Is this what she has been dealing with?
I’ll have to call the landlord first thing Monday. Right now, though, it’s 1:23 a.m., and the music has shifted into a higher gear. I’m too tired to be patient and too wired from the dream to stay in this bed.
“Okay,” I say to the empty room. “Fine.”
I shove myself up, pull on a pair of gray sweats and a T-shirt, and head for the door. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. It’ll count toward my step goal. Maybe the physical exertion will burn off the last of the copper smell from the nightmare.
I reach apartment 3B and raise my hand to knock.
What’s crazy is that out here in the hallway, it’s silent. She’s right. It’s a floor-to-ceiling glitch.
I’m about to hammer the wood again when the door swings open and a wall of music spills out.
Madison is flushed, barefoot, and glowing in that careless way people get when alcohol has softened all their edges. Her red hair is wild, and a smattering of freckles stands out across her nose. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversizedsweater that’s slipping off one shoulder.
She squints at me, her green eyes bright and slightly hazy.
“Oh,” she says, a mischievous, lopsided smile spreading across her face. “It’s you.”
“Yes,” I reply, trying to stay annoyed. “It’s me.”
“Well,” she says, leaning against the doorframe, “this is awkward. Did you come to borrow a cup of sugar?”
I glance past her into the apartment. There’s a half-empty margarita jug on the counter. Her friends from the ER are peeking out from the kitchen with wine glasses.
“Hi, Doc-from-the-apartment!” the dark-haired one calls.
The blonde gives a small wave.
Madison raises her glass toward them. “This is Celeste and Emmy.”
I nod once. “Morning.”
Madison turns back to me, her eyes dragging deliberately from my face to my chest, then lower. Much lower.
“What brings you down here, Gray Sweatpants?”
I ignore the nickname and the blatant inspection. “I was hoping you could turn the music down, or maybe spice up your life at a more reasonable volume.”
She stares at me for a beat before bursting out laughing. “Oh my God. You made a joke.”
“I’m exhausted,” I tell her. “It’s one in the morning.”
“Okay. Counterpoint.” She gestures toward the ceiling. “You.”
“What about me?”
“You thud,” she says, very seriously. “Thud, thud, thud. All day. All night.”
“I run on a treadmill.”
“No, you thud,” she insists, jabbing a finger toward my chest. “My bedroom sounds like a construction site. My walls vibrate, Beckett. My moisturizer moved three inches to the left today.”
Emmy tilts her head from the background. “Is this about the treadmill?”
“Yes,” I say.
Madison points at me again. “See? He thuds.”
