#Superfan (5 page)

I suck in a breath, unsure how to respond. None of what she says surprises me. Everyone knows I’ve changed over the years, none more than me.

“I don’t know, Madi. I just gave up.” I slump on the arm of Eight’s sofa. “When I dropped out of college I didn’t have time for a social life, aside from our designated Taco Tuesdays.”

Madi grins and nods. “Don’t forget about the sporadic Margarita Mondays.”

“And the occasional Whiskey Wednesday.”

“Gotta get over that hump day somehow.” Madi’s smile softens. “Sometimes you seem depressed, and I don’t even think you realize you are. And it concerns me, ‘cause what kind of girl gets depressed on Taco Tuesday?”

I roll my eyes. “Here comes mental health expert Madi Prescott again.”

She elbows me. “I’m serious. You seem so sad sometimes. That’s why Logan suggested the blind date with that guy. Dumb guy. Logan should have known better than to set you up with some beefcake.”

“The guy? What was his name … BJ?” I laugh at the name. “BJ the beefcake. How’d Logan meet this guy again?”

“At the gym, I think.” Madi scrunches her face in thought. “He’s obviously a loser. I shoulda hooked you up with one of the guys I met at Logan’s mom’s benefit a few weeks ago.”

Logan’s parents are hot-shot real estate investors who are always throwing benefits, whether it be for cancer research or for local arts. They’re a couple of soft-bellied yuppies, the complete opposite of Logan who’s a certified personal trainer and part-time body builder.

“No, but hell no. Not dating those artsy-fartsy types I’ve met at any of your mother-in-law’s benefits either.” I think about the BJ guy, chuckling over his name again. “Guess I dodged a bullet with the beefcake. We both know I’m no health nut. There’s no converting me.”

Madi absently nods and surveys the room. “You know what I find odd? I mean, other than the obvious?”

“What’s that?”

“There’re no photos of his family. No mementos from the past.” Madi gestures around the room. “The place is practically void of anything that’d give me more insight into who he is as a person. You know where I keep my most personal of possessions? Where I store everything that could tell a person exactly who I am?”

A shiver of anticipation slices through my chest. She’s my best friend. I know what she’s going to say before she even says it.

Madi nods, silently affirming what I haven’t said aloud. “We need to see his room, ASAP.”

“I don’t know.” I wring my hands as she stands and makes her way to the room situated mirror-image to mine. “He didn’t specify if there were or weren’t plants to water inside his room.”

“He didn’t tell you not to go into his bedroom either,” Madi points out. “Which means you’re technically allowed inside his bedroom.” Madi sighs in exasperation. “Don’t give me that look, Alex. We’ve already invaded his privacy by coming into his apartment with ulterior motives. What’s to stop us from going into his room?”

Madi rattles the doorknob and frowns. “What’s to stop us besides a locked door?”

“He locked his bedroom door? That’s super weird.” I join her where she stands, giving the knob a test rattle myself. “Why would he lock his bedroom door?”

Madi gives me a sad smile. “Why do people locks things, Alex? To keep other people out.”

#chapterfive

Ayden Vaughn smiles at me from where he leans against a tree in a moonlit forest. He lifts his hand, removing a silver-tipped arrow from the quiver slung over his left shoulder. He loads the bow and nods to my right.

Glowing red eyes stare at me from the river bed. The shadowy figure emerges from the waters and hulks toward me. I glance at Ayden in fright, my entire body trembling at the stench of death surrounding me.

Ayden sets his jaw, bringing the bow and arrow up in one swift movement. The dark figure lumbers into the bath of the moonlight, and I fall to my knees in relief.

The monster isn’t a monster at all. Eight’s eyes fade from bright red to a hazel hue. He smiles at me, extending one arm to help me to my feet. The sound of feather, wood, and steel whips through the air. Eight’s face morphs from happiness to sheer horror as an arrow sinks into his chest.

Screaming, I scramble to my feet as he crumbles to the ground. He whimpers, touching the arrow protruding from his body. Blood gushes from the wound, and I shed my jacket, pressing it against him in an attempt to slow the bleeding. He catches my hand, smearing crimson liquid on my skin. Eight opens his mouth, and I strain my ears to make out what he says, but nothing comes out except a pink froth of spittle and blood.

Someone touches my shoulder and I gasp. Ayden stands over me, withdrawing a galvanized knife from the sheath on his waist. He towers over us, wielding the object high above his head. Moonlight glints off the silver blade.

I scream for him to stop, but he doesn’t listen. With a battle cry he comes down, stabbing the knife into Eight’s chest again and again until the only sounds in the forest are the whimpers exploding from my throat and Eight’s last, dying breath.

Ding!

Glancing around the forest, I look for the source of the familiar, yet confounding sound. There are no cell phones in this world, the world of the huntsmen, but the ping of a text resounds again and again.

The woods around me fade into darkness, yet I struggle to maintain its presence. I reach for Eight, but he’s no longer dead on the forest floor. He’s drifting, morphing into the man standing behind me, morphing into Ayden. Eight is Ayden and Ayden is Eight. They’re the same person, both of them bearing a resemblance to one another before fading away altogether. I’m surrounded by nothing but an empty vastness. And before long I’m drifting. Restless and drifting.

Ding!

Groaning, I pry open my blurry eyes and gaze all around me. Books are scattered on my coffee table. Cally stares at me from her newly purchased pet bed near the entertainment center, placed there specifically because of her fondness for sleeping near the satellite receiver.

Sitting up on the couch, I moan at the stiffness of my neck. I fell asleep on the couch with my head cocked at an odd angle on a decorative pillow. Damn, just a dream. I haven't dreamt in ages, not counting my constant state of
day
dreaming.

My cell pings again, reminding me why I’m awake in the first place. I kick the throw off my legs and flounder around the couch, searching for my lost device and finding it wedged between the cushions.

The first two texts are from Madi, her nosey ass asking if I’ve heard from Eight, and the second one inviting me out to some club I’d never be caught dead entering these days. And the third text … the third text is from him.

It’s his first communication in the two days since he left me in charge of watching over his apartment. I almost dread opening the text and reading the message. Dread it almost as much as I crave it.

back home. thanks for keeping my plants alive. i’ll pick up my spare key tomorrow. thanks again.

That’s it? Thanks for keeping my plants alive? Not even a courtesy knock on the door to say what’s up?

Sighing, I click on a little blue app and type on the screen, too disappointed to respond to Eight’s text but too pissed to let it slide.

@therealAydenVaughn u killed my love interest in my latest dream. then u turned into him. should i psychoanalyze or nah? #superfan

Chuckling at the thought of a response, which will never happen, I toss my phone on the coffee table and drift back to sleep. My dreams are nothing. Nothing but empty shadows and thoughts of him. Eight. Ayden. One in the same.

***

The next day I spend my time working on book covers and waiting on Eight to knock on my door.

I’m pissed when he doesn’t.

“What kind of guy asks a girl to keep his prized petunias watered and doesn’t stop by to say hi?”

Cally stares at me like I’m batshit crazy, either because I’m trying to converse with a cat or because she knows there are no petunias inside Eight’s home.

I throw up my hands in defense. “How am I supposed to know the names of his plants? They’re green. Some have flowers, some don’t. I’m not a horticulturalist, Cal. Stop judging me.”

Cal mews and licks her paw, giving me her version of the bird. My cell dings on the desk beside me and I nearly wet my yoga pants at the sound. Grabbing the phone, I chew my bottom lip when I see it’s my mother texting instead of Eight.

“’Hey, Alex,’” I read aloud. “’Haven’t heard from you in a while. Daddy’s wanting you to come over for dinner soon. Demanding it actually. We missed you at Christmas …’”

Guilt seeps in. I caved and visited on Thanksgiving but skipped on Christmas. If not for my dad’s persistent questioning of my dating life, or lack thereof, and my mom’s constant nagging about when I planned on going back to college, I’d have been fine. I wanted to shake them both and yell, “You don’t have to go to college or get married to be successful and happy. Wake up!” Instead, I pushed my green bean casserole around on the plate and placated them with shoulder shrugs and “someday, maybe.”

I type ten different excuses into the text box and delete each one. Nothing I say or do will satisfy either of my parents except for a simple okay, so that’s how I cave and reply. Mom’s response is immediate.

Great! See you this Sunday for lunch!

Grumbling below my breath, I put my phone away. I can’t even muster a grain of excitement when Eight’s tell-tale eight-tap knock rattles my door. Between his evasiveness and the countdown until D-day—dinner day—with the ‘rents, I’m kinda bummed. Bone tired, I snap my laptop shut and make a weary trek to the door.

Sure enough, Eight stands on the other side of the door, looking as haggard as he did the first night we met. He glances over one shoulder at his apartment, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He attempts a smile, but it’s forced and so un-Eight-like.

I lean on the open doorway, arms folded over my chest, one eyebrow raised in annoyance. “You knocked?”

“Yeah, can I come in?”

Sighing, I push myself off the doorway and make a sweeping motion inside. Eight skirts past me, his warmth chilling my winter-worn bones. I close the door behind me and muster my best bitch-face, but it’s difficult. Truth is, he looks like shit and I’m more worried about him than I am frustrated.

“You, uh, you did a good job with the plants.”

“A sprinkling of water. It’s not rocket science.” I curl up on the couch and stare at the flickering screen. “Key’s on the bar.”

I can’t see him, but I do hear the scrape of metal against the granite countertop. I hear the shift of his shoes on the wooden floors. Eventually he joins me, settling down on the overstuffed chair beside my couch.

“What’s wrong?” Eight relaxes in the chair, knees parted, one boot kicked out farther than the other.

“Nothing, why?” I toy with a loose thread on the hem of my shirt.

“You seem kind of down.”

Giving him a half-hearted shrug, I’m careful to avoid his eyes. “Family stuff.”

“Need a friendly ear?”

I look at him for the first time since I sat on the couch. “Mom texted earlier and asked if I’d join them for dinner this Sunday.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

I sigh. “Remember when I told you they like to nag? About my lack of a boyfriend and my failed attempt at a college education? Yeah, that’s sort of an ongoing topic of conversation every time I go home for a visit. I just … dread seeing them because of that, and it sucks because I love my family …”

Eight rubs his chin, staring at me thoughtfully. “So bring home a date?”

About two seconds pass before I snort. “Great idea. Maybe I’ll join Tinder. Or Match.com. No, wait, I’ll get Madi to set me up on another blind date, since that worked out so well the last time.”

His eyes darken before lighting up again. “You could always bring me.”

Eight’s face lacks any signs of humor. Is he freaking kidding me right now? Wrinkling my brow, I shake my head, unable to contain my dry chuckle.

“You want to meet my parents under the false pretense that you’re my love interest?”

Eight’s signature, slow smirk returns. “Is it really a false pretense?”

Face heating, I avert my eyes. “You’re not as cute as you think you are.”

“Yes I am. I’m a solid eight.”

I make a face, but can’t hide my smile. Laughing, he stands and joins me on the couch. He slings one arm over the back, his fingers playing with the curly ends of my hair. He studies my face, his own tilted to one side and his eyes full of wonder.

“You’re really beautiful, you know that?” Before I have a chance to argue, he says, “Take the compliment. And take me home to meet your parents.”

Parents? My heart goes into overdrive at the sound of the word. I wouldn’t know personally, but I imagine the meeting of one’s parents is a big step.

I think about the locked bedroom door inside his apartment. “As a friend, because that’s it. There’s nothing between us, not until you can trust me enough to let me in.”

Eight’s fingers still in my hair before creeping to my neck. He massages my tense muscles, melting away the embedded anxiety. “All I think about is letting you in.”

I lean into his touch and close my eyes, allowing his fingers further exploration of my shoulder, my collarbone, and the bare skin below my neck. Each swirl of his fingertips revives a carefully caged flutter of hope inside my chest.

“They'll ask questions,” I say. “Requiring answers you haven’t even given me. I’m not taking you home to lie to my folks. They’re good people. They don’t deserve that.”

Eight’s fingers still. He’s quiet for a long time before he speaks.

“You deserve the truth too. Tell you what, if they ask me a question I’ll answer. And it’ll be the truth, okay?”

I look him dead in the eyes, searching for any hint of uncertainty, but all I see is a familiar sense of hope.

“Okay.”

***

What little sprig of optimism Eight leaves me with when he walks out of my apartment gradually fizzles as each day leading to Sunday passes by. He’s been super evasive: quick to close his door when we happen to bump into each other in the hallway, leading me away from his apartment with casual conversation the few times we met in the shared corridor. Only stopping by to make small talk. Never out of his apartment for an extended amount of time. When I take the trash out at night, I hear chatter coming from his television. Sometimes I hear a quiet laugh, but the laugh isn’t his own. And when it is his, it isn’t alone.

He’s hiding someone in his apartment. Someone he doesn’t want me to see. Someone he brought home after those two days away. A girl? Maybe. Who knows?

I forge a vision of this imaginary girl. She’s a stereotypical kind of pretty. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty. Someone who’d match a guy like Eight. I wonder if he tells her she’s beautiful. I wonder if he tells her the things he doesn’t tell me.

I royally screw up by letting Madi in on my assumption. She shows up on her lunch break one day wearing a long, loose shirt and a pair of leggings, sans jacket although the temperature has dipped into the thirties.

“You need a coat and some jeans. Why are you wearing those thin leggings?”

She stands in the hallway between Eight’s apartment and mine. She does a couple squats then stretches with both arms over her head.

“Because I need something stretchy. I need full range of motion to kick his ass.”

I grab her hand and drag her into my apartment, slamming the door behind me. “You don’t even know the guy. Besides, you know how I am. I’ve made all this up in my head. I’m probably wrong. There’s no one over there besides him.”

I’m babbling away, flapping my gums at a girl who’s hearing none of it. She says, “Uh uh,” and puts her hand in my face.

“This shit ends today.” Madi points at the floor. “Right here and right now. I’m going over there, banging on his door, and demanding some answers. Here, hold my earrings.”

She pulls an impressive pair of hoops from her lobes, but I wave them away. “I wish I’d never called you. You’re gonna make a scene.”

“Damn right I’m making a scene.” She rolls up her sleeves and heads for the door. “And you ain’t holding me back.”

I’m not sure what possesses my skinny, petite friend to turn into the ghettofabulous beast, and if I weren’t so wound up over the prospect of her embarrassing the hell out of me and herself, I’d find her humorous. She’s wearing some designer boots and has a three hundred-dollar haircut. Hell, she designs the insides of homes for the Atlanta elite, but she’s currently asking me for a tub of Vaseline to grease up her skin.