Chapter 8
Pepper: Is it wrong to fantasize about murder?
Sunny: I’m going to say yes.
Sunny: Big Turd Brian?
Pepper: Nope, worse. You painted his feet.
Sunny: He was cute!
Pepper: He would be cuter with a meat cleaver in his skull.
Sunny: That’s rather morbid of you.
Pepper: I’m ok with it.
Sunny: In less disturbing news, Rosie is bringing over Thai food tomorrow night.
Pepper: Tell her she’s an angel. I'll be back soon.
PEPPER
“What are you doing?”
I blow out a long breath, a piece of lint scurrying away from me across the scratchy carpet.
Or at least, I hope it’s lint. It’s highly questionable to lay my cheek upon such a grimy and alien floor space, but I’m quite simply too exhausted to care.
It’s been one of those days where all of my brain juice has been used up for brain juice-squeezing work activities.
So here I am, with only pulp inside my skull, lying on the floor of an extremely drab apartment thinking only that orange really is a very bizarre color choice for carpet.
“I’m in full salmon,” I murmur, sliding my gaze to shiny Italian leather shoes.
“What?” The deep timbre scales a note or two in confusion.
“I’m in full salmon,” I repeat, contemplating if I have the energy to roll my eyes or not. I seem to have entered the oh-no-I-stopped-for-a-moment-and-now-can’t-move stage of my day.
“Yeah, you can keep saying the words, but they still don’t make sense, Peppercorn.” The words are delivered with the kind of pitch that is usually accompanied by a frown.
A rude scoff leaves me. Like the kids at my high school didn’t already think of that one. It takes a real chump with two and a half brain cells to figure out that my name rushed together sounds like the seasoning you grind over soup.
“If you must know, I’ve flopped onto the floor belly first because it helps with brain fuzz.” I don’t care to look up to find out what condescending expression he no doubt wears. And I don’t care what he thinks. Sometimes a hard day just calls for lying on the floor to factory reset.
“Okay.” His tone is carefully measured like that of someone coaching a small child. “And why does that get called a full salmon?”
Despite myself and my self-imposed stormy demeanor in his presence, I smile softly to myself and close my eyes. “Because my sister pretends to flop around like a fish on land before she settles into it.”
I can picture her now, lying beside me belly down on my teenage bedroom floor, flopping around like a lunatic. I can hear the high-pitched giggle of her younger self as she did, too. Nostalgia and warmth flood my chest, giving me the feel-good fuzzies. God, I love that kid.
“Huh.” The slowly enunciated noise is so quiet I almost don’t catch it. Less a sound of confusion and more of surprise. I hear his footsteps move confidently closer, so close that I open my eyes in alarm just as… I pop my cheek up off the floor as he lies down next to me, on his back instead.
“I didn’t invite you to join me!” I watch appalled as he meshes his hands together and settles them on his torso. The small part of me that wants to linger on how big they are gets swiftly suffocated.
Chase Walker ignores my objection and closes his eyes, dusting tanned cheekbones with unfairly long lashes. It’s the kind of bronze glow rich people wear year-round. It screams private island in the Maldives and long weekends in Monaco for the Grand Prix.
I snap my gawping mouth shut and swiftly regret it when my next inhale is of woodsy musk.
Against my will, I skate my gaze over his chiseled features.
His jaw is peppered with more stubble than the last time I saw him, encasing full lips and decorating a square jawline.
The unevolved part of me totally gets the hype surrounding Chase Walker, as ashamed as I am to admit it.
Really, the fact I’m attracted to men in general is just an insult to injury, if you ask me.
Life would be much easier if I was one of those people who fall madly in love with inanimate objects like the Eiffel Tower.
At least if I fell in love with an airplane or a car, I wouldn’t have to worry about entitlement or archaic gender roles.
“This is a non-consensual salmon.” My scowl is fueled by self-loathing at my appreciation of his profile.
“That’s not a thing,” he responds dryly, nestling the back of his head into the scratchy carpet, searching for comfort that this flooring certainly doesn’t have to give.
I begrudgingly commend his willingness to lie on such a filthy floor.
It’s giving non-snobby vibes I didn’t expect.
“There’s something to this,” he muses out loud, eyes still closed.
“I do not consent,” I reaffirm, pushing myself up into my elbows. “Plus, you’re doing it wrong. Fish don’t lie on their backs.”
He sighs and deep molasses eyes snap open and slide my way.
I let my gaze crash into his for a second and then look away.
“Oh, Peppercorn.” He sighs easily, almost endearingly.
“I’m sure you like to think you invented this, but it’s called grounding.
Normal people just tend to do it on grass and not assign ridiculous names to the activity. ”
I harrumph and frown at my clasped hands beneath me.
“Whatever, dude. Can you agree now that this apartment is a dead lead?” I push myself further up and come to rest on my knees, peering down at the mountain of a man still prone next to me, taking up far too much space and looking far too at ease for someone who might be getting a bed bug infestation as we speak.
“I’ve been thinking, I need to see more of Dev Ops Inc.
from the inside. There has to be someone somewhere who knows something. ”
“I’m not opposed to showing you what goes on at Dev Ops,” he agrees much more freely than I thought he would. I expected a fight with dramatic phrases like, “trade secrets,” and “proprietary information,” thrown around. “But I can’t agree with you that this apartment is a dead lead.”
Throwing my eyes skyward, I bury my face in my hands. I’m too freaking tired to battle him right now, so I rub my eyes aggressively with the heel of my palms and when I start to see a galaxy of stars, reluctantly lower them.
“Can I at least ask why?” I blink down at him, watching him stare at the ceiling with a carefully blank expression.
“Because of that.” He lifts a hand and points.
I follow his gaze and my mouth drops. Hanging from the ceiling is a half loose plastic light cap, revealing the wires from the ceiling light going into the plasterboard.
But that’s not what captures my attention.
It’s the small roll of notes peeking out from the mess, along with the corner of a very distinctive booklet.
I take in the green holographic plastic peeking out from the slightly open pages and blink.
Because if I’m not grossly mistaken, there is a passport hidden in the light fitting.
***
The aromatic array of spices that waft around the cramped elevator as the doors clunk open make my mouth water. It’s late, and the Silva’s on the ground floor makes the microwave lasagna sitting in my refrigerator waiting for me seem woefully sad in comparison.
I step out of the elevator and my stomach promptly stops grumbling for food and drops.
Bassy music vibrates the space, thumping directly from our apartment.
My eyes bounce nervously to the closed door a few feet away from me, knowing that behind it, Mr. Clay is sure to be cursing his noisy neighbors.
Perhaps even shaking a fist at the wall.
I rush forward, apprehension keeping my feet cat-soft even though music masks my progress. Thankfully, I manage to reach my apartment undiscovered and quickly let myself in—snapping the door shut succinctly behind me.
“Volume down!” I yell at the small black hub sitting in the corner of the room—the one Sunny has hooked up to the surround sound speakers and every outlet or light bulb in this place.
The same girl who is, for some bizarre and yet undetermined reason, standing on the couch cushions with a belly dancing sash on over sweats and shaking her butt like she’s working for tips.
The music cuts out and a polished female voice announces, “Volume down,” before the music returns at a much less offensive amplification.
“Hey! I was listening to that.” Sunny frowns down her nose at me and slams her fists into her hips, which makes the small gold coins on her sash tinkle.
“Yeah, you and the rest of our apartment building, babe,” I deadpan, flinging my bag to the floor at my feet.
She lets out a belabored sigh and throws her ocean eyes skyward. Okay, teen drama. “God, now you’re going to be even madder that I haven’t finished packing yet. But it’s okay, I’ve still got tomorrow.”
I open my mouth in confusion and then freeze, a cool prickle creeping down the back of my neck.
It’s a feeling of shame and inadequacy rolled into one that coils around my spine and yanks as I quickly fumble for my phone in my pocket to check the date.
A landslide worse than a lifetime of that feeling you get in dreams where you turn up to school or work with no pants on stacks upon my shoulders.
I’m an entirely shitty fucking guardian and an even worse sister, because I completely forgot to tell Sunny that we can’t go on our beach trip.
I stare at the date on my phone, wanting the floor to swallow me up.
Knowing you need to do something you’re dreading and actually doing it are two different things.
I’ve had my head so far up my own ass trying to keep all of the plates in life spinning—one of which is keeping Detective Moustache and Chase-freaking-Walker off my case—that somehow I’ve managed to drop the most vital one.
When I look back up, big blue eyes survey me beneath a confused brow. “You good?”
“I need to talk to you.” I sigh, kicking off my boots and going to join her on the couch.