"You could always apologize to your old man
and tell him you'll take a position on the board at his firm."
"I'd rather sleep with the rats." And with
the way things were going so far? "So have you heard from them or
not?"
"Who?"
"The Tribune?"
"Uh, no. No, I haven't. I'm sorry."
"Jesus, Martin, what the hell do I pay you
for?"
"My good looks, the occasional blow job, and
my constant supply of Jim Beam."
"You've never given me a blow job."
"True, but you've fantasized about it."
The paper bag of groceries crackled as Chase
put them down. He tried to figure out which key went to what lock.
"So, any word?"
The sound Martin made wasn't a happy one.
"No, man. I'm sorry. Whoever you pissed off at Inside Sources
really has it out for you."
"I didn't piss anyone off."
"They're accusing you of plagiarism."
"And you know as well as I do it's nothing
but a lie. This is more of my dad's BS, you know how he is." Martin
was there after the wreck, during the trial, and Jacob's funeral.
Not to mention the two years afterward, when Chase had lost the
will to find the light of day.
"You should have been upfront with them and
told them your real name. Then they might have given you the
benefit of the doubt on the claim of plagiarism."
"And if I had, my dad would have found me
sooner." Chase unlocked the deadbolts. "Instead of years working
for Inside Sources, I would have gotten months."
"C'mon, you act like he's Daddy Dearest or
something. He means well."
"Don't even go there with me."
"Chase."
"I'm serious, Martin. Don't. I'm tired of
people defending him. He's a son-of-a-bitch."
"It's been fifteen years."
"And it could be fifteen hundred years. My
opinion isn't going to change."
Martin sighed. "Do you want me to bring you
some furniture when I run by your old place and pick up those
boxes?"
"Yeah. Just grab some essentials from
Goodwill."
"Nah. I've got some stuff in storage from
when I moved out of Maggie's house last year. I'll go through that
first."
"I don't want to take your shit."
"You're not taking it. I'm offering it."
"Then I'll pay you."
"You don't have the extra money to pay
me."
Chase opened his mouth to argue then realized
Martin was right. "Fine. When can you bring it?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Sounds good." He worked the key out of the
door knob. "And don't forget the Beam."
"Never, my friend. Never."
Chase hung up and slipped his cell phone into
his pocket. Footsteps caught his attention.
One of the other tenants topped the stairs.
Stairs, because this hole in the wall had been built in the caveman
era and didn't have an elevator.
If the light had been better maybe Chase
could have seen more of the other guy. All he knew for sure was his
neighbor had pale skin, dark hair, and was slightly shorter. He
also had what looked like a year's worth of mail and magazines
crammed under one arm and a cactus plant in a clay pot in his other
hand. He stopped at the last door on the opposite side of the hall
and made an attempt to dig his keys out of the pocket of his
jeans.
There were five dead bolts in the door. Five?
Jesus, the crime must be really bad here. Chase glanced at the
crime scene tape.
His neighbor maneuvered a key into one of the
locks. It took him forever to get it turned.
Chase decided maybe a good deed or two could
help him escape this ninth level of hell. If nothing else he'd have
someone to drink beers with or watch a game. He'd need a TV, of
course. A sofa might be good too.
He walked over. "Do you need some help?"
Neighbor guy jumped and the batch of mail
shot all over the floor like he'd been slapped in the back. By some
miracle, he managed to hang onto the cactus plant. Nervous Neighbor
dropped to his knees and made a mad dash to scrape up the mail.
Chase knelt. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle
you." He picked up a Men's Magazine wrapped in cellophane. Bands of
color were placed in strategic locations. Nervous Neighbor snatched
it away and added it to the growing pile near the cactus plant. Ah,
so that was the problem, he was embarrassed about the skin-mags.
Granted, there were quite a few of them; Curve, Freshman, Out
100.
Chase piled up a stack of junk mail. "You
don't have anything to worry about. We bat for the same team."
Nervous Neighbor froze in mid-shovel.
Okay, maybe that was the wrong thing to say.
"My name's Chase, Chase Sarim." Chase held out his hand.
Neighbor guy still didn't move.
Chase resumed scraping up the mail. When he
sat back to shuffle the envelopes into a stack, he caught sight of
the most beautiful green eyes he'd ever seen. There was no way in
hell that color could be anything but contacts. As if his eyes
weren't pretty enough, his neighbor had a face to match. Longish
features surrounded by dark wild hair. A shadow of a beard dusted
his chin. It did nothing to dull the angles of his cheeks, which
gave him a slight Asian appearance.
Nervous Neighbor lifted his hand and held it
out. "Seven." His fingers were long, elegant, with large
knuckles.
Chase cleared his throat and shook the man's
hand. "Stephen what?"
The man's owlish green eyes blinked at him,
and his pink lips curled up. "Not Stephen, Seven."
"Seven? Like the number?"
He nodded.
Seven made no effort to break their
connection until Chase pulled away.
"You've got an impressive amount of mail."
Chase resumed picking up the envelopes. "You must have been out of
town for a while." He organized a second stack, put it with the
first, and held it out.
"Something like that." In slow motion, Seven
closed his grip around the stack of envelopes. He put it with the
rest and looked away.
The world snapped back, time ran, and the
planet resumed its normal rotation around the sun. Chase sucked in
a breath.
Christ, he seriously needed to get laid.
Seven stood with the mail tucked under one
arm, the keys in his free hand. He worked the locks, and each one
turned with a final thump.
Chase ran a hand through his hair.
"So…uh."
Seven shook his head. "It wouldn't be
safe."
"Huh?"
"We shouldn't hang out. They'll see you if
you're around me too much. And we really shouldn't talk. In fact,
you should probably pretend you never saw me. Not that it would do
much, but it couldn't hurt."
Seven opened the door and disappeared inside.
Chase stared, trying to figure out what had just happened. When
nothing came to him, he turned to walk away. He stumbled over the
cactus plant. Chase picked it up.
A smart person would leave it beside the
door. Chase thought about his week. Why ruin his record? He started
to knock, and the door opened. A yellow mug was thrust in his face,
while at the same time Seven snagged the clay pot from the cradle
of Chase's arm.
Chase stared at the strange crumpled metal
cap Seven wore on his head. It brought to mind Thanksgiving dinner
and leftovers. Seven wiggled the cup under Chase's nose. He took
it, not sure if he wanted to know what the white powdery stuff was
or not. It couldn't have been safe. People who wore aluminum hats
had to be inherently dangerous.
"It's sugar." Seven gave him one last shy
smile and shut the door.
Chase stared at the cup for a few moments
before walking back to his apartment.
Just his luck. Best looking guy he'd seen
outside of a Tommy Hilfiger advertisement, and he was crazy as a
shithouse rat.
Chase undid the lock in the door knob and
kicked it open. At least the unit was clean. Unfortunately the
Super's idea of furnished was a coffeemaker, a futon, and a plastic
kitchen table with a single wooden chair.
It dawned on Chase he might have to get used
to this kind of lifestyle. With a plagiarism accusation, there was
a good chance his future would be pay-by-the-word internet
articles.
No. That wasn't going to happen because
Martin would come through. He always did.
Chase shoved his suitcase inside and grabbed
his bag of groceries. He sat the cup on the counter beside his
week's worth of rations and gave the coffeemaker a once over. No
rat shit, no strange fuzzy mold. He went to work excavating the
contents of the grocery bag; ramen noodles, macaroni, and a can
of—ah, coffee. That's what he needed. A good hot cup. He dug out
the coffee filters, powdered cream and…
Goddamn it, he forgot the sugar.
Chase looked at the cup.
ADRIENNE WILDER'S BIOGRAPHY:
Writing has been my dream for as long as I
can remember. I wrote my first "book" at the age of five using a
crayon and construction paper, and received my first rejection
letter at the age of fourteen for a short story about a rainbow
iguana. For years the books I wrote stayed in a notebook hidden in
a drawer or on my computer never to be read by anyone but me.
I am socially awkward and hyper-creative.
Born a girl, I was always a boy. Growing up, a lot of people tried
to change me.
Except for my mother. She might have never
understood but she loved completely and unconditionally.
That alone makes me one of the luckiest
people in the world.
Currently I live near the North Georgia
Mountains and spend most of my time documenting the life of the
people in my head.
Hopefully you find as much joy learning about
them as I do.
Author's website.
Adriennewilder.com
E-mail
[email protected]