4. CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 4
Neo
I blink open my gritty eyes, only to slam them shut again at the bright light shining from under the door. My head hammers and I wonder what possessed me to drink so much.
Wait…
I squint open one eye. Pepto Bismol pink tiled floor. Eye watering, I shift my gaze and come face-to-toilet with more pink. My heart races. There’s no sight of my apartment’s cracked beige bathroom flooring or the cute rainbow penguin bathmat Hendrix and I agreed was the only thing that could make our shitty bathroom look less shitty.
I push myself to sit. Nausea swells from my gut like a rogue wave, and it’s not just from the vomit inducing color of the floor. My eyes water and I can feel the blood drain from my face, but with sheer willpower, I swallow the sickness back. I close my eyes and rest my head on my bent knees.
After a few centering breaths, my stomach settles—if you can call it that—and I take in my surroundings. Light filters into the dim room from a small window high on a wall covered with the same sickening tile as the floor.
“Someone got a deal on tile.” The sound of my ragged voice sends an ice pick stabbing behind my left eye. I clamp my hands to my head and breathe through the pain, but my stomach roils again. Lurching onto my knees toward the hideous pink toilet, I throw open the lid two seconds before the entirety of my stomach contents empty into it.
When the contractions cease, I flush, then fall back against the wall. My head lulls to the side and the cool tile soothes my heated cheek. The short-sleeved polo I wore to the bar clings to my sweat-coated skin, and I try to recall the events of last night.
I don’t get past the memory of settling into a quiet spot at the end of the bar to wait for Hendrix when the jingle of keys and the snick of a lock catches my attention. My pulse quickens and nausea coils in my gut, but this time it’s with the realization that I’m locked in an unfamiliar bathroom by some unknown individual or individuals. And I don’t know how I got here.
I scurry to stand. My head spins and my vision blurs from the abrupt movement, but I keep my palms pressed to the cool tile wall to steady myself. A quick scan of the room comes up with nothing I can use as a weapon. Not that I could defend myself even if I didn’t have the worst hangover in the history of hangovers.
“How are you feeling?” Blue eyes I had hoped never to see again, stare at me. He holds out a glass of water. The gesture sparks something, and I remember.
I remember looking at the menu before I placed Hendrix’s burger order and a chicken sandwich for myself. I remember my favorite IPA being slid in front of me. I remember a contrite Alexander Atteridge, offering me that beer with his ridiculous excuses. And I remember tuning out whatever bullshit he was spewing, but there was no reason to pass up a bottle of my favorite beer.
Oh. My. God.
“You roofied me.” My stomach lurches again with my stupidity, and I clamp my hand over my mouth.
Full lips turn up as their owner flashes me one of the toothy grins I once thought was charming. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think, Neo?”
“And you locked me in a bathroom?” The audacity of this guy. Head throbbing and my brain still trying to come back online, I let go of the wall and straighten to my full six feet three inches so I can look down at this asshole. Alexander may have more muscles and be more handsome—the guy could pass as the lead in one of those superhero box office hits with no problem—and have more money, but I’m three inches taller. That has to count for something. Right?
He steps closer, looking put together with his perfectly pressed linen pants and his perfectly coiffed golden hair. “Neo, babe—”
I halt him with a shaking hand. “Don’t. There is nothing you can say that will make this okay.” I shift to step around him. “Don’t call me. Don’t contact me. Forget we ever knew each other.”
He moves with me, blocking my exit with broad shoulders I once thought could wipe away the fantasy of another pair of broad shoulders. Unfortunately for me, forgetting about any part of Colden Frias’s beautiful body has proven next to impossible. “You’re not going anywhere yet, Neo.”
“False imprisonment is against the law.” Not that I think Alexander is concerned with the law, considering the drugging and kidnapping, but if I keep him here, keep him talking, then maybe I can figure out what he wants. And how to get out of here.
He lifts his hand, but I jerk my head back before he touches my cheek. Anger flashes, heating his icy eyes, but he banks the flash of fire just as quickly and his smile returns. “I just want to talk. I miss you. How are things going with your research? Were you able to work through the coding problem you had?”
White teeth sparkle and his lips plump, summoning to be kissed. My feet want to move and my lips want to feel the softness of those lips, but my foggy head isn’t getting the message. As his grin grows, my brain finally processes what he said.
“You’re seriously asking about work right now?” The pounding in my head feels less like a hangover and more like panic setting in. Phone. I can just call 911.
“You freshen up, and I’ll make us something to eat.” Asshole Alexander mistakes my silence for acceptance of his offer. The smile remains and for a moment there’s a part of me that wants to follow him, but something holds me in place. He backs out of the bathroom. “I won’t be long.”
He closes the door and locks it, and the sound of his footsteps disappear.
“Lovely.” I catch my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Skin pallor, eyes not quite bloodshot but not clear, and hair sticking up in every direction, rough is the word the comes to mind.
I pat my pockets and glance around the putrid pink bathroom. My phone is nowhere to be found, and I have no idea what time it is. I’m not even sure what day it is. For all I know, I could have been here for three days or three hours. So much for calling the police.
Shit.
I should probably be scared, but all I can feel is rage bubbling from the depths of my gut. Fucking Alexander. How the hell did I ever think he was worth my time? Why didn’t I listen to my gut the first time Dr. Lexton introduced me to him? And why did I feel obligated to be nice to him last night?
It’s the fucking smile. All rational thought vanishes when he flashes that smile. And it’s not just me. I witnessed a rabid raccoon jump from a dumpster and tear off after Alex, only to halt in its tracks when Alex smiled at him. The frenzied animal, with its foaming mouth, turned and trotted back to the dumpster.
You’re a kind person, Neo. The world needs more kind people. The grumbly voice in my head sounds a lot like one sexy best friend of my brother. Thinking about grumpy Colden and the seductive smirk he fights but never seems to win against, or his brown eyes that seem to peer into my soul, erases all memory of Alexander. I shake my head. My brother’s best friend is ever present in my mind, but thinking about him right now won’t help me.
I step into the pink tub and inspect the round accent window that sits about shoulder-height, but it looks large enough for my skinny butt to fit through. Though, whether it opens or not, remains to be seen.
Why couldn’t there be a normal window in this bubble gum prison? Tipping on my toes, I test the window. The casement surrounding the glass is warped with age. I grip it and wiggle.
Loose.
I look over my left shoulder and listen. It’s quiet. No voices. No television. No creaks from footsteps. Nothing.
I take a deep breath, ignoring my queasy stomach, and shake the rotted wood. Arms raised in an awkward position, my shoulder pinches, but I pull and push with all my might. A piece of deteriorating timber breaks off in my hand. I throw it down, then dig my fingertips along the edges, wrenching at it. Chunks fall, hitting the bottom of the tub. With each thunk, thunk, my heart thumps, thumps , and I brace myself for Alexander to come racing in to stop me. My hands tremble and fragments of wood dig into my fingertips, but I keep at it. With each bit that splinters, the window becomes less and less secure.
After what seems like forever, I’m standing in a bathtub full of shredded timber. Slivers of wood embed beneath the skin of my fingers, the pads red and cut, sting. I shake my hands and suck in a gulp of air as I give the glass a push. The windowpane pops out as if it was balancing on nothing more than a prayer, then crashes.
I hold my breath and wait for the door to slam open, but still no Alexander.
Arms quivering and hands aching, I grip the ragged edges and pull with all my strength. The higher I get, the more my arms quake. My breaths come fast, like when I was twelve, and I ran home chased by Chester the bully because I bumped into his backpack when the kids behind me were pushing to get off the bus. Dacker and Colden heard the commotion—which was me screaming apologies and that it was an accident—and when they came out to investigate, I scooted behind my brother, using him as a human shield. It only took one steely look from Colden to cause Chester to run in the opposite direction. Even at sixteen, he was imposing. And Chester never bothered me again.
God, I wish my brother was here now. But not Colden. Never Colden. No matter how many times he shows up— unwanted— in my dreams. Yep, I definitely never want to have his strong arms wrapped around me, or the scent of freshly baked banana bread infiltrating my senses.
When I look down to see how far I’ve gotten, my chest heaves with disappointment.
Two inches. I’ve lifted my body an entire two inches.
Great. I suppose it’s too late to start the exercise program Dacker sent me. Four years ago.
Fucking Alexander. I’m going to make his life miserable when I get out of here. Pressing the sole of my teal and white checked Vans against the tile, I try climbing the wall while planning my revenge. The asshole will never get a reservation at a restaurant ever again.
Sweat trickles down my temple, splinters of wood dig into my palms, and with every move, my stomach rolls like I’m in a dinghy, riding tsunami-sized waves, but I inch up. Maybe I’ll tap into his Netflix account and change his settings so he can only stream the shows the toddler of my fellow TA likes. Or better yet, I’ll tap into his calendar and change all his meeting times.
My lips turn up. Yeah, that will drive him batty.
“Don’t mess with someone who has multiple degrees in computer science, asshole.” Knowing how much he’d hate his precious schedule being messed with gives me the extra umph my Jello arms need to hurl myself up. I collapse with a huff, my torso half in and half out the window.
Rain pelts the back of my neck and I look down. It has to be at least a forty-foot drop. Maybe more. And—and this is a big and —I’m coming out head first. I’m not delusional enough to assume I have the strength or coordination to control my fall. Or that I can somehow swing myself around to drop feet first.
“Wonderful.” The broken lumber pokes my ribs, and I squirm, but there’s no comfortable position. Sucking in a breath, I close my eyes and try to think. Opening my eyes, I take in the surrounding area. I’m hanging out a window three stories up.
How is this my life right now?
“There’s a ledge under you.” A voice calls from below.
My heart jumps to my throat, nearly choking me.
“The ledge,” the voice calls again. “Right below the window.”
I stretch my torso out farther and spot gray hair, a cane in one hand, a pink leash and an enormous rainbow umbrella in the other. And a ledge.
The floof of white fur attached to the leash barks, if you want to call the yipping that, and the old guy points his cane up like it’s a laser pointer. “It’s narrow, but you can grab onto it, then swing to the second floor roof.”
Not wanting to bring any more attention to myself—though that ship has sailed—I wave so he knows I heard him and study the ledge and roof. It’s not impossible , but it’s also not probable. And what am I supposed to do if I actually get out of here without killing myself at worst or breaking a bone at best? I have forty bucks cash in my front pocket, and no idea where I am. “It just gets better and better.”
Mr. Helpful and his puffball of a dog watch as I contemplate my options. Raised voices on the other side of the closed bathroom door jolt me into gear. From the inside of the window, my legs scramble while I palm the siding of the house. Unfortunately, rather than having a superpower like sticky fingers—which would be incredibly helpful right now—my normal, non-super fingers slip on the wet brick and I tumble forward.
My elbows scrape against the rough surface and my legs flail as if they’re independent of my body. Rain soaks through my shirt as my aching fingers close around… nothing.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I squeeze my eyes shut, like that will keep my face from splattering onto the ground below. My dad, Dacker, my mom, and, dammit, Colden race through my mind. What will happen to my work? Who will protect it and keep it from being bought up by some big corporation whose only desire is to make money? Will I finally get to see my mom again? As my life flashes before me, I jerk to a stop.
I crack one eye open and then the other. My fingertips touch the narrow ledge, and I stretch my arms until I have a tentative grip on it. Gingerly, I twist my head, blinking away the water splashing into my eyes. Right pant leg caught on a hunk of splintered wood, I rest my free foot on the slippery bricks, grip the ledge tighter, then yank. The cotton of my chinos rips and my leg flings free. I sway, my balance precarious, and my erratically pounding heart jumps into my throat. Before panic invades every cell in my body, I twist, swinging my legs like a mother fucking superhero and hurl myself onto the roof of the second floor.
And face-plant.
Air whooshes from my lungs, and I lie with my cheek pressed to the rough shingles while big drops of water beat down on me.
“Would have been better if you landed on your feet.” The voice below helpfully points out. “Didn’t see that happening.” I think I hear him mumble over the blood pounding in my ears.
With every breath I attempt, my lungs pinch and I become more and more winded. My chest tightens and I squeeze my eyes shut, shuttering the burning behind my lids. I will not cry. If for no other reason than I will not give stupid Alexander the satisfaction of knowing he broke me when they find my dead body on this godforsaken roof. A low moan escapes from my throat, sounding a lot like a whimper as I clench my fist, willing air into my uncooperative lungs.
“Do I need to call an ambulance? Cause I’ll have to walk back home to get my phone. But don’t tell my grandson. He’s always griping about how I need to have it on me at all times .”
My audience continues his chatter and after what feels like an eternity, air flows easily in and out of my chest. The ache and tears vanish, and I’m back to my superhero self.
Okay, maybe super nerd, but close enough.
I raise my arm to show I’m alive, then push onto my hands and knees and scurry over the roof to the attached house. Getting as far away from Alex and this house as possible is my only thought.
“I’ll meet you at the end of the block,” the old guy calls as he and his furry companion hasten down the surprisingly empty sidewalk like they’re my sidekicks.
At this point, I’ll take all the help I can get. Time to get out of Boston.