“No. This won’t work. How about the first floor? Any grand spaces down there?”
“I thought you wanted the best, baby?” Roy asks, closing the gap between our bodies.
Before he can make contact with my chest, I draw back. “I think the best is for me to decide.”
I step out the door and escort myself to the first floor. Then, without waiting, I stroll through the hallways, staring at each door, wondering which ones are vacant.
“At the end of the hall, make a right. It’s the last door on the left.”
Following his instruction, I race toward the end, noting the lack of security cameras, haunting halls, and only one emergency exit.
I find the door he’s talking about and excitedly throw myself inside. This loft isn’t too different from the other ones. It has the same cement floors and brick walls. But instead of wooden rafters, the beams are made of metal, giving the loft an authentic warehouse vibe. But that’s not what sells me.
The windows….
God, the windows.
Nine and a half long, eight feet high, the crystal-clear picture windows let the gloomy sky shine in, and no, there’s no sunlight, none of that California weather, but this is the first time I’ve actually felt like a real artist. Leaves from the bushes brush against the glass, partially concealing the inside, making it more secluded than the others.
It's like my own little sanctuary kept unseen from the outside eye.
The room is pretty bare, having only the bare minimum: a sink, cheap fridge, and two-burner stove. There is one thing that stands out, a wide metal cabinet against the far-left wall.
“Does that come with the room?” I ask, pointing to the cabinet. Roy glances toward the wall, noticing the locker for the first time. His expression is puzzled for a moment, but it reverts to its original state in the blink of an eye.
“The previous renter must have left it behind. It’s yours if you sign the lease.”
It's large enough to store my bigger canvases, with what appear to be drawers on the lower half for brushes and paints. The metal may be a little dinged up, but it’s in mostly good condition.
“How much?” I ask, swiveling around on my heels with the clouds drifting behind me.
He doesn’t hide his cards. They play out all over his smug, shit-eating grin. “Usually, a space like this would lease for over a thousand, but for you….” He chuckles, pushing himself off the wall to grab me around the waist. My fingers tighten around my pepper spray, ready to use at any second. “Maybe we can work out a deal.”
What he’s implying couldn’t be any more transparent, but for the sake of clarity and security, I hit record on the phone I have hidden behind my back, and I make him say the words.
“What kind of deal?”
“Why don’t you get on your back and find out?”
Bingo.
Stepping closer, I savor the clicking of my heels on the concrete, counting one, two, three before my chest presses against his.
I dance my fingers up his sternum, resting when I feel his heart's erratic, excited beat. “I’m sure the owners and my father, Detective Noah Dane from the Bridgeville County’s police department, would love to know what sort of business you conduct, especially with high school girls…. Don’t you think?”
The color drains from his face, and I fucking feast on it.
“Mom! I’m home!” I call out once I step through the door. Shaking off the droplets of water from the ends of my hair on the coir doormat, I wander through the foyer, wondering where my mother could be.
I don’t hear her in the kitchen, which is where she would normally be at almost five in the evening. There are no mouth-watering aromas of homemade pasta and roasted garlic French bread.
A sense of dread develops in my gut until the sound of music drifts in from the open back door. Setting my backpack on the kitchen table, I creep toward the back, freezing when I watch my mom swaying by the smoking grill.
“Mom?” I ask, shielding my face from the breeze. “You know it's raining, right? What are you doing out here?”
Her startled yelp shrieks through the downpour, scaring the shit out of me in return.
Whirling around, she sets both hands on her hips. Eyes fuming and lips twisted up into a vicious snarl, she glares at me with fury. “Where the hell have you been?! I’ve called you! Texted you! It’s almost six in the evening, Scarlett! We don’t know this neighborhood! Or who could possibly be leering around! You don’t stay out without keeping in contact with me!”
