2. Chapter One
Chapter One
ANDREA
I’m going to murder someone.
Fine, I’m not, but I am on the verge of belonging in a straitjacket.
Being evicted from my apartment isn’t what’s thrown me off kilter; it’s the twenty-four-hour notice that was slid under my door not two minutes after I got home from work.
By this time tomorrow, every resident in the building has to find another place to live.
The hallway is littered with people huddled around the landlord’s door. The place reeks of mold and piss, so yeah, demolition is likely a good thing, but the lack of notice is utter bullshit and Boyd knows it.
“He’s not coming out, Andrea,” Clarissa—my upstairs neighbor—warns me as I pass. “I think he’s scared.”
He’s too self-centered to be scared and his ego is bound to have him facing us sooner or later.
Balling my hands into fists, I rap them on the door like a rabid animal. “Open the door, you greasy Elvis wannabe!”
Nothing.
There’s a sigh behind me. “Told you.”
“He can’t hide in there forever,” I state and look down as one of the resident’s dogs lifts a leg on the door, the pee seeping under it. “Good boy, Rosco,” I praise. “Let’s piss on Boyd next. ”
The small Yorkie yips in response.
Like I’d predicted, the door swings open.
A musty smell covered by a cheap body axe assaults my nostrils, but I stay strong.
However, Rosco runs in the opposite direction.
I’ve been living in this rat-infested building for the last three years.
I put up with it mostly because there’s rent control, which is incredibly hard to find in New York.
I hold the pale-yellow crinkled paper in front of his weathered face. “Boyd, what is this?”
He scratches his hairy chest, squinting at the big red font. “Looks to me like you’re all about to be homeless.” He laughs as if he’s told a joke— laughs .
I shake my head, disgusted. “Don’t you realize that by tearing the building down, you’re out of a place to live, too?”
He regards me like I’m stupid. “My granny just bit the dust.”
“And?”
“Guess who got the house,” he says dryly and anticlimactic-like. “This place is going to hell, and I’m done following it.”
I jut out my chin, scoffing. “You signed off on this, didn’t you? You dusty son of a bi—”
My hair flies behind my shoulders as the door slams in my face. Disbelief has me standing there, blinking, the reality of my situation sinking in.
“Come on, he’s not going to listen to reason,” George, the maintenance man, says. I’ve never seen him work on anything. I’d put in a request last year about my bathroom sink and never heard anything back. I think he comes to work to get away from his wife and kids.
I let out a frustrated scream, kicking the door a few times.
It opens again and I’m met with a yellow smile. “ That’s comin’ out of your security deposit.”
I step toward him, and he takes one step back. I grab the door handle. “You can keep your stupid security deposit.” Slamming the door shut again, I yell, “I hope you bite the dust next!”
Composing myself, I walk down the hall to my apartment.
Once I’m inside, I rest my back against the door, closing my eyes with a heavy sigh. “Unsafe living conditions,” I mutter. “Pfft.”
Peeking out of one eye, I take in the wallpaper peeling off the wall in places that hide weird brown stains. I could never figure out where the source was. In truth, I thought it best to not know.
There’s a rusty nail sticking out of the floor from a downstairs neighbor doing a DIY project.
The elevator has been ‘Out of Order’ since I moved in.
Earl, a tenant who lives on the first floor, has told me that an elderly woman got stuck in the elevator for two days and died.
Supposedly, Boyd permanently closed it because there were blood stains from her trying to claw her way out.
The story could be completely fictional, but I’m not one to investigate.
My head falls back against the door with a hard thud. “Ow.”
This place might be a safety hazard, but it’s still been home. I’m sentimental, I can’t help but experience the daunting weight of having to let it go. What comes next is scary, but I know I’ll figure it out. I’m good at figuring it out.
I go to the kitchen and pull out a microwave dinner from the freezer.
As my dinner heats, I massage the dull ache in my temples.
The mere thought of calling my parents puts a lump in my throat.
As much as I miss them, I can’t crawl back to Maine with my tail tucked.
The smallest sign of distress from me and they’ll be on a flight to New York.
I once got gum in my hair from one of my ballet students and my mother demanded she come here to help me get it out. Bizarre , I know.
I have a sister, but for some reason, they put all their eggs into my basket. Unlucky for them, I was a bad bet—not that they’d ever admit it.
When the microwave beeps, I grab the platter and a fork from a drawer. I then head toward the small window in my living room that leads to the fire escape.
My favorite pastime is coming out here and watching the sunset while the streets are filled with nightlife. I enjoy it for about a minute before I settle back into my current predicament.
A plan. Right .
As I’m shoveling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into my mouth, the leaves of my potted plant ruffle from where it’s pushed against the railing.
At first, I think it could be the wind, but quickly notice the lack of breeze.
I lean forward, inspecting it closer, and my eyes connect with the biggest rat I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
I throw my platter at its ugly face and scream as I scramble backward, falling inside my apartment with a humbling thud.
I scramble to my feet quickly and slam the window shut.
I gag as I pick up my phone off the floor. There’s only one other person I can call who can help me out of possible homelessness. I find his contact and tap the screen before I can second-guess it.
THERE'S A LOUD POUND against my skull that rouses me from sleep. I blink into time and space again, immediately feeling like crap. Based on the soft glow entering the window of my bedroom, the sun is still rising.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, there’s another knock and I freeze. It’s not coming from my head, it’s coming from my front door. Yesterday rushes back to me and the phone call I made.
I lunge out of bed, frantically searching for something to wear.
This is one of my worst fears as a person who prefers to sleep naked.
We agreed on morning, not the ass crack of dawn.
I slide my legs into black sweatpants and a pink shirt that says ‘sweet thang’ with a chocolate ice cream stain on the collar from a few days ago.
The knocking grows more insistent, and I growl under my breath. I yawn my entire way to the front door, taking my time to make the asshole wait.
After unlocking the main lock and the four additional ones I had installed, I opened the door and leaned against it for support.
I’m met with a strong smell of aftershave and a brooding man. His dark brown hair is tucked under a backward red baseball cap. I’d be relieved to see him if it wasn’t so early in the morning and I wasn’t exhausted from crying all night.
“You’re the worst cousin ever,” I lie.
Carter Westwood truly is the world’s best cousin—not that I’d ever say that aloud.
Here he is after a two-minute phone call, ready to save me from a shitty situation.
I can’t even count on both hands the number of times he’s been there for me.
He’s the only family I have in the city.
My parents and sister live in Maine. His parents are somewhere on the West Coast, no doubt working like their lives depend on it .
He’s a sports agent who’s helped sign countless athletes to their dream teams. He used to be a pro baseball player until fate had other plans. Like me, he too can make the best out of a situation. We may not get to do what we love most, but we still get to be a part of it.
“Please tell me you at least brought coffee,” I grumble, resting my head against the door.
The corners of his amber eyes crinkle as he grins. A second later, a warm paper cup is being pushed into my palms. “Like I’d let myself deal with the version of you that hasn’t had any.” He pushes past me, letting loose a whistle as he does.
Before I can shut the door, two large men enter my apartment, immediately heading for my couch. “Oh, hi, yes, come right in,” I tell them dryly and kick down the doorstopper.
“This is Billy and Tyler. They’re helping us get you out of this…” He scopes out my apartment with distaste. “Jesus, you didn’t tell me it was this bad, Andrea. Your mother would kill me if she knew I was letting you live in this dump.”
“It’s not that bad once you get used to it,” I defend, and he stares blankly at me. “All right, fine. It’s a total shit hole.” It’s not that I can’t afford something better. I make good money working as a ballet instructor, but I’ve never been the kind of person who needs nice things.
“Agreed,” he states. “It’s good that this place is being torn down.”
“But it has rent control!” I whine.
He stares at me like I’m crazy as the two men fit my couch out the door. “I’m surprised you didn’t catch something while living here. I saw a used needle on the stairs on my way up.”
I huff in annoyance. “Vitamins can come in many forms, Carter. Don’t be so uptight.”
He barks a laugh. “Uptight?”
“Yup.” I nod. “Like you’re too good for places like this.”
“I am, and so are you.” Narrowing his eyes, he places his hands on his hips. “Did you not hear me when I said used ?”
“It’s hard not to hear you when you’re yelling at me. Jesus, does your voice not have volume control?”
“But I’m not even—” Blowing out a breath of frustration, he lifts his cap and pushes back his hair before placing it back on his head. “Forgive me.”
I take a sip of my warm coffee. “Forgiven.”
Silently, he walks around my apartment, picking up random objects only to set them back down. “Who the hell needs this much stuff?”
“Me. I need it.”
He wanders into my bedroom while I take a seat on one of the barstools at the counter. I take small sips of my coffee, desperate for it to start kicking in.
His next words are muffled and far away. “Why do you have so many costumes?”
Great, he’s in my closet. “Stop going through my things!” I yell out.
“Hey, why is that mo—” His words are chopped off into a high-pitched scream. There’s the sound of his shoes scuffling across the wood floor before he’s standing in the door frame, his face pale.
He stares at me with wide eyes, and I snort. “You met Ginger, did ya?”
Grimacing, he asks, “Who names a rat?”
“You’d start giving them names if you lived with them, too.”
“Doubt it. Ever heard of a rat trap?”
“Nope.”
“This place is disgusting. Your things need to be burned,” he advises, walking toward me with confidence.
I narrow my eyes and his steps falter before stopping entirely.
Throwing his hands up, he jerks his head to the corner of my living room.
“I’m gonna go stand over there until you’re out of the gremlin stage of waking up. ”
“That’s probably best.”