Zeke pulls a face. “You wish you could get away from my prying that easily, but I’ll take your hint for what it is. Just know this, Fowler. I’ll see your face, one way or another. Mark my words.”
Feeling a little threatened, I grab my sunglasses tightly as Zeke hauls himself out of the beanbag chair he was lounging in, watching him closely as he wanders away from Ryan and me.It’s only when Zeke slings his arm over a yapping Gretchen, her sparkly purple skirt and blazer combo a sight to behold, that I finally release the shades and turn to face a baffled-looking Ryan.
“Don’t ask. I’ve been fighting that man all morning because he wants to see the bruise. If he sees the bruise, I’ll have to explain how I got it, and I simply don’t have the brain capacity to relive all of it again. It was bad enough explaining it all to my best friends who put me in the situation that led me here,” I blurt quickly, practically answering him without him needing to ask for clarification.
Amusement washes over Ryan’s face, and he holds out two hands in surrender. “I’m happy to remain clueless. No stress.”
I blow out a cleansing breath, turning fully in my seat to face him before changing the subject. “So, you’ve been busy?”
He nods with a slow smile, closing his laptop as though he wasn’t fully engrossed in whatever was on the screen, something that had grabbed his attention so thoroughly that he didn’t even hear me say hello. Hell, the guy didn’t even acknowledge my existence when I sat beside him. I didn’t take it personally, because I have a best friend whose entire career revolves around gaming. I’ve been ignored by Zelda more times than I’ve had pizza, so it’s simply a thing I’ve grown used to at this rate. I had to explain to Zeke who Ryan was when we sat down, because the man was too absorbed to introduce himself. It was more amusing than anything, especially watching Zeke eye him like he was single and ready to mingle despite being in a committed relationship with one of the sweetest men on this earth. Not that Zeke would try anything. He loves Caleb more than anything in this world, but as they would both agree, they can look but they can’t touch. Anyone with working eyeswouldn’t be able to withstand the urge to ogle such a handsome guy.
“Work picked up shortly after you left since the market opened,” he explains, reaching for his own to-go cup from the coffee table, where an empty plate also sits.
I hide my approval behind the action of taking a sip of my iced tea, a funny little satisfaction flaring to life inside me that he helped himself like I told him to, before I finally ask, “What is it you’ve been doing, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Ryan eyes me for a long moment before he begins, “I work within the stock market. I handle investments for thousands upon thousands of people all across the world, following market trends and statistics. Whatever profits are made for those investors, I take home a certain percentage, along with investing my own money. See, the market is a numbers game…”
I’m nodding along as he speaks, but I feel myself slowly zoning out as he goes on to explain the stock market. Sadly, this is why I don’t invest myself. I have accountants for that, because I simply don’t have the head for it. I’m not in any way mathematically inclined, I don’t have the patience or knack for putting money in or pulling money out of the market, and I simply don’t have the time to learn. My work keeps me occupied enough, sending me all over the world, meeting new people, learning new things constantly. It’s enough to occupy most of the space left over for new things, and so I leave my investing to Billis Freeman, the man who has helped build my bank account into what it is now.
It’s thanks to Billis that I’ve managed to buy properties in different countries, travel all over the world, and hire the coolest staff members at the company I own. It’s thanks to that guy that I have no monetary stresses, that I have someone to rely on totake care of my finances, that I don’t have to lean on my parents and their success, and that I’m able to look after those I love.
Billis Freeman, in all of his forty-three years of age, is the coolest fucking guy, and that’s a hill I’m willing to die on.
“...and at this point, confessing to crimes of that magnitude isn’t something I thought I would do, but you seem like the kind of person to keep a secret. Just don’t tell anyone where they’re all buried, what weapon I used, and where I buried it. Spoiler alert, it’s with one of the bodies.”
I’m still nodding along, chin propped on my hand as my eyes become more focused, coming back from their glazed state as Ryan explains, wait, hold the fuck up. Buried with the bodies? What weapon? What the hell crimes has he been talking about? I thought he was talking about stocks and shares and shit?
My head stops suddenly and my eyes widen to comical sizes behind my glasses, and I eye Ryan as though he’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic, the horror on my face no doubt visible despite the oversized glasses.
I can do nothing but stare at the man, wondering if I made the right choice in befriending him and his roommates, when Ryan suddenly breaks out in hearty guffaws that draw more attention than my shades have all morning. No joke, the guy is losing his ever-loving mind, going so far as to wipe tears from beneath his eyes as his amusement reaches new heights.
I have no idea why, because I’m still looking at the possible murderer like he might turn me into a victim next. It’s no wonder I had a feeling he might help me dispose of bodies and evidence. Hell, it sounds like he has the experience to pull it off. Who the hell is Ryan Young, and why is he confessing crimes to me that I didn’t even hear?
“Maddie, oh my god,” he practically wheezes, curling over himself as one of his hands clutches at his stomach while the other continues to wipe away tears of hilarity from hisface. Jesus Christ, is this man not allowed to laugh at home or something? Has he bottled this up for years, weighted down too much by the homicidal choices he made before we met? By the way his shoulders shake, his laughter coming out hard enough that no sound escapes his mouth anymore, it makes me wonder if laughing is forbidden in his apartment or if his soul is too tarnished to find things this funny anymore.
Personally, I don’t know what’s so funny about admitting a nefarious past to an unsuspecting woman he’s known for less than two days, but what the hell do I know? I certainly wouldn’t catch a case of the giggles over it, but I suppose we all deal with revelations of such stature in different ways. It certainly shines a light on the character I’ve befriended, a new worry forming when I realize the possible killer lives on the floor beneath mine. So much for doing background checks, am I right?
“Your face,” he chortles, and more eyes swing over to us. Good. That’s good. That means more witnesses, more alibis for when he might attack. “I can’t breathe.”
Just as I start to think he’s gone absolutely mental, the possibility that something on his laptop has turned him mad through supernatural avenues, he wipes a hand over his lower mouth and turns to look at me with an expression that tells me he’s just had the time of his life at my expense. With glittering eyes that still hold far too much amusement, he says, “I’m joking, Maddie. I was talking shit. Nothing that I said was real, but you zoned out early on, so I was trying to pull you back with the first thing that came to mind.”
My shoulders drop with the sudden exhale that slips free of my parted lips, my entire body deflating as though it was a balloon that he popped with a sharp needle. I eye him closely, both impressed and disturbed by his creativity, and breathe, “I thought I was being turned into an accomplice. I expected it out of my girls. I thought it was possible coming from my cousins.But never would I have considered you. Don’t scare me like that.”
A sudden chuckle escapes him, one that he tries to block with a slap of his hand, and I give him an unimpressed glare that falls flat by the way my lips are twitching, my mind finding the amusement now that it’s not running through countless scenarios where I could get out of a felony charge just for being associated with the guy.
“If it helps, Caiden is more likely to commit murder out of the four of us, so you don’t need to worry,” Ryan tries to comfort me, and the unimpressed look I was giving him morphs very quickly into one that screams, “That doesn’t help, dumbass.” Apparently, that is also visible from behind the sunglasses, and Ryan finds himself burdened with having to fight more laughter as he closes his eyes and mutters a prayer I don’t quite catch.
Feeling like he might need it verbalized, in case my face isn’t selling the story enough, I inform him, “That didn’t make me feel better. If anyone in this newfound friendship is committing murder, it would be me. There’s only room for one crazy killer in my apartment building, and I’ve held that spot with pride for too many years to relinquish the title now.”
Dropping his own head into the heel of his hand, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, he nods sagely and agrees, “You’re right. One homicidal lunatic is enough for one building. I’ll let Caid know.”
“Much obliged,” I snicker, placing my almost empty cup onto the coffee table before gifting Ryan with my focus once more, mirroring his position until we’re sitting close enough that I worry I might turn cross-eyed trying to look at him. With sincerity, I say, “I’m sorry I zoned out. There’s a reason I don’t deal with my finances, and it’s because I have the attention spanof a loaf of bread when it comes to numbers. I’m confident that what you do for work is incredibly interesting.”
Ryan’s grin softens, giving him a beautifully charming expression that has a flurry of butterflies fluttering to life in my belly, and I have to swallow hard to keep myself from choking like a loser.
“It’s fine. Trust me, you’re not the first and certainly won’t be the last. But, in short, I work with a shitload of money for countless people, and I also invest the money I received from the trust fund my grandparents made for me. My parents fuel it regularly since they only have my sister, Charlie, and me to spoil, so that’s what I do for a living. There, no numbers to speak of,” he tells me, and those pesky butterflies flare to life once more, the activity setting off an irregular beat to my heart. Damn it all to hell, why does this keep happening?
I nod once and tease, “See, now that does sound interesting. You’re a trust fund baby?”
