Page 19 of Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)

CHAPTER 19

ROBBIE

T he Uber rolls to a stop in a quiet street somewhere in the Lower East Side, right outside one of those quintessential New York City apartment buildings with the external fire escape, and graffiti tags sprayed around what appears to be a sketchy security door.

Climbing the stoop, I check my phone with the address I got from Andy, scanning the list of apartments on the panel before pressing the button for 3B . But after waiting a moment, there’s no response. I press the button again, holding it down a little longer. Still nothing.

I step back and look up at the building to the third floor. It looks as though there’s a light on.

Cursing under my breath, steam plumes from my mouth on a hard exhale, and I step up to the intercom again, holding my finger down on 3B for so long it’ll probably piss off the neighbors. And sure, Fran might not even be there, but if she’s not home, then she should be responding to my text messages, dammit .

“Jesus, fuck. What ?” A croaky yet somewhat familiar voice crackles through the ancient intercom speaker.

Surprised by the unwelcome greeting, I hold the talk button down. “Keller?”

Silence.

“Robbie?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah.”

“You know stalking is illegal in the state of New York.”

I can’t help but smirk. “Well, there go my weekends.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You missed the game,” I say slowly. “Are… are you okay?”

After a pause, her broken voice comes back through the speaker. “Oh, shit. I didn’t even realize…”

My brows bunch together. Is she drunk? I shake my head again. “Can I come up?”

The buzzer sounds, and the pitiful lock on the door unlatches with a click. I take that as my invitation, pushing through the door and into the tiny foyer that smells like mold and something gross.

With a skeptical glance at the elevator, I decide I’d rather not risk my life tonight, so I opt for the stairs instead. When I reach the third floor, the door to 3B is on my right and I don’t hesitate before knocking probably a little too abruptly.

“Hold your damn horses.”

I scoff at the faint voice muffled through the wood, glancing up at the ceiling and grimacing at the old cobwebs that hang from the moldings.

The door opens and I take a step back, but then I get a look at her and my eyes widen. Dressed in a pale pink sweatsuit, a chocolate stain smeared down the front her sweatshirt, fluffy socks covering her feet, hair a messy knot on top of her head that bobbles with her movements, her blue eyes are at half-mast, a little bloodshot, and she’s keeled over, gripping the door with one hand and her stomach with the other.

“I’m sick,” she croaks.

Instinctively, I take a step back because I can’t afford to catch whatever she has, not before our game against Charlotte on Monday night.

“Don’t worry.” She waves a hand. “You can’t catch it.”

I quirk a brow, looking her up and down again. “How do you know?”

“Because I’m pretty sure you don’t have a uterus.”

I relax at that, and she turns and shuffles slowly down the short hallway, clutching her stomach. And before I know it, I’m walking inside, closing the door behind me and following her like I have any business being here.

Fran lets out a stifled groan, gripping the wall, and I quickly come up behind her, bracing my hands in case she falls over or something.

“Um, do you need anything?” I ask after a moment.

Glancing at me over her shoulder, a small crease pulls between her eyebrows, and I can’t help but wonder if she didn’t realize I’d followed her inside.

“What are you doing here?” she grumbles, clearly annoyed by my presence.

“You literally look like you’re about to die,” I say. “Like hell I’m going to leave you alone like this.”

When she eyes me curiously, I realize that probably came across pretty heavy, so with a casual shrug and the hint of a smile, I keep it light by adding, “I can’t risk being the last person to see you alive. You end up dead? The media will have a fucking field day.”

She rolls her eyes, but then suddenly she stops and crouches over again, a helpless whimper coming from her, and I don’t know what the fuck is up with my heart, but I’ve never felt it clench in my chest the way it just did. Weird .

I look around at the apartment. It’s small. An all-in-one studio, her bed by the window, a tiny sofa, a kitchenette lining the far wall. I almost feel too big for the space.

Dumping my bag on the scratched wood floor, I move forwar d and lift Fran’s arm, ducking lower so I can drape it around my neck, helping her whether she wants me to or not.

“Where do you wanna go?” I ask, even though our options are limited.

She points, and I pull her closer as I walk her to the bed which is covered by a mountain of pillows all colors of the rainbow, perched right under the big window that opens up to the fire escape and looking out over the street below.

I help Fran onto the bed, and she lays back, rolling into a ball, and I just stand there taking in the sight of her. She looks so small and defenseless, nothing like her usual ball-busting self. I notice a few pill bottles on the nightstand and I feel something start to gnaw at the inside of my gut, and there goes my fucking heart again.

Pushing off my beanie, I tear my fingers through my hair, releasing a breath and considering my options. She’s obviously sick and in pain, and I’m probably the last person she wants hanging around. And sure, I should probably leave her to fend for herself, but I can’t go. I know she’s not really going to die, but I simply can’t leave her like this. It wouldn’t be right.

“What can I do?” I ask, looking around for some sign of what, I don’t even know. “Do you need anything? Food?” My gaze flits to the pill bottles. “More medicine?”

Fran holds a bright pink object up in the air. “Microwave. Ninety seconds on high.”

I take the item, realizing it’s a wheat bag, and I take it over to the kitchenette, popping it in the microwave.While I wait the ninety seconds, I snoop around, noticing the small fridge is empty save for a bottle of wine, some old cheese, and a bag of lettuce way past its use by date. The cupboards are just as bare, and frankly, that pisses me off and I don’t even know why.

Tugging my phone from my pocket, I see a new text message from Dallas, but I ignore it and scroll to one of the delivery apps, because I don’t know about Fran, but I’m fucking starving. I make q uick work of placing a few different orders, before clicking back to Dallas’s text message.

Dallas: Everything okay, my guy?

I rub my chin, considering my response.

Me: Hey, yeah. Sorry, Fran’s sick.

Dallas: Aw, you taking care of your girl?

I roll my eyes.

Me: Yeah, she is my girlfriend.

Dallas: Whipped!

Dallas: Jk.

Dallas: Give Franny a big hug from me.

Before I can respond, the microwave beeps loudly, echoing through the silence.

I walk back to the bed to find Fran lying on her back, sweatshirt pulled up, and her pants pulled down low enough to expose a very swollen belly. Eyes closed, face etched with pain, she clutches her stomach, and I hesitate before stepping closer and sitting tentatively on the edge of the bed.

“Here you go.” I hold out the steaming wheat bag.

“Thanks,” she mutters, taking it and placing it directly onto her stomach.

I almost tell her that it’s too hot, that she should put something between the bag and her skin, but I think twice and shut my stupid mouth because clearly this isn’t her first rodeo.

Keller releases a ragged sigh, and finally after a long moment of me just sitting here staring at her, she opens her eyes and looks at me.

Her brows pull together. “What are you doing here?”

It’s the second time she’s asked me this. Confused, I glance at the pills on her nightstand. She’s really out of it.

“You… I… You let me in, and I helped you into bed. I just heated up your wheat bag.” I reach forward, picking up one of the orange bottles and scanning the label. “Just how fucked up are you?”

She rolls her eyes, snatching the bottle from me. “I mean why are you here?”

“You didn’t show up to the game. And you weren’t replying to my messages.” I shrug a shoulder. “I was worried—” I snap my mouth shut again, clearing my throat, hoping like hell she didn’t just hear that last part. But if her teasing grin is any indication, she heard me alright.

“Careful there, Mason.” She pokes me lightly in my arm. “Almost sounds like you give a shit about me.”

Great. Even sick and hopped on meds she’s a brat.

“How was the game?” she asks, closing her eyes again, smile still lingering despite that same crease of discomfort burrowing between her eyebrows.

“We won.”

“Five for five,” she says under her breath.

I can’t help the smile that curls my lips. “Someone’s been following the games.”

“Yeah, I have to. Vera’s boyfriend is obsessed with hockey, so I figured I should probably at least pretend like I care.”

I have no idea who Vera or her boyfriend are, but I can’t help but chuckle.

“Get into any fights tonight?”

“Nah, just a couple of tussles up against the boards. Why?” This time it’s my turn to tease, gently poking her thigh. “You worried about me, Keller?”

“No,” she scoffs. “But it’s pretty fucking hot watching you throw your gloves down and square up,” she mumbles almost incoherently, and I wonder if she even knows she just said that out loud.

And I know she’s currently high on codeine, but my eyes still widen at that confession. Fran Keller thinks it’s hot when I fight. Noted. But before I can do something stupid like ask her what else she thinks is hot about me, a shrill buzz sounds through the apartment, startling me and waking her from her light sleep.

“What the fuck is this? Visiting hour?” she cries, throwing an arm over her eyes.

“I ordered food,” I say softly. “I’ll go down and grab it.”

Keller cried because I had the food delivery guy stop in at a bodega and grab a pint of Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream and a giant packet of Skittles. She actually cried. Real tears. And then she proceeded to consume more than half the ice cream and a few heaped handfuls of the candy mixed in with it, while I ate the entire pizza that I ordered.

Now, between her bathroom breaks and my trips to the microwave to warm up her wheat pack, we’re watching one of the Halloween movies on the small flat screen hanging on the wall opposite her bed. I hadn’t intended on staying. I was just going to eat and leave her be. But then she suggested a movie and shuffled over so I could sit next to her on the bed. With her nestled into my underarm nook, the intoxicating scent of vanilla and mango wafting up from her hair, I don’t want to leave, although I know I have to.

“Why would you go up the stairs?” Fran mutters to herself. “Everyone knows if a masked psychopath comes into your house, the best thing to do is to run outside.”

Truthfully, I haven’t been watching the film. Between the conscious thoughts of what Fran feels like pressed into the side of my body, her scent, and the fact that, even though there’s no way in hell I’d ever admit it to anyone, horror movies legitimately terrify me, there’s no way I could possibly focus on a movie right now.

“Yeah, so dumb,” I add, my eyes doing all they can to avoid the screen.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand and check the time. It’s past midnight and I really should be heading back to the hotel, but—and this is something else I’ll never admit out loud—I don’t want to leave.

Stretching, I move my head side to side to crack my neck. This bed sure as hell ain’t big enough for the both of us. I’ve only been laying here for forty-five minutes and already my back is cramping.

Fran cranes her neck, big blue eyes peering up at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say through a stifled yawn. “I should probably go.”

She checks the time on the alarm clock next to her bed and gasps. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

I sit up with a groan, my muscles sore after tonight’s game.

“You’re probably really tired. Sorry.”

I glance back at her, offering her a slow smile. “Fran Keller apologizing?”

“I take it back,” she snaps, but then a small whimper falls from her lips as she struggles to sit up, and I turn around, helping her, putting another pillow behind her. And although she looks a little less out of it and a little more herself than she did when I first showed up, she’s obviously still in a lot of discomfort.

“You gonna be okay if I go?”

“No. I think my life might actually fall apart without you,” she deadpans.

I can’t help but laugh because there she is.

Unlocking my phone, I scroll to the Uber app to order a ride which is precisely the moment a bolt of lightning flashes outside, followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder that causes the entire building to shake. Less than a few seconds later, rain is hammering hard against the windows, and I reach over Fran, pulling aside the mesh curtain, barely able to make out the buildings across the street through the blanketing sheets of rain.

“Ominous,” Fran says.

I glance at her, arching a brow.

“Maybe you should stay…” she shrugs.

I eye her, scanning the limited space in the bed, forced to swallow around the lump that’s wedged itself in the back of my throat.

“I promise I won’t try to kiss you again,” she says with a lighthearted laugh, hands held up in surrender and fuck me, now I feel like an asshole again thinking about our almost-kiss and how I’ve let her believe it was all her.

I drag a hand over my face, exhaling heavily. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll try not to bleed all over you in my sleep.” She waggles her eyebrows menacingly.

I huff a laugh, shaking my head at her. “Gross…”

She snorts, pushing me playfully, and I guess that’s that settled. I’m staying the night. With Fran Keller. In her bed. And I know I’ve said it before, but I will continue saying it… I am so fucked.