Page 14 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter ten

I knew my options would be slim without LuAnne to split the rent, but I didn’t know they’d be this slim.

“So, just to be clear…” I take a step forward, the beat of an out-of-tune electric guitar and drum set thumping through the floorboards. “There’s currently no stove, no microwave, no working thermostat and water heater?”

The landlord, who graciously offered me this tour (“Be here in an hour or I won’t take your money”) grunts in agreement.

“And you’d be able to fix those issues before I move in, right?”

He adjusts the collar of his ill-fitting polo. “I’ll get around to it when I get around to it.”

Translation: never.

More thumping from downstairs—it sounds like someone’s let their toddler loose on the cymbals. “And the downstairs neighbors? Do they play a lot of music like this?”

He shrugs.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that this place is cheap. Really, really cheap.

The landlord, Donny, reminds me of my mother’s boyfriend (sorry, life companion, according to her recent Facebook relationship status update). They’ve both got hairlines barely clinging to life, expanding waistbands, and the exact same apathetic attitude when it comes to making my life any easier.

My gaze sweeps around the empty studio apartment.

This place looks like it might’ve been charming a hundred years ago, but now the ancient hardwood is chipping so badly I’d need to wear shoes all the time, the walls are badly patched and shedding white paint, and the layout is odd—even for New York.

The walls jut out and curve in odd places, and the singular hallway is so narrow I’m surprised it hasn’t attracted spelunkers.

I mentally tally a list of pros and cons in my head.

Con: This place is located in a Brooklyn neighborhood I’ve never heard of and looks to be questionably safe for a single woman living alone.

Pro: There's never a bad time to brush up on your self-defense skills, right?

Con: No stove or microwave.

Pro: Another excuse for me not to cook.

Con: No working thermostat.

Pro: I can spend my winter within ten feet of a space heater, and I suppose I won’t even need a microwave in the summer.

Con: No working hot water either.

Pro: There are health benefits to cold plunges, I’m pretty sure.

Con: I definitely saw a couple of cockroaches scuttling across the kitchen counter earlier.

Pro: At least I won’t be totally alone.

Con: If I have to listen to the neighbor’s “jam session” every day, I might just go insane and slaughter them all.

Pro: I wouldn’t have to worry about housing in prison.

The list could stretch on forever, but there’s really only one point that matters: that I’ve got a really tight budget, and the rent here is really cheap.

Criminally cheap, considering the number of housing violations the landlord doesn’t seem in any kind of hurry to fix.

“So, you want this place or not?” He taps his foot impatiently.

I suck in a breath. “Can I think about it?”

Translation: can I find an apartment that comes with a working thermostat, stove, and hot water within the next fifty days?

“Don’t think too long.” He points a finger at me, his strong New York accent echoing through. “I’ve got a couple of others coming to look at it later, and the price isn’t goin’ down.”

***

Disappointment carves a pit in my stomach as I make the six-block walk towards the subway (another con), bundled tightly to keep the January chill from sinking into my bones.

Only in New York would I end up in a bidding war for an apartment the size of a cardboard box.

I sigh.

Is it time to start browsing the listings for a new roommate?

I dread the thought of playing Russian Roulette with strangers about their cleaning and hygiene habits, but considering my finances, it doesn’t look like I’ve got much of a choice.

And it’s temporary, I think, trying to channel some of LuAnne’s optimism about the art show.

I’ve still got the biggest career break of my life a couple of weeks away.

So what if I need to spend a couple of months —or even a year—sharing a bathroom with cockroaches or sending passive-aggressive texts about the dirty dishes in the sink?

It’s nothing I haven’t done before.

I cling to that shred of hope as I turn onto one of the narrow side streets I came from—and did I come this way?

I pause in the middle of the sidewalk and take note of my surroundings. There’s a seedy, neon-lit bar to my left, an auto shop and smoke-churning factory across the street—and no.

I did not come this way.

Unease trickles down my spine as I realize how little foot traffic there is here…but it’s broad daylight. I just need to recalibrate. Figure out what wrong turn I must’ve made to get here.

This is what I get for letting my mind wander in an unfamiliar neighborhood.

Tugging my jacket close, I maneuver toward the weed and graffiti-covered alley attached to the bar and pull up Google Maps.

I’m in the middle of re-routing as the door to the bar slams open, and four middle-aged men come barreling out.

One almost immediately trips over a gash in the sidewalk, stumbling right into the weeds and catching a face full of mugwort.

Guess someone overindulged a little on his break.

His friends, dressed in dark, scuffed uniforms printed with the factory name across the street, break into raucous laughter.

I pay them little mind as they clumsily light a couple of cigarettes, most of their conversation too slurred for me to—

“Hey, baby!” The fallen drunk—Ron, according to yellow name tag pinned to his uniform—offers me a partially toothless smile, and my stomach drops. “You are lookin’ good!”

Without hesitation, I snap, “Not interested.”

His friends laugh, but Ron’s expression twists with anger. “What’s got your fucking panties in a twist, bitch?”

“Leave me alone.” I’m already pivoting in the opposite direction, my instincts roaring that I need to get the hell out of dodge—but Ron doesn’t seem willing to let it go.

“Where you goin’, bitch? I wasn’t done.”

A hand clamps down on my arm, and I’m swinging before I can think not to.

My open palm cracks against his cheek, he stumbles backward, and there’s a suspended moment of disbelief as we both realize what I’ve done.

And then he lunges for me.

I don’t register anything but my feet, moving backward, and his arms, reaching forward—and the screech of tires.

The painfully loud screech of tires.

I glance back, eyes widening, when I spot the sleek black Lexus that’s slammed into the curb in front of the bar, nearly taking out one of the drunks in the process.

“Hey, what the—”

The back door of the BMW opens, a shiny Italian loafer pops out and— What the fuck?

It’s the only real thought that rings through my head as Adrian exits the vehicle, emanating so much rage that I temporarily forget I’m within arm's reach of the man who just tried to harass me.

The men must feel it too, because everyone—me included—still as his eyes, sharp as carbon steel, assessing the scene.

My breath catches when his eyes find mine.

His jaw ticks. “Get in the car, Poppy.”

Well, I don’t need to be told twice.

There’s zero hesitation as I scramble past Ron, past his friends, and straight to Adrian.

I have to duck under his arm to climb into the Lexus, nearly choking on my relief when I touch the cool leather seats—which fades as soon as I realize Adrian isn’t following me into the car.

In fact, he’s shifted, so he’s blocking the door, obstructing my view of everything but his back muscles. Even beneath his thick wool peacoat, they’re tightly wound with tension.

What the hell is going on right now?

“Hey, man...” I think that’s Ron, but his voice sounds completely different now. More sober. More nervous. “We were just messin’ around, we didn’t…”

Adrian prowls forward, stopping just short of Ron. “Ron, is it?” There’s so much vitriol in his voice that I shiver, despite my coat. “I’m going to remember that.”

I’m still staring, wide-eyed, as he strides back to the car, gracefully slips into the seat next to me, and slams the door shut.

Holy shit.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence stretching between us as Adrian, who normally executes such careful control of his emotions that they might as well be tied up in a basement somewhere, seethes with a cold fury that feels too large for this car.

He doesn’t say a word—not to me, not to the driver tucked behind a partition—as he leans back, eyes closed and fists curled.

My heart is still thumping a million miles per hour, and my body is singing: Danger! Danger!

Whether that’s because of the danger lurking outside or because I’ve climbed inside close quarters with a new kind—I’m not sure, but it does nothing to slow the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Adrian takes a deep breath, but I can tell it does nothing to ease the physical tension building in his body. He looks like he’s one wrong word, one wrong move away from wrenching the door open and finishing what those men started.

I can’t stop looking at his fists, clenched so tightly his knuckles have whitened.

I have zero idea what possesses me to do it, but I reach over the console and lay my hand over his.

He stills.

Completely.

Shit.

Okay, bad idea, bad idea—

I draw my hand back—or try to—but Adrian, quick as a viper, seizes my hand and tightly interlocks our fingers.

My breath hitches, and I stare down at our joined hands in surprise.

He says nothing, but there’s something familiar in the way his large, nimble fingers cradle mine. The heat of his palm flat against mine.

Achingly familiar.

Whatever grounding technique he’s using must be working though, because a moment later, his shoulders visibly relax.

He doesn’t open his eyes though, choosing instead to fiddle with something in the center console.

The opaque partition hums as it lowers, and steely blue eyes and deep-set wrinkles become visible through the rearview mirror.

Adrian clears his throat. “You can drive now, Alex.”

“Yes, sir.” The engine roars to life, and the partition rises again.

Adrian takes another long, shuddering breath, opens his eyes—and immediately pins them on me.

I freeze under their weight, but some of the icy rage has melted, and he asks, softer than I expect: “Are you alright?”

I blink at him.

Am I alright?

Truthfully, I’ve been too busy trying to decipher Adrian’s mental state to give much thought to mine, but when I glance down, I realize my entire body is shaking. My heart is still trying to pound out of my chest.

“It’s common with acute stress responses,” he explains, like he’s plucked the question from my head. “It should go away in a few minutes.”

I can still picture the cause of my acute stress response, his face contorted with rage, his hands reaching for me, hoping to—

“Take a deep breath,” Adrian orders gently. “Focus on what’s around you right now.”

It should be concerning, how quickly my body responds to his command.

I take a deep breath.

Focus on the quiet purr of the Lexus engine. The supple leather seats beneath me. Our hands, still twined together. The heat emanating from Adrian’s body so close to mine. And his scent—God, how did I forget about this scent ?—fills every inch of the car.

It’s a specific combination of cedar and cleanliness, like freshly laundered sheets, and it triggers a wash of memories I’m unprepared for: Adrian’s jacket slung around my shoulders. Studying in his dorm room. Us lying in that hotel room, his naked body on top of mine.

I’m suddenly grateful for the console separating us, if only to keep me from crawling into his lap, rubbing my nose into his chest, and trying to soak up as much of him as I can.

“Feel better?” His question coaxes me out of my trance, and I manage a nod. I do feel better—though I’m not sure how much of that has to do with his grounding technique.

My body, at least, has stopped trembling.

“I’m alright,” I say quietly, unsure which one of us I’m trying to convince. “I’m safe.”

“You will be safe,” he murmurs, and it sounds like a vow. “With me.”

Something dark passes over his face, but it’s gone before I can ever be certain it was there—replaced by a comforting smile faker than anything I’d find on Canal Street. “Why don’t we get you home?”