Page 10 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter seven

It’s times like these that I wish someone else knew the truth about my relationship with Adrian. Not the diluted bits and pieces I’ve shared with LuAnne — but the truth of it. All the gory details, down to the blackmail and the threats and the murder.

Just one person I could talk to without mincing my words.

Because that’s what normal people with normal relationships do when they run into their exes: they vent to their friends over drinks, they call their mothers, they rehash the relationship in a dimly lit therapist’s office.

But I’d get a ride to the nearest police station for trying.

Which leaves just me, stewing in my thoughts till dawn—no closer to making sense of what happened at the party than I was when I hustled LuAnne into the nearest Uber.

He pretended he didn’t know my name.

It’s the part of our interaction I keep coming back to. The expectant rise of his brows, the blank look on his face—like I was just another nameless, faceless girl he’d pass on the street without thinking twice.

Like I was invisible.

Which, coming from the only person who’s ever really seen me, stings harder than any shard of glass could.

Why play pretend though?

I may not be a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old anymore, but I don’t look that different.

Sure, my hips have widened, the curtain bangs may have been a regrettable choice, and I’ve lost a little baby fat, but I’m still me.

Same height, same ashy, platinum hair, same freckles spotted over the bridge of my nose.

Maybe it’s amnesia, I think, recalling all those cheesy Lifetime movies LuAnne likes. It’s not a likely explanation but…

Or maybe he just didn’t want to explain how he knows me to a room full of people.

With his public image, God knows we’d be splashed all over some DailyMail article with a headline like: “Adrian Ellis Performs Charity Work in His Private Life too.”

So, he was trying to save face.

That’d be the simple explanation.

Or…

I swallow.

Or running into him last night wasn’t an accident.

If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t think twice about labeling last night an unfortunate coincidence, but this is Adrian Ellis we’re talking about.

He promised to hunt me down and collect me like a prize, and now, here he is, in my city. Donating money to my roommate’s hospital.

Is that what’s happening?

After all this time, he’s finally here, ready to make good on his word?

Something in me—fear, excitement, I’m not sure—flutters to life and—

“Poppy!”

LuAnne’s voice, full of genuine terror, echoes through the apartment, and I only pause long enough to grab what’s tucked beneath my mattress before I’m bursting through my bedroom door.“LuAnne! What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find—intruders raiding our cabinets for the pack of Lipton tea that expired in 1999? LuAnne choking on whatever black sludge comes out of our thrifted coffee maker?

But when I charge into the kitchen, there are no intruders or medical emergencies—just my best friend standing stock-still, a folded letter clutched tightly in her hands.

“LuAnne?” I stop short, and she looks up at me, eyes wide with panic. “What is it?”

Wordlessly, she hands over the letter, but not before her gaze catches on the weapon in my right hand. “Poppy, why do you have a hammer?” She eyes me warily.

“You screamed,” I shrug. I set the tool down and grab the letter, dread knotting my stomach immediately when I spot the name scrawled haphazardly at the bottom.

Shit.

A message from our landlord, Yoshi, that’s not an all-caps text message?

This can’t be good news.

I skim the paper quickly, jumping past all the legalese that Yoshi definitely didn’t write, and straight to the end, which—

“No,” I breathe in horror. “No. He can’t do this.

LuAnne’s expression mirrors the alarm on mine. “Right?”

I stare down at the paper like the numbers might rearrange themselves into a more acceptable figure, but the zeros don’t budge.

I’d expected a small increase—two to five percent; that’s how much Yoshi usually raises our rent during lease renewals.

Annoying, but certainly not worth the hassle of finding a new place, fighting for the remnants of our security deposit, and dealing with another landlord that could be even pricklier than Yoshi.

But this…

“Six thousand dollars,” I choke on the number. “He’s trying to double our rent.”

“It makes me want to hurl just looking at it,” she mutters.

“Six thousand dollars,” I repeat. My disbelief is giving way to anger now.

“For this place? We don’t even have a dishwasher!

Our fridge doesn’t work—” I gesture wildly to the living room.

Now, more than ever, seems like the perfect time to tally up all-things-broken in our apartment.

“The cabinets don’t shut correctly, our water pressure sucks—”

“We have the thinnest walls known to mankind,” LuAnne adds. “There’s no elevator.”

I nod in agreement, recalling all the times I’ve had to haul groceries up four flights of stairs, and even more anger floods my veins.

That greedy, smug asshole…

For years, we’ve paid almost three grand for cracked Formica countertops, a thermostat on the fritz, and more recently, even borne the risk of food poisoning—all for the pleasure of living in Manhattan.

But this…

“…can’t be legal,” I say.

LuAnne nods her head in agreement. “I’m going to text Joe. See what he says about this, and—woah, Poppy, what’re you doing?”

“You talk to Joe, I’ll talk to Yoshi,” I say darkly. If he’s going to ruin my Monday morning, then I’m going to return the favor.

I’ve already got his contact pulled up in my phone when she intervenes with a hand on my wrist. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

For someone so blunt with the people she cares about, LuAnne is strangely non-confrontational with everyone else.

“That letter doesn’t tell us anything,” I say. “And I want to know why Yoshi suddenly woke up and decided he’d like to lose some of his best tenants.”

“Maybe we should wait to hear what Joe says first,” she counters. “If you piss Yoshi off, he’ll have even more reason to get rid of us.”

She’s not entirely wrong, but I’ve got too much anger pulsing through my veins to care. “I’ll be cordial,” I say before dialing.

The phone rings once, twice, three times, and I mutter, “You better pick up, you ass—Yoshi, hey! It’s Poppy. From Unit 408 on Monroe Street.”

His gruff voice crackles through the phone. “408. Right. The wannabe artist and the vet. Whad’ya want, kid?”

I ignore the dig. “Well, we got our lease renewal this morning, and we’re pretty confused about the increase.”

“Confused? What about?” He sounds strangely oblivious for a man that’s trying to screw us out of our home.

LuAnne must be able to see the rage building on my face because she simulates deep breaths with all the enthusiasm of a yoga instructor.

I follow her advice, breathing in and out until I’m sure I’m not going to threaten Yoshi with murder. “Well, six grand a month seems a little ridiculous for an apartment that doesn’t even have a functioning fridge.”

“That fridge worked just fine when I installed it a couple of years ago,” he shoots back. “And it was completely new too. I’m happy to replace it, but it’s coming out of your security deposit, kid.”

I grit my teeth.

LuAnne’s simulated deep breaths become more frantic.

“We don’t need you to replace the fridge right now,” I say, and every word comes through clenched teeth. “We’ll settle for you not doubling our rent.”

“Yeah, about that,” he says. “Those decisions are over my head now.”

My eyebrows scrunch together. “What do you mean?”

“It means someone bought the building, kid,” he replies. “If you’ve got a problem, you’ll have to take it up with the new owner.”

Surprise ripples through me. “You sold the building?”

“Sure did. Six months ago.”

“Six months ago?” I echo, exchanging glances with LuAnne. “You never told us.”

“The new owner didn’t want to make a fuss about the acquisition. I still handle some of the day-to-day management stuff,” he explains. “But I’m not the one cashing your rent checks anymore.”

“Why did you sell?”

It comes out a little harsher than intended, which earns a scoff from Yoshi. “That’s none of your business, is it?”

I open my mouth, but LuAnne chimes in first. “We’re not trying to pry, Yoshi, but…six grand? Can you blame us for being concerned? We just want to know why it’s being raised so high.”

Maybe it's my imagination, but I swear there's an undercurrent of fear in his voice as he says, "Look, I really can't answer any of those questions anymore. Not my wheelhouse."

“Can you put us in contact with the new owner then?” I ask.

“Did you hear the part about not making a lot of fuss?”

It’s going to cause a lot of fuss if we’ve got to get lawyers involved, is on the tip of my tongue, but as usual, LuAnne gets there first. “There must be someone we can talk to, Yoshi.”

“You’re talking to me,” he retorts. “That’s about as good as I can do for you, kid. Now, anything else?”

I scoff. “Yeah, I’m not—”

“I’m sure you can text it, whatever it is,” are his last words before the line goes dead, and I’m left sweltering with the sort of special frustration that only comes from dealing with our landlord.

Or, former landlord, I suppose.

I blow out a breath, and for the first time today, the panic coiling beneath my skin has nothing to do with Adrian Ellis.

What the hell are we going to do now?

“Well…that was unhelpful,” LuAnne sighs, rubbing her temples. “I can’t believe he sold the building.”

“Oh, I can believe it,” I say, arms crossed. “I bet someone came along, offered him a ton of money for this place, and he didn’t think twice about screwing his tenants over.”

In my head, I’m already running through ideas for petty revenge: raw chicken in the vents, paying rent in pennies, a Craigslist ad calling for dick pics with Yoshi’s number attached…the options are endless, and it soothes some of my anger just thinking about it.

I bet I could get some neighbors in on it.

I pause.

Speaking of neighbors…

Are they doubling everyone’s rent?

They must be—but I haven’t heard a peep from anyone else in the building, which is weird, considering eighty-year-old Ms. Harris in 412 tried to incite a building-wide riot when they changed the color of the dumpsters. There’s no way she’s keeping quiet about a rental increase like this.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell LuAnne, and I’m sliding open our ancient deadbolt and stepping out into the hall before she can respond.

It’s as dimly lit as ever, but I stride down the narrow corridor, justified rage powering every step.

I’m worried Ms. Harris may not hear my knock over the sound of whatever loud TV program she’s watching, but a moment later, there’s some shuffling, and—“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling. Or preaching. Don’t try to slip any pamphlets under the door.”

I clear my throat loudly. “Uh, no, Ms. Harris. It’s Poppy. From 408? Can we talk for a moment?”

Sure enough, her deadbolt clicks, the door opens, and Ms. Harris blinks up at me through her owlishly large glasses. She’s got her white hair in curlers, and a fuchsia-colored bathrobe that hides nothing. “What do you want? Richard’s Viagra is about to kick in, so you’ve got five minutes.”

I blink, processing that sentence, and my polite, neighborly smile wavers—just a little. “Uh, I won’t hold you up…have you gotten your lease renewal letter yet?”

“Last week,” she nods.

“And…?” I wait for the same outrage she expressed when the lobby stopped doing Free Bagels Friday, and she petitioned signatures from every tenant in the building. “Did they increase your rent?”

“Actually,” she says, adjusting one of the large curlers. “It decreased by about fifty bucks.”

My jaw drops. “It went down?”

“I was just as surprised as you were,” she says. “I’ve been here since the 90s, and it’s the first time it’s done that.” Her brows rise with interest. “Why? Yours go up?”

I nod.

She leans in, probably craving another piece of building gossip she can gab about in the mailroom. “How much?”

It’s no less painful to share the number than it was to read it five minutes ago, and Ms. Harris gasps with the appropriate amount of horror. “Sounds like they’re trying to push you out.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says earnestly. “There’s no other explanation for it.

” She gestures to the peeling, cracked walls of our dingy hallway.

“You think anyone is going to pay six grand for this? In this neighborhood? They’re pushing you out.

Not sure why it’s just you though.” She makes a clicking sound with her lipstick-stained mouth.

“Did you piss in anyone’s cornflakes lately, honey? ”

I open my mouth to reply, but a male voice hollers from somewhere in her apartment. “Ethel! You coming?”

Her eyes spark with excitement. “I’m coming!” She turns back to me with a wink. “Hopefully, many times.” It’s the last thing she says before slamming the door in my face.

I blink.

Should it concern me that my eighty-year-old neighbor has a more fulfilling sex life than I do?

I try not to ruminate on the thought as I traipse back to the apartment, her words ringing through my head.

Why would anyone—let alone whatever faceless, greedy corporate management company Yoshi sold the building to—be pushing us out?

Specifically, me and LuAnne?

Because, contrary to what Ms. Harris might think, I haven’t pissed in anyone’s cornflakes. At least, nobody with the kind of power to—

I stop walking.

Could this be—

No.

No.

That’s ridiculous.

He wouldn’t do this.

There’s no way this could be Adrian’s doing.

Last night, he looked at me like I was a stranger bumping shoulders with him on the street. Unfamiliar. Alien. Unimportant.

But—my stomach flip-flops—I can’t ignore the line-up of synchronicities: Adrian at the charity gala of my best friend’s workplace, Adrian moving to my city, and now, my apartment building being sold to some nameless, faceless owner that’s hiking up the rent on my unit.

My breath hitches.

Could this be his game?

Pretend like he doesn’t know me in person all while ruining my life behind the scenes?

No, it’s too ridiculous, I tell myself. The logistics alone…

It would mean that Adrian accepted a job in New York City, staged a meeting at last night’s charity gala, and bought millions of dollars worth of Manhattan real estate to…

what? Punish me for leaving him all those years ago?

To watch me wriggle and squirm like a bug trapped under a microscope for his amusement? To ruin my life simply because he can ?

Not ridiculous— insane.

He’d have to be a Machiavellian-scheming psychopath to pull this off, which is…

My gut twists.

…entirely too plausible when it comes to Adrian Ellis.

My jaw sets.

If he thinks I’m going to just sit back and let him treat my life like a Monopoly board, he’s in for a rude awakening.