Chapter 2
Chapter Two
MICAH
Am I using the leftovers as an excuse to see her again?
The question comes to me as I jog up the stairs, both to-go containers still held in my hand. I’d been about to leave the building, halfway through the door, in fact, when I glanced at the containers and realized I’d forgotten to give Ruby’s back to her.
Of course I’d return it. It would be rude not to. I mean, what was I going to do? Just take everything home with me, even though it would only take a few extra minutes to run upstairs?
Maybe a different guy—an ill-mannered, self-absorbed guy like Ruby’s ex, which I’m assuming he is based on the offhand comments she’s made—would consider it too much of an inconvenience.
But I just darted back inside and started heading upstairs, bypassing the elevator to take the slower but more reliable stairs.
“Everyone is always complaining about the elevator,” Ruby told me last week.
“Some of my neighbors are even threatening to sue the owner of the building over it. It works so infrequently, they’re saying it’s a violation of the ADA.
I’m not getting involved with the lawsuit, but I really wish they’d fix the thing so it actually works all the time.
When it’s just me going up the stairs, it’s not a big deal.
But when I’m loaded down with groceries…
four flights of stairs isn’t my favorite. ”
It would be easy enough to tell myself that I’m only going to Ruby’s apartment to bring back her food. But that brings me back to my earlier question. Am I only doing it because it’s the polite thing to do? Or is there a part of me that’s glad to have a reason to see her again?
It’s ironic, I think as I hit the third-floor stairwell. When I signed up for the cooking class, it was with zero intention of meeting a woman. Sure, I’d heard about guys using adult ed classes as a way to hook up with women. But that wasn’t why I did it.
Honestly, I just wanted to do something different. I wanted to do something where I was just Micah, beginner cook, instead of Knight, former Delta Force operator and heir to the Sutton fortune.
It’s not that I try to hide either of those things.
While I can’t speak about a lot of the things I did in Delta, I’ve always been proud of my years of service.
And I might not love the way people act when they find out my dad is the Jack Sutton, founder and CEO of Sutton Aeronautics, but I love my family.
I’d never hurt them by eschewing our name.
It’s just… sometimes it’s nice being someone else.
It’s nice knowing people like me for who I am and not what they think I can give them.
My closest friends aren’t like that—they treat me like anyone else, and I know they don’t give a shit about how much money I have.
But a lot of other people, women in particular…
Well, they aren’t interested in which fantasy movies are my favorite.
They don’t care that I like hiking in the Catskills in the spring and visiting the Museum of Natural History a few times a year so I can look at the dinosaur exhibits.
And they wouldn’t joke with me about keeping a meatball arsenal behind the counter so we can stage an imaginary attack against our least favorite classmate.
But Ruby cares about all of those things.
Ruby is fun to talk to. She’s smart. Insightful. Kind.
When I signed up for the class, I didn’t think I’d end up meeting a woman I really liked. But I did. And now, six weeks later, I keep finding myself coming up with excuses to see more of her.
First, it was walking her home from class, ostensibly for her safety. And it’s true; I didn’t like the idea of Ruby walking from Midtown to the Upper East Side in the dark.
But would I have offered to walk with anyone else in the class?
Would I have talked to them long enough to learn where they lived?
Probably not. But with Ruby, it felt different.
And now I’m going to pick her up for class, too. I’ll get an extra half-hour every week with her; sharing more conversation and sneaking extra glances at her gorgeous red hair and expressive features that make it impossible for her to hide what she’s thinking.
So, when I take all of that into consideration, I guess the answer is yes. I’m glad to have a reason to see Ruby again.
As I push open the door to the fourth-floor hallway, another thought strikes me.
Maybe she’ll invite me in this time. Since I’ll be right outside her door, rather than downstairs in the lobby, the invitation might come more naturally.
She hasn’t asked me inside yet, and I haven’t suggested it, just like I haven’t brought up anything that could be considered a date, like stopping for coffee or meeting for a drink over the weekend.
Dating complicates things, after all. It requires a time commitment I’m not sure I can spare. It leaves an opening to be hurt. To discover the person you cared about was only using you.
Dating only complicates things, I remind myself whenever I get the idea of asking Ruby out. It might seem like a good idea. But do I really want to risk it? Or is it better to leave things as they are?
Except I’m not really. I chuckle ruefully at myself as I head down the hallway.
If I were really set on leaving things alone, I wouldn’t have offered to walk Ruby to class.
My pace wouldn’t be quickening as I get closer to her apartment.
I wouldn’t be hoping that she’ll invite me inside once I get there.
When I’m a few doors down from Ruby’s, a muffled scream breaks the quiet of the hallway.
Instinctively, my muscles tense. My left hand dives into my pocket, where I always carry a small switchblade, a habit I’ve held onto even after I left the Army. As my fingers wrap around it, I spin around, half expecting to see someone behind me. But there’s no one.
I hold my breath and listen for the sound again.
There could be a hundred explanations for it. A scary movie. A giant cockroach. Someone could have received good news and shouted in excitement.
Or someone could be in trouble.
Ruby could be in trouble.
It’s unlikely. But my gut won’t let go of the possibility.
What if the sound came from Ruby’s apartment? And while I’m standing here, doing nothing, she could be hurt. Frightened. In danger.
Keeping my steps as quiet as possible, I hurry to Ruby’s door. Once I’m there, I lean my ear close to it, listening.
The first few seconds, there’s nothing. No buzz of voices or a laugh track on the TV. Not the soft melody of music playing. Not the pleasant lilt of Ruby’s voice as she talks to her best friend, Grace—something Ruby told me she often does before getting ready for bed.
But something I learned in the Army was never to assume safety based on a first impression. Take the time to observe. To assess the situation. Acting on impulse is one of the quickest ways to get yourself and your team killed.
So I press my ear to the smooth wood and wait.
And there.
From inside, something thunks.
It’s a dull, heavy thud, almost like something fell. Not furniture, or anything breakable, but a person.
Adrenaline surges.
My fingers tighten around the switchblade.
Then there’s another soft thump, followed by a low grunt.
An icy band wraps around my chest and squeezes.
Something’s wrong. This isn’t my gut’s occasional paranoia playing tricks on me. Something bad is going on inside Ruby’s apartment. And I need to do something about it.
First, I rap on the door; three hard knocks in quick succession. “Ruby,” I call, pitching my voice louder than normal. “Ruby. It’s Micah. Is everything okay?”
There’s no answering response. No flurry of footsteps hurrying towards the door.
“Ruby,” I repeat more loudly. I don’t want to shout, given that I’m not sure she’s in trouble, and I don’t want to piss off Ruby’s neighbors if she’s not. “Ruby. Are you okay? I heard something—”
Inside the apartment, something shatters.
A deep voice mutters something unintelligible.
A woman yelps.
No. Not a woman. Ruby. And I’m certain she’s in trouble.
Taking a step back from the door, I glance at the locks first, then the hinges.
I could try to pick the lock—I always keep a small pick in my wallet, and I know how to do it—but how long will it take?
If Houdini were here, he could be inside in under thirty seconds.
But I’m not nearly as good at lock-picking as he is.
Trying to get into Ruby’s apartment could take me several minutes at least.
Or I could kick the door in. It’s wood, rather than metal, so that would help. If I hit the hinges at the right angle, I should hopefully be able to pop them off the doorframe. Using that method, it would take significantly less time than picking the lock.
But, my inner voice of reason points out, that means breaking into Ruby’s apartment. Not just breaking in, but kicking down her door. If she’s not in trouble, that’s going to be a pretty hard thing to come back from.
Ruby needs help, my gut argues. Don’t waste time debating this. Just get inside and help her.
And because I really do trust my gut, because it’s saved my life more times than I can count, I listen to it.
After taking another step back from the door, I eyeball it, calculating where my foot needs to hit to be most effective.
I set the to-go containers on the floor and pull out my switchblade, still sheathed, but finger poised to open it.
Then I snap my leg out, using all my strength as I kick at the door.
The first blow only makes the door shudder. So I kick it again. And again. With the second and third blows, the wood groans. Creaks. On the fourth, the wood around the hinges starts to separate. On the sixth, the door starts to move.
Glad for the hours every week I spend in the gym, I kick harder. Faster. The screws holding the hinges to the door loosen. The wood around them splinters.
On the tenth kick, the door crashes in.