Page 17 of Coveted By Cupid

CUPID

The apartment building Vanessa lives in looks exactly like every other housing complex on this block—cookie cutter, bland concrete buildings with zero character and even less security. The front door into the building has a broken lock, allowing anyone entry if they wanted to.

Unbelievable. I shake my head in disappointment, entering the complex.

Before coming back to Fort Collins, I removed my leather cut, opting to drive my pickup truck instead. The Mercy Ravens got a good look at me earlier today. Riding back into town with my club vest would be unwise, at least until I have a chat with their club president.

I take the steps to the second floor, passing two chatting college-aged women. They stop speaking when they see me, mouths dropping open as I pass. I have that effect on women. They like the idea of having a bad boy until they find out I’m as rough as I look.

Too bad, so sad for them. I’m off the market—at least I hope to be as long as I can convince Vanessa to get on board.

When I reach Vanessa’s apartment door, I knock, keen on being face-to-face with her again. She doesn’t answer. I take a quick glance around the hall to make sure no one is watching before pressing my ear to the door. No sound comes from the other side.

Maybe she stepped out.

Miffed that I’ve missed her, I turn to leave, but stop. She may not be home, but I still have an opportunity to learn more about her.

The locks on these doors are a simple spring-latch mechanism, typical of the time this complex was built and cheap compared to modern-day, high-security locks.

I reach into my back pocket, yanking out my wallet to retrieve my credit card. I wedge the plastic between the lock and the doorframe, shifting it up against the latch. The door pops open with little effort, and I slip inside, closing the door behind me.

Interesting. This is not what I expected when entering a college student’s private space. I half expected everything to be girly, full of pastel colors and a shit ton of pillows or whatever. Yet, Vanessa once again proves she’s unlike any woman I’ve encountered before.

Her efficiency apartment is tiny, but spotless. The walls are painted a muted black, and plants of various shades of green hang from the ceiling, draped over windowsills, and covering nearly every available surface. Vintage posters of pinup girls from the 50s decorate the walls in various ornate frames. Her furniture is modest but practical.

The whole vide is moody, intimate. Way classier than your typical college apartment. Her space is simplistic, yet it feels familiar with how similar her style is with mine.

My chest feels oddly warm upon learning our tastes would mesh well. In my head, I can see us living together in my apartment above the bar. She could move right in, and it would look like she had always been there.

I shake my head, having no clue why my mind jumped there. I barely know the woman.

And yet…I like the idea a lot more than I should, considering Vanessa wasn’t exactly thrilled with me tagging along with her a few hours ago.

From the threshold, I can see the entire open layout of the apartment. A small kitchen is to my right, and a couch and rows of bookshelves are on my left. A bedroom is toward the back wall of windows and one closed-off area, which I assume is the bathroom.

There is a rack of shoes next to the door. I take off my boots, setting them on the rack with hers. I may have broken into her place, but I’ll respect how she likes to keep it.

The bookshelves are stocked with books and other personal items. I beeline for the shelves, eager to learn everything about my little baddie. My fingers run along the spines of her books. Lots of psych textbooks. Perhaps this is her major. I open one, finding the entire book is covered in annotations and highlighted areas of interest. Her handwritten notes are slight but detailed. Most of her psych books are specific to addiction counseling, a subject that is clearly a passion of hers.

Did she know someone who was an addict?

A dated picture of a little girl in grease stain overalls with wild hair and a toothless grin captures my attention. I pick up the picture frame to examine it closer. It’s obviously Vanessa, younger but with the same button nose and pointed chin she still has today. An older gentleman in mechanic’s coveralls stands beside her with his arm over her shoulder. His smile is familiar—the same one Vanessa gave me as she cruised by on her bike at Buck’s garage. He must be family, perhaps a grandfather.

Another picture displayed shows the same older man with graying hair standing beside the cherry-red Street Glide Vanessa was riding today. In the image, a gangly high-school age Vanessa straddles the bike with the biggest grin on her face, matching smiles with the old man.

Further down the shelf, another photo of Vanessa shows her in CSU graduation robes with all the fancy ropes draped over her shoulders to signify top honors. She shows off her undergraduate diploma with the old man beaming with pride next to her.

Does this mean she’s staying near campus to pursue a graduate degree?

I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s obviously book-smart. Academia suits her.

I can’t help but smile at each photo, getting a tiny glimpse into the life of the woman I met today. Whoever the man in the photos is, he means a great deal to Vanessa.

What’s interesting is that there are no other personal photos. No siblings, friends, or parents’ candid shots. Not even a photo of a boyfriend—thank fuck.

Having exhausted the bookshelf, I look at the rest of the space. A burgundy couch faces the bookshelf, but the throw pillows lie scattered on the ground, surrounding the coffee table where various spiraled notebooks display lots of handwritten notes. Textbooks lie open with sticky tabs poking out from the edges. Pens and highlighters are scattered around the table as if she were in a rush to get to whatever was next on her agenda.

Perhaps Vanessa prefers to study on the floor over the couch? It wouldn’t be my first choice, but to each their own.