Chapter 27
June
Tension radiates down my spine, and I stiffen it, standing taller in the new black stiletto heels I picked up on sale, to go along with the dress I borrowed from Lucia.
“It’s just a date,” I whisper, biting my lip as I hover by my front door. “There’s no need to be scared.”
It’s been two days since I last saw my scent matches, and Torin, it seems, was listening when I told him I didn’t want to see him again. He’s staying away. Even better, he passed the message on because I haven’t seen Callum or Archer either.
Moving on is good.
Dating is a sign—the best sign I could give—that I’m ready to move on. I can’t trust my scent matches, and I need to build a life for myself with people I do trust.
When I’m cleaning the hotel, Torin’s warning bubbles up in my mind. On the bus home, I stare into space and worry instead of looking forward to a cozy date any girl would love. Torin’s words are always there, an insidious whisper growing louder in my head.
Maybe I can’t trust Oscar after all.
“What if you didn’t ask and Torin was right?” I whisper to myself.
Turning from my front door, I fish my cell phone out of my purse and scroll through my contacts until I find Oscar’s number. Then I hit dial. I stare out of my apartment window as the phone rings in my ear.
Click.
“June?”
The moment Oscar’s rich voice flows into my ear, all my doubts melt away. When I’m talking to him, I don’t doubt. When it’s just me, all I do is doubt. Why is that?
My fingers tighten around my cell phone. “Hi, Oscar.”
“I was just getting ready to leave,” he says. “Did you want me to pick you up instead of meeting at the restaurant?”
We exchanged numbers, but something is making me hesitant to tell him where I live.
“June?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Um, sorry, I was just thinking.”
“About tonight?”
I fumble for a response that won’t make him think I’m crazy. “My friend lent me a dress for it,” I blurt out.
It’s black lace with strappy sleeves, and even I could believe Lucia when she said I was getting laid tonight. It’s a dress that looks like lingerie.
“I look forward to seeing you in it,” he says softly.
He always knows the right thing to say. And he has always, ever since I met him, said the right thing. Exactly what I’ve needed and wanted to hear. Is that weird? Why am I thinking that’s weird now?
My fingers sweat around the cell phone in my hand, and my heart begins to race. “What were you doing downtown when we first bumped into each other?”
He chuckles. “Lost, if you can believe it. Is something wrong?”
Yes, something is very wrong.
It’s wrong that he was in a part of town that he had no reason to be in.
Wrong that we bumped into each other in a three-star hotel when he drives a Mercedes, carries a $5,000 designer leather bag, and is the CEO of a private hedge fund. An alpha like that doesn’t stay at the sort of hotel I work at.
“June?”
“I’m going to have to raincheck on dinner. I don’t feel well.” And I’m not even lying. A sick churn is growing in my belly, and I need to sit down, or I might throw up.
“That’s a shame. We’ll try again when you’re feeling better. I hope it’s nothing serious,” he says with effortless charm.
“Just a bug, I think.” I step out of my heels and walk over to my apartment door to stick my eye through the peephole before sliding the lock on. “I’ll, um, call you.”
“You sound…”
A car alarm blares down the phone, startling me. My eyes slide to my apartment window. Wait a second. Was that car alarm down the phone or outside my apartment?
I rush over to the window and peer outside. “I sound what?”
Breathy and slightly panicked. My gaze lands on a silver car parked halfway down the street, and my heart stutters. Have I seen that car before? I try desperately to remember. I have walked up and down those roads for weeks now. Why can’t I remember if I ever saw that silver car?
“Anxious.” A car door slams, and my pulse leaps in response.
I lean closer to the window, narrowing my eyes. It seems like someone’s in the driver’s seat. But are they? Is it just in my head? Am I panicking for no reason?
“Really?” I squeak. From Oscar’s pause, he can probably hear my heart jack-hammering against my chest.
“Did someone say something about me?” he asks so innocently that I almost tell him yes.
I laugh, and it rings false to my ear. “No, nothing like that.”
“Then we’ll do dinner another time. As friends. It’ll be fun.”
“Maybe. I have to go.” I hang up as quickly as I can.
What if he inserted himself into my life to hurt me?
“I’m being paranoid,” I whisper to myself, biting my nail as I pace with my cell phone clenched in my right hand.
I stop pacing and stare into space.
“What if you’re not?” I ask myself.
I rarely sit on my couch. After something bit me in my bed, I’ve never found sitting on any soft furnishing comfortable or relaxing. But my mental state is shot, so I thump onto the couch, yelp, almost dropping the phone when it vibrates in my hand.
Oscar’s name flashes up on the screen.
I stare at it.
Why would he be calling back? What do I do?
I stare at the phone until it stops vibrating. The screen goes black.
Two seconds pass in silence.
His name flashes up as my phone starts vibrating again.
Every internal alarm I have is blaring so loud I’d be a fool to ignore it. Could he be outside? I scramble to my feet and dart to the window. When I peek out, a shadowed figure is standing beside the silver car.
I stop breathing, even as I continue to gnaw furiously on my thumbnail.
With my heart in my throat, I watch the shadowed figure—definitely a large man from his build—open the door and slide into the driver’s seat. I can almost see his face from the dim light spilling out of the car. My phone stops ringing right before the door closes.
It’s him. It has to be him, right?
The silver car’s headlights flash on, and I don’t dare take my eyes off it until it’s gone. Only then do I rush to my apartment door.
Stuffing my feet into my sneakers, I peek out through the peephole. My hallway is empty. At nearly six, most people are eating dinner or relaxing on the couch. I would have been doing the same if I hadn’t been getting ready for my date.
Unlocking my door, I keep a tight hold of my phone in case I might need it, grab my keys, and slip out, shutting it firmly behind me. I sprint down the stairs and to the trash can near the mail slots.
It’s gross, and I try not to think about all the nastiness I’m touching as I riffle through it.
My super is so useless that he never empties it until it’s spilling its grossness onto the floor, so after a few minutes spent digging through the trash, I find what I’m looking for: the torn card from the ridiculous floral arrangement Callum sent me.
With the sticky goods secured, I hurry back up to my apartment, close and lock the door, and double-check that it is locked before I feel safe enough to move away from it. After washing my hands, I put the card pieces together and, with a shaking hand, dial the number at the bottom.
The phone rings once.
“June!” Torin, not Callum, answers, and he sounds out of breath, like he ran for the phone. I don’t know how he knows it’s me or if he just assumes every unknown caller is me.
“Is Callum—”
“Asleep,” he cuts in. “Do you want to speak to him?” A thump follows his question. I don’t know if Callum rolled out of bed or Torin kicked him because a sleepy-sounding, and annoyed, “What!” drifts down the phone.
Is it wrong that I’m tempted to laugh?
“June?” Torin asks, sounding concerned now. “Is something wrong?”
Fabric rustles loudly down the phone, and I picture Callum jerking upright at Torin’s question.
I chew my lip as I stare at my double-locked apartment door. I keep telling myself I’m being paranoid. Oscar is not a plant in my life. Something is wrong, and I’d be an idiot not to get the answers I need to protect myself.
“I need you to tell me everything you didn’t tell me before. Who were your enemies, and why would you think I was one of them?”
“We’ll be right over,” he says.
Torin, Callum, and Archer are in my apartment.
Letting them in wasn’t my first choice, but Torin said there was a lot to say, too much to do it on the phone, and I am never stepping back into the house I spent a year hating.
While I waited for them to arrive, I changed out of my dress and into sweats, scrubbed off my makeup, and stuffed my feet into a pair of cozy socks.
I don’t have a nest after I destroyed the one before. My comfort comes from the few cozy pieces I could afford after paying my rent and bills: soft socks and a blanket. That’s my nest.
“You should sit down for this,” Callum suggests.
I want to argue that I’ll stand, if only to be contrary. One glance at their worried expressions convinces me to settle down on the couch that I don’t trust is entirely free of tiny bugs.
Archer leans against the wall beside my apartment door, arms crossed.
Callum is closest to me, hands in his pockets, standing between my tiny kitchenette and my living room. His eyes are slightly red, a big hint that he was sleeping before Torin woke him.
Torin hasn’t stopped looking around my apartment. He hasn’t stopped pacing either, and I have a feeling he’s picking out all the things wrong with it.
The dirt on the windowsill that no amount of scrubbing will remove.
The leaky kitchen faucet, the bathroom door that doesn’t shut properly, and the draught coming through the old windows.
The AC unit is controlled by the super and he never turns it up high enough, which means I’m almost always cold, no matter how many layers I wear.
I try not to be embarrassed about the problems in my apartment.
I’m not living on the street or struggling to survive. I have a home, food in the refrigerator and my cupboards, even if it’s not much. And I have as many clothes as I need. Would it be nice to have more? Sure. But that’s more of a want than a need.