#Superfan (3 page)

Madi and I were roommates in college. We immediately clicked and have been friends ever since. She’s the exact opposite of me. Outgoing, talkative, not a mean bone in her body. Not once did she tell me I was making a mistake when I decided to drop out of college and pursue my dream of becoming a book cover design artist. She does, however, encourage me to return to college, change my major to something more artistic: illustration, graphic design, photography, or fine art.

Sometimes I think she’s right. I should go back to college, learn the things I haven’t been able to teach myself. But then I look in the mirror at the girl—woman—and I shy away from the idea. Maybe I’m not pushing myself enough, but I’m comfortable with where I’m at in life. Lonely sometimes, but comfortable. And now I have Cally to keep me company.

Problem solved.

***

@therealAydenVaughn, if ur looking 4 a place to stay while filming in ATL, there’s an apartment across the hall from me. #superfan

@therealAydenVaughn, Hope u don’t mind the lingering smell of cat pee and fabric wallpaper from the 70s. #superfan

@therealAydenVaughn, I’m always around if u need any sugar. And I’m not talking about the granulated kind. #superfan

***

During the next couple weeks I’m on my best behavior, making sure not to lurk in the hallways too much as potential tenants visit the apartment across the hall. Granted, it’s difficult, especially considering the female version of Samuel Bowers once lived there.

Thankfully, the apartment’s been cleaned. The carpet’s been stripped away, replaced with shiny new flooring. The fabric wallpaper’s gone. The smell of fresh paint still lingers in the hallway. Hopefully Mrs. Spearman’s horde of felines are now living comfortably in climate-controlled homes, with sweet little old ladies feeding them tuna treats.

One morning, while working on a new order, there’s a commotion in the hallway. For a second my heart jumps into my throat. The last time I heard a noise outside my apartment resulted in me finding Mrs. Spearman face-down beside her pastel-pink, out of date toilet. A little shiver of fear creeps across my skin, raising the fine hairs on the back of my arms and neck.

“I swear to God, if someone’s dead …” I pause, looking up at the ceiling. “What is this evil power you’ve bestowed upon me, Lord?” I shake my fist at the ceiling, but as usual, He doesn’t respond. No one ever takes me seriously, so why should He?

Another bang brings me to my feet. I’m smarter this time around, slipping my feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers. Mrs. Spearman hit her head on the toilet during her fall, and when I turned her over to perform CPR, I nearly lost my balance from the gash on her forehead. Memories of my blood-stained toes invade my mind, but I brush the unpleasant recollection aside and peek out the peephole into the hallway.

A group of uniformed men and one plain-clothed blond stand in front of Mrs. Spearman’s old apartment. The weirdness of the aged glass in the peephole distorts their images, leaving me with an unclear picture of my possible new neighbors. Laughing and chatting, they file into the apartment with boxes tucked under their arms, leaving and returning again with a treadmill, elliptical, and an eventual weight bench. I vaguely wonder where my new neighbor will store all these things.

They leave the door ajar and one returns to the hallway. He leaves my range of view and returns later, a larger, bulging box in his arms.

The plain-clothed blond elbows past him and into the hall. I narrow my eyes, studying him. Cally rubs her fat self against my ankles. I yelp in surprise at the sudden rush of fur against my skin. The blond guy’s head snaps in my direction and I stumble backward, cursing my new pet for all she’s worth.

“Cal, what the hell?”

Amber eyes stare up at me, pleading and slightly menacing. “Mew.”

I know this look. This is the “feed me before I eat your face” look.

“Half a cup, Cal. You know the rules.” I wag a finger at her. “Half a cup in the morning, half a cup at night. You’re on a diet, fatass.”

Huffing, I stroll into the kitchen area and find the bag of tuna treats in the top of a cabinet. “One treat, Cal. One.”

I toss her a tuna treat and watch her inhale it in two seconds flat. Someone tentatively knocks on the door, and I nearly piss myself, because people don’t just knock on my door. Not without calling to warn me they’re visiting first.

“I swear to God, if it’s the new neighbor.” I glare at Cally and hustle to the door.

Sure enough, the blond from earlier is standing in the hallway, this time in full view.

“You gotta be kidding me.” I bump my forehead against the wood, not once, not twice, but eight times before twisting the doorknob.

Eight.

#chapterthree

Heaving a great sigh, I stare up at the ceiling. “Why, Lord? Why?”

With a smug smile, Eight leans on the doorway. He glances past me at the fat cat sitting on the armrest of the couch licking her paw. Once again, his sleeves are pushed up above his elbows. The bandage is gone, scabs and fading bruises taking its place. The tiny slivers of abrasions on his knuckles have also healed, leaving miniscule silvery scars on his tan hands.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world …”

“Hey, Eight.”

His smile leaves me breathless. “Hey, Six.”

His accent is somewhat thicker than mine. Six sounds like
sex
when the Southern drawl rolls off his tongue, waking up a feeling inside me normally reserved for Ayden Vaughn or my vibrator. Not to mention he’s quoting
Casablanca
, which makes him more of a nine than an actual eight. And he smells good, like jasmine and citrus mixed all into one confounding scent that’s doing something funny to my belly.

Damn him for being an eight and totally untouchable by my own personal standards. If not for his ranking, I’d drag him to the couch and bang him six ways to Sunday.

I must have some weird expression on my face. Eight snaps his fingers in front of my eyes, causing me to blink back to reality.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine. I’m just … surprised to see you again.”

“Looks like you’ll be seeing me a lot,” he says, jerking his thumb over one shoulder. “I’m your new neighbor.”

Jesus, I’m hyperventilating. Not on the outside where he can see me and possibly freak out, but on the inside. I rack my brain for something, anything that’ll prevent him from moving in across the hall and keep me from quite possibly losing my mind.

“A woman died in that apartment,” I blurt out, satisfied by the widening of his eyes. “Yup, and I'm the one who found her. It was disgusting. A real bloodbath in there.”

And like a twelve-year-old boy, he perks up, eager for more details. “Was she murdered? Did they find her killer?”

Groaning, I palm my face. “No, she wasn’t murdered. Can’t you just be like appalled or something that a woman
died
in the apartment you rented, pack your bags, and find another place to stay?”

“People die every day, Six. Doesn’t bother me.” Leaning heavily on the door jamb, he shrugs one shoulder. “It’s a natural process of life. Besides, the landlord already explained what happened. What was her name? Spearman?”

“Forget about Mrs. Spearman.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “Look, I know you don’t know me, but can’t you just … do me a solid? I can’t have this”—I wave my hands at him—“distraction in my life.”

“You find me distracting?” If his voice were a candy, it’d be butterscotch: buttery and slightly sweet.

If he’s sugar, I’m salt, irritated by the way he’s inadvertently weaseled his way into my life. He looks entirely too pleased by my admission.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” I grumble. “Why would anyone think being distracting is a compliment?”

He cocks his head to one side. “Are you easily distracted?”

“No, not typically.”

Eight licks his bottom lip, capturing it between his teeth. “Should we work out some sort of schedule?”

“Schedule?”

“Yeah, a schedule of avoidance.”

“You want to know my schedule so you can avoid me?”

“Yes. More for your benefit than mine.” That sexy smile of his widens. “Why would
I
want to avoid
you
?”

“Will you stop smiling and licking your lip and come inside?” I grab him by the collar of his shirt and drag him into my apartment. Kicking the door closed, I lead him to the kitchen table.

“Sit,” I say, pointing at a chair. Like a good pet he listens by easing down onto the furniture. “Let me grab a piece of paper and a pen.”

The ceiling fan above my bed rustles the single piece of paper resting on the printer in my bedroom. I snatch the paper from the tray and rummage around my desk drawer for a usable pen.

Why don’t I ever toss pens out when they run out of ink? It’s like an inkless pen cemetery inside my desk.

Finding a new one, I shove the drawer shut and return to the kitchen, skidding to a stop at the abandoned table.

Cally mews nearby. When I turn, I find her lounging on the back of the couch, watching Eight as he surveys a framed portrait of me and my family hanging on the far wall.

“These your folks and your siblings?”

Blowing a loose strand of hair from my forehead, I nod and drop the pen and paper on the kitchen table. I join him in the living room, standing an appropriate distance to his right and making damn sure I don’t stand any closer just in case his intoxicating smell attempts to take over my mind yet again.

“My mom, dad.” I point out each person in the portrait as I speak. “My sister Evelyn. We call her Evie. And my brother Wes.”

“Your dad’s a little intimidating.” Eight crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back on his heels. “Bet he scared the shit out of every guy you dated back in the day.”

“I didn’t.”

Eight glances at me, eyebrows puckered. “Didn’t what?”

“Date.” I shrug. “Not then and not now. Not really. I had one serious boyfriend, but I never brought him home. You know, I was on a blind date the night we met, but the guy never showed.”

Eight frowns. “Idiot.”

“Who? The guy who stood me up?”

“Yeah, him, and any guy too stupid to not ask you out.” Eight casually leans against the wall near the shelves of pictures. “So … you wanna go out sometime?”

I can practically see the back of my brain when I roll my eyes. “Pffft, please.”

“What? I’m serious.”

“I’ve already told you. Sixes and eights don’t mix. You ready to work on that schedule?”

Eight breaks his holding stare. “No, I want to know more about your family. What’s your dad do for a living?”

Sighing, I say, “Army recruiter.”

Eight touches one corner of the portrait, straightening it on the wall. “You think he’ll kick my ass?”

“Why would he kick your ass?”

“You know, for being the first guy you bring home?” Eight smiles a smile that’s neither flirty nor fun, but sincere and hopeful. “Don’t dads usually want to kick the first guy’s ass?”

He’s too much. He’s persistent and cocky and too much, but the sincerity of his smile and hopefulness of his eyes tug at my heartstrings. I decide to give him an honest, insightful answer to my life.

“He’d probably be thrilled for me to bring a guy home. I think he worries about me.”

I leave him behind to chew on my words, but it doesn’t take him long to join me at the kitchen table. Cally stands on the back of the couch and stretches. She lands on the ground with a thud and saunters over to where we sit. Winding herself between Eight’s legs, she quickly garners his attention. He reaches down, stroking her back. Cally hops onto his lap and settles down in a ball of orange, white, and black fur.

What a damn traitor.

“Why does your dad worry about you?”

I click the end of the pen and label the top of the page “Six’s Sad, Stale Schedule.”

“Because I’m not Wes or Evie. They’re both married, college grads. Wes and his wife have child. A little boy named Noah. Evie’s been married a couple of years now, and she's expecting her first baby soon.”

I tap the pen on the page, my mind drawing a blank on my non-existent schedule. I drop the pen, pushing the paper across the table. “Truth is, I have no schedule. The only time I leave the apartment is when I need groceries or something. I lead a rather boring life.”

“That’s hard to believe.” Eight slides the paper in front of him and scribbles a few words. He cups his hand over the paper to hide it away from my prying eyes. “You were hanging out at a restaurant the first night we met.”

I’m quick to remind him of the unfortunate … nah,
fortunate
circumstance of that night. “I was being stood up the night we met. There’s a difference.”

Eight grins, sideways and sloppy. “Getting stood up is still more action than I’ve had in … a while.”

Why’s he gotta lie like that?

“That’s doubtful.”

His writing hand pauses, and he shoots me an inquisitive stare. “Whatdaya mean by that?”

“Come on, Eight. You’re, what, twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Okay, you’re twenty-six. Charming.” I smile as his grin returns. “Handsome.”

Eight makes a keep-’em-coming gesture with his free hand. I swat at his shoulder, but he playfully dodges my hand.

“Also a tad annoying. And you obviously don’t mind fishing for compliments.”

“Who’s fishing?” His attention returns to the paper. “This is the first meaningful conversation I’ve had with anyone in two weeks, aside from my previous roommate who kicked me out in the dead of night.”

Sympathy washes away any irritation his charming smile brings. “Why’d he kick you out?”

Eight frowns, finishing his scribbling with a flourish. “More like
she
, and she says I’ve changed, but not in the way she’d hoped.”

My heart beats a little faster. On the night I met Eight he confessed he had no home. Had she kicked him out that night? Had he left one girl’s bed only to bump into me and try to weasel his way into mine? Is this guy a freeloader?

I shake my head, abolishing the thought. He’s got his own apartment, and from the sight of the expensive workout equipment, not to mention the huge television the moving guys carted in, this guy’s no freeloader. He’s not broke, not mooching off anyone. He’s a guy having a hard time, and if anyone knows about hard times it’s me.

“What she failed to see,” he says, shoving the paper across the table to rest in front of me, “is she’s the one who changed. Everything around us changed, including her, but I stayed the same. And that’s what upsets her the most. She thought I’d change along with our circumstances, but I didn’t. I remained true to myself. You know what I mean?”

I absolutely don’t know what he means, but I nod anyway and take a stab at understanding. “And you were hurt because if she doesn’t love you for the you that you are now, did she ever really love you to begin with?”

Eight’s eyes widen. He leans back heavily against the chair. Weariness lines his eyes. He brushes his blond hair from his forehead, his fingers tracing the worry above his brow.

“You get it, don’t you, Six?”

I thought I didn’t, but maybe I do, because as much as Madi’s begged me to get out more, as much as my mother’s pleaded with me to go back to school, and as much as I know I should get over my crazy obsession with Ayden and
The Hunted
, I’m comfortable with my lot in life. I’m comfortable being myself.

Not meeting his eyes, I say, “You feel like you disappointed her? For not being the person she wants you to be? But you’re too damn stubborn to bend under anyone’s will?”

The chair makes a scraping sound against the floor as Eight scoots forward. Cally jumps from his lap and trots back to the couch. “Too damn stubborn, too damn proud, or too damn intelligent? Because only a fool changes for someone else, unless the change is for the good.”

He’s totally lost me there. “She wanted you to change in what way? A negative way?”

Eight purses his lip and taps the paper. “Read the list.”

Taken aback by the abrupt change in conversation, I touch the paper, turning it to face me. The list is sparse, as scanty as mine would be if I’d actually made one. Included in his list are things such as “grocery shopping” and “laundry day.” Roundabout times are doodled near the edges of the paper. His handwriting is neat and thoughtful in the beginning, but turns slanted and frantic near the end, reminding me of my own handwriting the time I’d taken a stab at writing fan fiction. Thoughts and ideas had spilled out of me, tumbling from the pen and onto the page as fast as I could write. As vibrant as my story began, the writing eventually dried up like a leaf in the fall.

“What about work?” There’s nothing on the paper hinting at a job, and my non-freeloader thoughts sway. “Do you have a job?”

“Do you?” he asks, giving me that grin again.

Shifting in my seat, I nod. “Yeah, I work from home.”

Interest flickers in his irises. “What sort of work do you do from home?”

“I asked you first.”

Eight drums his fingers on the table. “Work for hire stuff. Nothing too interesting. I’d bore you with the details.”

I study him more carefully: the healed wounds on his knuckles, the tiredness of his eyes, the expensive aroma of his cologne, the designer brand of clothes he wears. They may be casual—a hoodie, plain tee, and worn jeans—but they’re expensive.

“What I’m thinking is that you’re a drug dealer.”

Eight stares at me a beat too long before bursting into laughter. “Where’d you come up with that idea?”

“Laugh all you want, but one thing I’ve learned in life is that drug dealers rarely look like drug dealers. You’ve got the whole charming personality down to an art. You could sell a barrel of water to the ocean. You’re wearing high-dollar attire, but nothing too flashy. And you’re always tired and banged up. Oh, and the fact that you refuse to tell me what you do for a living. That’s pretty shady.”