The stairs creak with every footstep, and I wince, picking up the pace past the second floor. The stairwell light’s off, and I’m not about to turn it on. Let’s just say, I’ll need all the darkness I can get to walk by 3B.
Most of the time I’m either at school, in my car, or holed away in my apartment working on screenplays with Carter. It’s usually either very early or very late by the time I leave my place. Basically,other than the nympho with the peephole, I don’t know any of my neighbors—and I like it that way.Lane O’Neill, your antisocial Campus Driver. Pleased to meet you.
I’m about to step foot on the third floor when something moves in the shadows. My heart skips a beat when I realize I’m not alone here. I jump back, a thin layer of pride stopping me from screaming, and I slap the light switch on. The glow is weak but enough to reassure me.
“Jesus—fuck, you scared the hell out of me!” I hiss, dragging a hand down my face.
There’s someone crumpled on the floor, back pressed to the wall. Their hood is pulled up tight, legs tucked underneath them, feet ending in scuffed black Vans. I can’t tell whether it’s a girl or a guy. I wait for them to say something, but they just sit there staring at the floor.
As my heartbeat settles, I catch faint music drifting out. No wonder they didn’t notice me. Probably some stoned teenager waiting to come down to earth before heading home to Mom and Dad. They’re lucky the super didn’t find them first—cops would’ve been here in no time.
“Have a good evening, then,” I toss over my shoulder, heading for the stairs.
Still nothing. Figures.
I make it home in one piece, kick off my boots, and toss my jacket toward the couch.Fail!It lands just short, and on the floor is where it’ll stay. No girlfriend, no neat-freak roommate. I can mess this place up however I damn please. It’s one of the many perks of living alone.
I can’t bring myself to shower, so I collapse onto the couch, and knock out in seconds.
I’M WOKEN UP BY THEbuzzing of my phone. Feels like I’ve been out for fifteen minutes, max. I clear my throat before swiping at the screen. It’s Carter.Of course.
“Yes?”
“Laney! Hope I didn’t wake you up.”
I hold the phone away from my ear, blink a few times, and check the time.
“Are you fucking for real? It’s six a.m. Of course you woke me up, you asshole!”
“Aww, baby boy is all cranky today, huh?” Carter laughs.
“You dropped me home at midnight, Cart. Couldn’t wait a couple hours before blowing up my phone? It’s Sunday!”
“What can I say? I missed my boo.” He laughs again. “Listen, I had this stroke of creative genius for the screenplay. I was getting undressed, and I…”
“Is there a short version to this story?”
“We’re gonna need actors who aren’t afraid to go all in—and a producer who’s maybe a little unhinged. Mind if I come by to talk it through?”
“You bet I fucking mind! It’s six in the morning, Carter. Ask me again at eleven!”
I hang up before he can respond.
I lie back and close my eyes for five or ten minutes, but the damage is done. There’s no way I’m getting back to sleep now. I peel myself off the couch, cursing Carter under my breath, and drag myself to the kitchen island.
Rummaging around in my cupboards, I slowly realize that today is setting up to be a really shitty day: I’ve searched every nook and cranny, and there’s not a single coffee pod, bean, or half-used bag in this entire place. One of my buddies most definitely cleared out my stash. Likely Donovan.He’ll pay for this.
I jam my feet into my sneakers without bothering to tie my laces, and I slam my front door shut.
As I stab at the button for the elevator, I curse. Out of order.Fuck me. How could I forget?
I trip my way down the stairs and practically sprint to dodge the horny ghost of 3B.
But I stop on the third floor.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
The person from last night is still sitting there. Same spot.
