable towers of filth.
The kitchen table is covered in half-eaten food and greasy, discarded takeout containers.
My bakery bins are all open, their lids missing, some spilled onto the floor.
Crumbs and smears of frosting stain the carpet. The anger comes fast, hot and sharp.
“No smoking inside,” I say, or at least try to. My voice comes out weak, sluggish, worn down by exhaustion.
Taylor giggles.
I spin in a slow circle, taking it all in, my hands curling into fists. “What the fuck, Taylor?”
She groans. “What’s the matter?”
I snap my gaze to her. “My apartment is a mess. That’s what’s the matter.”
I drop my purse and kneel, grabbing at the bins, trying to salvage what’s left of my baked goods. “Get up and help me clean this. Now.”
Taylor groans again, rolling onto her side. “But I’m sooo tired. I’ll clean later. I promise.”
The rage flares brighter. I tighten my grip on the bin in my hands.
I don’t believe her. Not for a second. “Taylor, I have to shower and sleep and be at work by four in the morning. Again.” I shove the tins next to the sink and crank the faucet on full blast, the water splashing violently against the dishes.
“We’re not bothering you. Go shower and sleep,” she mumbles, slumped against the couch like a boneless puppet.
“I can’t with my place looking like this.” I leave the water running and stomp to the windows, yanking them all open. Brisk air rushes in, pushing out the suffocating stench of smoke, sweat, and stale food. “And I definitely can’t with it smelling this horrible.”
Then I take a good look at her. She’s wearing my clothes. I stiffen, my nostrils flaring. “Are those my fucking clothes?”
Taylor looks down at herself, her foggy brain catching up just a second too late. Then she bursts out laughing so hard she collapses back onto the couch.
She’s so fucking high, it’s not funny. “No more smoking in here!” I shout, spinning back toward the sink.
“There’s nothing left to smoke.”
Like that’s supposed to make me feel better.
I squeeze some soap onto a sponge and start scrubbing madly.
Dishes, forks, knives, spoons, cups, mugs, containers.
I think they used every piece of dinnerware I own.
I peel caked brownie off the floor and wash frosting from the walls.
I run a mop over the floor three times and vacuum the living room rug to the sounds of rocks or whatever substance being sucked up inside.
The clothes I recognize as mine, I snap up off the floor and toss into my hamper.
Whatever is Taylor’s or whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is, I throw in a plastic bag.
“Who even are you? What is your name?” I demand, dragging the vacuum wand around his massive, dumb body.
He stands up and holds out his hand to shake. It’s full of popcorn crumbs. “I’m Henry.” His voice is distinctly Southern.
I don’t shake his hand. Instead, I trail the vacuum hose over it, sucking up the mess.
He blinks at me, then turns to Taylor, chuckling like I’m some big joke. “Did that just happen?”
“I dunno. Did it?” she says, giggling.
I shut off the vacuum, snapping my fingers in front of Taylor’s face, forcing her to look at me. “Taylor, you have to go home soon. I have too much going on right now.”
She groans, rolling onto her side. “Sure, but tomorrow. ‘Kay?”
I straighten up. Tomorrow? A wave of relief floods through my body, warming my skin. Tomorrow is okay. I can handle that. I’ll shower now and go right to sleep. I tuck the vacuum back into the closet and scan the apartment. It’s not perfect but it’s manageable. I’ll finish the rest once she’s gone.
I take out my contacts, jump into the hottest shower of my life, then collapse in a boneless heap on my bed.
A noise startles me awake. Groggy, I fumble for my glasses and tap my phone on the nightstand. The screen flares to life. 12:30 a.m.
I came in just after five. Seven and a half hours of sleep. Not enough. I want at least two more. But my bladder has other plans.
With a groan, I shove back the covers and shuffle into the hallway. The faint, skunky scent of weed lingers in the air, clinging to the furniture, seeping into the curtains. Great. I’ll have to wash them and probably sanitize the couch too.
Low murmurs drift from the living room. Taylor’s voice. No one is responding.
Halfway to the bathroom, I crane my neck to peek inside.
Harry or Jerry. Whatever his name is lounges on my couch with his feet kicked up like he owns the place, sipping a beer.
My beer. Even from here, I recognize the Bass Ale label.
My secret stash, raided. A hot pulse of anger flares in my chest. At this rate, these two will drink me out of house and home.
I still don’t see Taylor. She must be sitting at the kitchen table, talking on the phone. Hopefully, she’s making plans to leave. A twinge of guilt flickers through me, but I shove it down. I refuse to feel bad while her friend drains my beer supply like it’s an open bar.
I slip into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. In the mirror, my reflection stares back. Wild curls, the result of sleeping with wet hair. At least it looks good. A small, pointless victory in the middle of this mess. Maybe it will still look decent when I drag myself to work in a few hours.
As I do my business, I check my phone. Another missed call from my father. This time he actually left a voicemail. I don’t listen to it. I will call him between shifts tomorrow. He has to understand. I have nothing left to give.
I turn on the sink to wash my hands. Then I hear it again. The same noise that woke me up. It’s hard to describe, but it’s coming from below me. Which is impossible. The bakery is supposed to be empty right now.
My stomach plummets. Please don’t let it be rats.
Heart pounding, I dry my hands quickly and rush out of the bathroom into the kitchen. Taylor stands by the window, staring into the darkness.
"Did you hear something?" I ask, urgency sharpening my voice.
She jolts and slaps a hand to her chest. "Fucking shit. You scared the hell out of me," she snaps.
Sorry, not sorry.
"I heard something weird coming from downstairs. Did you?" I pull the curtain wider and peer down into the street below.
"This old building makes a lot of weird creaky noises." She yanks the curtain closed, then gives me a slow once-over. I’m too exhausted to make sense of it. "Henry and I think it’s haunted."
Oh. Henry. That’s his name.
Another sound. A loud bang, like something heavy crashing to the ground.
My pulse jumps. Is it the pipes? Did something fall? One of the ovens? That’s not possible, is it? I bolt for the door.
"Where are you going? You're not even—"
"Didn’t you hear that?" I cut her off, unlocking the deadbolt and shoving open the door. "What if a pipe burst?"
God, please don’t let it be a pipe. I can’t deal with an insurance claim before the place even opens.
Taylor says something else, but I’m already halfway down the stairs.
The moment my bare feet hit the cold cement between my apartment and The Frosted Spoon, I curse under my breath. If there’s broken glass or anything sharp, I’ll regret this. Why didn’t I take the time to put on shoes?
Bouncing in place to keep warm, I cup my hands over the glass door and peer inside. No flood. No burst pipes. No massive rats roasting marshmallows over a tiny campfire in the display case.
Okay. That’s a good sign.
I key in my passcode, unlocking the door. I won’t be able to go back to sleep until I check everything, so I might as well get this over with.
Inside, the tile floor is just as cold as the cement, but at least it’s dry.
No leaks, no water damage. Yet. The glow from the street light spills through the front windows, enough to see that everything looks normal.
No overturned chairs. No scurrying animals.
Maybe the sound came from outside. Maybe some drunk asshole was setting off fireworks.
Still, I should check the back.
I push through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Pitch black. No windows for light to filter in.
I stop, listen, and wait.
Silence.
When my eyes adjust, I trail my fingertips over the cool stainless-steel counters and head toward the storage rooms.
Then I hear it. A shuffle.
Muted voices.
My breath catches.
What the fuck?
I spin toward the back hallway and slip into the office. My office. My space.
And I am not supposed to have company.
The yellow glow of flashlights slices through the darkness.
Holy shit. Someone is in here.
Someone has broken into the bakery.
And I’m alone. No weapon. No phone. Where the hell is my phone?
A flood of horrifying images crashes through my mind, each one worse than the last. Is this it? Is this how I die? My breath turns shallow, chest tightening as panic grips me.
Wait. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think. Maybe it’s just someone looking for food. A hungry, unhoused person hoping to find something to eat. If that’s the case, I would gladly make them something.
But what if they’re dangerous?
What if they want money? What if they’re high? What if they’re looking for something worse?
What if it’s a serial killer?
A rush of air leaves my lungs as I press myself against the wall. My skin prickles, a slow burn creeping through my body as one of the men speaks, a deep, raspy voice that ignites something primal inside me.
No. That’s impossible. My ears must be playing tricks on me.
“What the fuck?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
The flashlights jerk in my direction. A string of startled curses cuts through the air, beams of light zigzagging wildly. My fingers fumble for the switch, and before I can think twice, I flick the overhead lights on.
Blinding brightness floods the room. I squint, shielding my eyes, and my vision becomes a blur of shadows and movement. Then the figures come into focus.
Four, no, five men.
Towering. Motionless. Their bodies are coiled, tense, ready. Each one is clad in black from head to toe, their faces hidden behind grotesque skeletal masks. Hollow eyes. Twisted grins. The kind of masks that elicit nightmares.
A sickening wave of dread washes through me.
They aren’t just standing there. They’re holding crowbars, ready to pry open my safe. The half dozen red roses I bought for my desk are spilled on the floor, trampled, petals scattered like crimson confetti.
My body locks up, frozen in place as the weight of terror crushes me. I blink, willing the sight away, but it’s burned into my brain. And then my gaze lands on the man in the middle.
My father.
Sweaty. Bug-eyed.
Standing among them like he belongs there.
“L-Lucky,” he stammers. “You’re here? A-at night?”
“I live in the apartment upstairs,” I answer automatically, my voice flat, distant. My brain is struggling to process what I’m seeing. What could he possibly be doing here? Why is he with masked men?
Why do they look like they just stepped out of a horror movie? Nothing makes sense.
My father stares at me, hands jittering, arms twitching. There’s something wrong, something I should understand, but my mind refuses to connect the pieces.
“What’s going on?” I ask. The question barely scrapes past my lips before one of the men reaches up, fingers curling around the edges of his mask.
Slowly, he peels it down.
I watch, my breath stuck in my throat, eyes tracing the movement until the mask drops to the floor.
The sight slams into me hard. My stomach twists. My pulse jackhammers against my ribs, a wild, erratic rhythm.
I know that face.
It’s the tattooed stranger. It’s him. It’s fucking Trouble.