Preview Midnight Wedding
Chapter One: Lena
My hot neighbor’s apartment door is wide open.
Which isn’t normal. I barely see Hot Neighbor around the building, but when I do, he’s always hurrying like he’s being chased by starving lions. The guy never even bothers to respond when people say good morning, which is rude as hell.
He strikes me as overly private and kind of an asshole.
Definitely not the open-door type.
It’s late at night, a little after two in the morning, and I’m just getting home from working a long, exhausting shift. My feet hurt, my back aches, my head’s a knot of pressure from the loud club music, and all I want is sleep.
A normal person would shout in and make sure the gorgeous surly dickhead isn’t dead.
Maybe that normal person might even call the cops or something.
Unfortunately, that’s not me.
This wide-open door drives me absolutely insane.
It hits all my buttons with a freaking sledgehammer: a place I shouldn’t enter and an unanswered question mixed with a horribly attractive and aloof man.
This stupid door was practically left here to test me.
And I’m going to fail.
When I was little, my mom says I used to get in things all the time. Like I’d crawl into the pantry and start pulling down the flour or I’d dig my way into a full hamper just to see what was at the bottom. I mapped and explored every inch of our ratty apartment by the time I was two-and-a-half.
One afternoon, I got lost in the park because I had to see the inside of a bush and then couldn’t find my way back out. I was three years old.
I got kicked out of a Target at six when I went rooting around in the back, just to see what it was like.
I broke my wrist at thirteen falling off a fire escape trying to climb into an abandoned warehouse because I saw a bit of graffiti I thought looked cool through a window.
Mom always says I was the most curious little kid she’s ever met.
And she doesn’t mean that in a good way.
It’s only gotten worse over the years, and Baltimore has no end of nooks, crannies, and stupidly dangerous places to explore.
It’s a disease, really.
The disease of curiosity.
Which is why that door is a nightmare for a girl like me.
“Just go home, Lena,” I whisper to myself as I cautiously approach. “Don’t be stupid. Just take one little peek, then go home.” I clear my throat on the threshold. “Hello?” I call out.
The entryway is cluttered with shoes and a table that looks like it was thrown onto its side. Glass glitters on the hardwood.
My heart quickens. Something bad happened here.
This is when a sane person would turn and walk right out.
Except instead of fear, excitement and a deep obsessive yearning to keep going fills my body like a lightning storm.
“Hello?” I call again, and there’s still no answer.
I step forward into the apartment. My heels crunch on the glass and I teeter slightly. I’m definitely not dressed for exploration right now, but that’s never stopped me before.
I tug at my short skirt and try to cover my see-through mesh top with my jacket.
Bottle girls at Club Shade work for tips, and drunk guys tip better when I look like I’m for sale.
“Hello? Anyone? If you’re a robber, please let me know. I’m just an innocent bystander, nothing to worry about. If you’re dying and bleeding out, groan a little so I can find you.”
Nothing, still quiet. Only the sound of my heels crunching over the remains of a shattered mirror and my heart hammering in my ears.
“Screw it,” I mutter and go deeper into the apartment.
It’s just like ours. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, living room, kitchen. Nothing fancy, but decent enough.
Except my home is decorated. Mom’s obsessed with junk shops and thrift stores—at least, she was before she got sick—and our place is filled with all her little treasures.
Hot Neighbor’s place is devoid of all personality. Like, serial-killer empty. And what’s around is utterly destroyed.
The couch looks like someone went at it with a knife. Plates are smashed on the kitchen floor. There’s debris everywhere. A dying plant wrecked in the corner. Movies ripped from their plastic boxes. The TV is shattered and lying at an angle.
But nothing on the walls. No photographs, no humanity. Some books, mostly thrillers, a few grocery store romances, stuff like that, but nothing to suggest a living, breathing person spends their time here.
It feels like this place was staged by a realtor or something.
The refrigerator is empty. Totally barren. The only food is a box of cereal smashed in the sink.
As I move toward the back hallway, something catches my eye. It’s black and metal. I reach inside an upturned drawer, biting my tongue, and pull it out.
It’s a gun.
I stare at the weapon. I keep thinking it’s not real, but the thing’s heavy. Like it’s made from actual metal.
I put it back, hand shaking.
Yep, something very bad happened in this apartment.
“Okay, Lena, now you really, really should go.”
The hallway to the bedrooms is a minefield of strewn clothes, tossed books, a mattress slit in half, and money.
Lots and lots of money.
It almost doesn’t make sense, all those loose bills. I stare at the cash, trying to count it all. Hundreds and twenties are strewn all over, some of them torn to pieces like confetti.
My mouth waters at the thought of scooping them up and my brain goes haywire.
Would Hot Neighbor notice if a few went missing?
Assuming he’s even still alive.
What the hell happened here, anyway?
If this was a robbery, they must’ve been after something extremely specific.
I kneel down, heart racing. I feel sick and terrified and so deeply curious I can’t stop myself. Who would do something like this? And who would leave the door hanging open when they were done?
I run my fingers through the cash and feel something underneath. It’s soft and pliable, and when I pull it out, a little laugh catches in the back of my throat.
Boxer briefs. Black cotton boxer briefs. Fruit of the Loom and big. I stare at the underwear and hold them up, nerves and terror making me giddy and stupid.
I picture Hot Neighbor wearing nothing but these and get a little thrill.
I’m running on pure adrenaline right now and not thinking straight, because I’m wondering what they smell like, but I am not a total creep.
I’m not like a weird boxer sniffer or something.
Normally, at least. I mean, there’s nothing sexy about these things.
Only the man who wears them is obscenely attractive.
Then there’s a sound behind me and I whirl around.
A man stands near the entry hall. He’s staring at me with narrowed eyes. Tension is written all over his body.
He’s got a gun pointed at my face.
It’s him. It’s Hot Neighbor. He’s wearing jeans, a dark shirt, and his thick black hair’s pushed back in a careless curly wave.
I’m relieved he’s not dead. A big part of me assumed I was going to find his body.
Hot Neighbor’s still handsome as sin, even looking like he’s about to blow my skull off. The guy’s big and muscular, athletic and gorgeous, with full lips and tan skin.
Despite the clear threat in his expression, he’s otherworldly.
Slowly, I raise my hands up in the air. I open my mouth to speak but I can’t find words. I’m scared, aroused, terrified, mostly confused and emotionally wrecked.
His eyebrows raise.
“Are those my underwear?” he asks.
My mouth falls open.
I’ve still got his boxer briefs clutched in my left hand.
That finally loosens the traffic jam in my skull. “I can explain,” I say as my cheeks turn bright red.
Am I seriously embarrassed right now? The guy’s still pointing a gun at my head and I’m worried about underwear?
“Did you break in here to steal my clothes?” he asks, a little smirk on his lips.
Holy shit. Is he seriously joking around with me right now?
“The door was open.” I let the undies fall from my hand, beyond mortified. Somehow the embarrassment overwhelms the fear and my head starts working again. Partially, anyway. “I called in and nobody answered and I was looking around—”
“And you thought my underwear was interesting?”
Yep, definitely fucking with me. Who the hell is this gorgeous asshole and how is he acting so smooth?
“It was under all the money.”
He glances down at my feet, frowning. The gun never wavers from my chest as he looks back up. “You’re that girl.”
“I’m definitely a girl.”
“The neighbor. I’ve seen you around.”
He noticed me? Hot Neighbor actually noticed me?
Oh my God, Lena, this is not the time.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to come in here, it’s just that the door was open.”
“You said that already.”
“I was trying to make sure nobody got hurt.” I clear my throat and look around. That seems believable, right? Just an innocent bystander trying to do right by a neighbor, that’s me. “What happened in here, anyway? Not that it’s my business, but—”
But I can’t keep my stupid mouth shut and just had to ask.
Slowly, the gun lowers. He’s staring like he’s not sure what to do with me, and I get the feeling he’s caught between normal violence and extremely grisly and painful violence.
I’m leaning toward normal, but that’s just me.
Getting murdered doesn’t sound all that appealing at the moment. Since I have no clue what to do in a situation like this, I decide the only way out is through sheer force of will.
Otherwise, he’s going to blow my brains out, and that would be bad.
I like my brains. I’ve got wonderful brains.
He looks at the floor and kicks at some debris. “I’m not sure yet. I just got back.”
“I can help you clean up,” I say brightly, like I’m just a friendly girl willing to do her super-sexy neighbor a solid, and nudge the underwear away with my foot before walking into the kitchen. “Do you have a broom or something? I can grab trash bags—”
Just keep going. Push forward. Don’t give him time to decide I’m better off with my brains painting the wall.