I clapped my notebook shut and zipped it in the inside pocket of my jacket. My pen went back to my pocket, and I strode out of there, leaving the party, the booze, and the breakup behind me.
I had my angle. I was done.
I sucked in the fresh night air and made my way down Shady Ave. A few drunken students roamed the street, some dressed in black and yellow, cheering for the Pirates; others—like myself—quietly slipped through the shadows.
At the lights on the corner of Shady and Fifth, someone stumbled to my side. He was a guy about my age, with dark coppery spiked-up hair and much higher cheekbones than mine. Hesmoothed his tight, net T-shirt to his flat stomach. “Could I borrow your glasssses?”
I subtly pulled back from him. “Excuse me?”
“My contact came out. Can’t see the numbers. Looking for”—he lifted his hand and splayed his fingers—“five-twelve Shady Ave. Should be ’ere somewhere.”
The pedestrian signal turned green. I could hurry off and get myself home, but that wouldn’t be particularlyCaring Citizenof me, would it? This was just a guy that needed a hand. IfI’dlost my glasses, even sober, I’d be half blind.
“I’m keeping my glasses right where they are,” I told him, gesturing him to walk across the street. “But I can walk you home.”
“Shovel-wrist,” he mumbled.
Was that chivalrous? Hard to tell with the slurring. I let myself believe it was a compliment and nodded. “You’re welcome.”
With an uninhibited sigh, he hung on my arm and we crossed the street.
“I’m Mitch, by the way,” he murmured, tightening his grip and sagging his weight against my side. “I donna usually drink. Donna think I should again, either.”
“I suspect you’ll be thinking that all day tomorrow as well,” I said.
He stumbled so I slowed my pace. Along with alcohol, he smelled like something sweet—like he shampooed with cotton candy. When the brass numbers 512 shone under the lantern light, I steered Mitch up the stairs and to his door.
He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys, dangling them in my face. “Got ’em.”
“So you do.”
He chuckled as he fumbled for the right key and opened the door.
“You good from here?” I asked. Surely he’d at least find his apartment inside?
He nodded, and in an awkward—rather flexible—move, he kept the door open with his foot and threw his arms around my neck.
Vodka-laced lips met my cheek, followed by a low chuckle, whispering over my skin as he pulled back. “Night!”
The door shut, and I blinked under the lantern light. Well. Interesting night.
I turned and jogged down the steps.
For a second, I thought I heard my name whispered in the breeze, but the scuttling of leaves over the pavement reassured me I was imagining things.
Liiiiam.I walked faster. My imagination was getting the better of me—
A fractured shadow of Freddy’s sharp-fingered hand stretched long and menacing under the streetlight.
I picked up my pace to a trot. I didn’t like to think of myself as a scaredy-cat, but that didn’t stop it from being the case.
The clanking of steps got closer, and the shadow grew, splitting more under the light. Breath hit the back of my neck. I jumped, looking over my shoulder.
Freddy’s scarred face loomed toward me, and I skedaddled to one side. “Am I a magnet to the intoxicated tonight?”
I steered away from him and his awful mask. Time to get home—
Glittering steel shot out and sliced down the side of my arm, tearing my sleeve.
