Chapter 1

Chloe - Eight Years Later

Good Lord. That guy across the street is unforgivably hot.

Paul, my housemate, settles down on the stoop beside me, handing me a cup filled with iced wine cooler. We’re hanging outside because there’s no air-conditioning, drinking cold beverages under the shade of the porch is the only way to stave off the draining dog days of August.

I’ve been watching this guy move into the brick townhouse across the street. I peg him for a grad student. One with money. Judging by the nice quality furniture going into the place, the paid professional movers, and the Audi they towed in behind the van, at least. The Audi has New York plates. He came a long way just to give me a show of his shirtless, ripped torso, sweating and tanning under the southern sun.

It’s moments like these, fleeting as they are, that cause me to question my dedication to an uncomplicated, distraction-free life. A guy like that could distract me.

“You’re staring, Chloe,” Paul teases.

Paul is staring too.

“I can stare,” I say, unapologetically. “He’s easy to look at.”

“That he is.”

Paul reaches into the cooler, grabbing a handful of ice, dropping a few cubes in my cup, topping us off from the thermos between his feet. There’s beer in the cooler, but we’re saving it for later. The crappy wine coolers were on sale.

Today is a rare day that I take a moment to sit and do nothing. It’s five days before classes begin. I’m off work, all day. A rare event which I am apparently using to slow down and appreciate the scenery.

“How many hours a day do you think that guy spends in the gym?” Paul asks. “I mean it’s not like he’s huge or anything, but damn. The definition is—”

“Aesthetically pleasing.”

We both giggle, then Paul changes the subject. I’m relieved by the diversion because if he keeps going down this path, I might just blush.

“In the office this morning they were talking about the new professor,” he says. “The admins were dishing all kinds of gossip. He’s some kind of wunderkind. He’s really young, and—according to the ladies—extremely hot.”

“That’s great.” I roll my eyes. “I’m sure he’ll have a fan club by Thanksgiving.”

I couldn’t care less. I have zero time for that nonsense.

“Hey, if he’s all that, I bet he takes advantage of it. I’d take advantage of it if I was a young hot professor. Maybe he’s gay. There’s an idea.” Paul grins. “Maybe the guy over there is gay too.”

It’s a possibility. It’s the rare straight guy who’s that smoking hot, has great taste in furniture, and drives a sparkling new Audi coupe. Despite this suspicion, I still can’t take my eyes off him. Looking at his six-pack glistening in the sun, dressed in saggy jeans dipping criminally low on his narrow hips, it suggests something promising.

Mr. Torso glances in our direction. He nods, half smiling. Cocky. In perfect synchrony—practiced—Paul and I both raise and tip our cups in his direction. Mr. Torso laughs. He knows he’s got an audience and he’s playing it up. His movers pack up, finished with the job. The show is almost over.

Dammit.

Mr. Torso picks up the plastic wrapping and other debris the movers leave by the curb, then he turns and heads inside his expensive, pretty house.

“Damn,” Paul mutters. “I was hoping for an encore.”

“Wish on. He’s outta our league.” I bet he hates looking out his front door at the likes of this place staring back at him, spoiling his view of the otherwise tidy gentrification of the neighborhood.

Our house is one of four in the apartment, and it’s a catastrophe. It’s the last one on the block that hasn’t been gutted, renovated, and flipped for a million bucks. The house has great bones, but thanks to a century of neglect by a succession of absentee owners and abuse by generations of college students, it’s literally falling to pieces. The roof has patches nailed all over it. We have buckets in our apartment on the top floor to catch the water when it rains. The floors on the lower level are rotten and sagging. The plumbing is iffy. The electric is flat out dangerous. The windows let the winter wind blow in, enough to make the curtains lift and flutter. And the place is crawling with bugs.

The upside is that 2514 Hanover Avenue, despite its decay and peeling paint, is the cheapest rent to be had this side of Section 8 housing. All nine of us occupying this place, and everyone who came before us are broke, full-financial-aid-package undergrads who really shouldn’t be here at all. We’re hard-headed; willing to put up with a great deal of filth and general discomfort to get through school and move on with climbing out of the poverty most of us were raised in.

“Uh-oh, heads up,” Paul mutters. I look up. Mr. Torso is strolling across the street directly toward us. Sadly, he’s fully clothed.

He’s got one of those uber-confident long strides, like he’s the King of the World, about to come pay his respects to the plebes. Even his t-shirt looks Madison Avenue. Does Brooks Bothers sell t-shirts? God, I think his boots are Prada, a solid grand worth of posturing, made-to-look-like-actual-work-boots. What the hell?

“Welcome to the ‘hood,” Paul says, standing, holding out a hand to shake. “We would’ve offered to help, but it looked like your crew had it in hand.”

The guy shakes Paul’s hand, sizing us up.

Paul introduces himself, then points to me. “My roommate, Chloe.”

“I’m Hayes,” the guy replies, taking a beer I reluctantly offer from the cooler behind me. He accepts the beer, opens it with a deft pop of the cap against the crumbling brickwork, then leans against a termite nibbled porch column, settling nearer to me than seems reasonable.

Fucking hell. He’s even better looking up close and personal. His arms are like nautical rope, wrapped with sinewy muscle, perfectly defined. And his hands. He catches me checking him out and he grins. I feel a hot blush rise in my cheeks. Averting my gaze, I lift my drink and suck out another ice cube while he and Paul banter back and forth.

I see the postman turn the corner, headed in our direction, and I’m relieved because in just a moment I’ll have a good reason to relinquish my seat. After I fetch the mail I can find a spot not quite so close to the white-hot flame of intensity that is Mr. Torso and his perfect hands.

The things I’d like to let him do with those hands.

“So, you guys are students?” he asks. “I assumed so, looking at this place. This has got to be some cheap student housing. Looks like it ought to be put out of its misery—everyone’s misery.”

Paul answers in the affirmative, agreeing about the house.

“What about you?” Hayes asks, leveling his gaze on me.

I’m still sucking on an ice cube. I can either spit it out, swallow it, or try to answer with my mouth full. As I’m settling on a decision, my tongue gets ahead of me and the ice cube pop out of my mouth, dropping straight down into my shirt, between my tits.

Shit that’s cold!

Paul starts laughing. As I reach in, trying to fish the slippery thing out from under my left tit, Mr. Torso quips.

“You need some help with that?”

I locate the errant cube and pop it back in my mouth as he watches, fascination animating his face, his crystal blue eyes flashing. I swirl the thing around with my tongue a few times, then crush it between my teeth, cocking my head to the side as I do it.

“No,” I say to Mr. Torso. “Just like with everything else, if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.”

I leave him to ponder that as I step up to greet our postman, taking the mail from his hand with a smile.

I don’t pause to look at the mail before bounding up the steps two at a time, heading up to my apartment. I hear the guys on the porch laughing behind me as I depart. I don’t know if they’re laughing at me or with me, and I don’t care. Let them laugh. We’ll see who gets the last laugh.

I thumb through the regular assortment of junk mail and bills. What is this?

There’s an official looking letter from the City of Richmond, addressed to “Residents/Tenants.”

I open it. My eyes stop hard on the words “Condemnation Proceedings.”

What. The. Fuck?

“…Effective August 29, 20––, the city inspector has received notice that his request for domicile condemnation was approved and confirmed by order of the District Court of Henrico County. The owner has been notified by certified mail. This notice of immediate eviction is provided as a courtesy by the City Housing Authority. The property will be cleared and sealed by the city on September 4, 20—. Any personal property remaining on-site shall be deemed abandoned…”

What the ever-loving fuck?

I dial Kent, our landlord, to see what this is about. He picks up, his upbeat slumlord tone snappy and bright. “Kent Blackwell Properties, how may I help you?”

“Mr. Blackwell, this is Chloe Harvey at Hanover Avenue. I just got a letter from the city saying the house is condemned and we have to move out—like yesterday.” I hear the frantic tension in my voice.

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, Chloe. I’ve been meaning to come over there and talk to ya’ll about that… I’m sorry… I fought it. I really did.”

“What do you mean, you fought it?”

He knew about this? He’s known about this?

He hems and haws, sounding apologetic. “...but ya’ll really do need to be out by the fourth. They’re tearing the place down. The owner decided to go ahead and pay the fine, let the city do it at their expense.”

“But where are we gonna live!?” I am not believing this.

“We’ll sweetie, I’ve got forty rental properties right around there. I’m sure I can find ya’ll some place. Things always shake out. ‘Course, I don’t have anything as economical as the Hanover Avenue house. Things are gentrifying, going upscale. But we’ll find ya’ll something. Give me a month. Maybe something over on Shockoe Hill…”

Shockoe Hill is like Baghdad. It’s scary. The police won’t even patrol over there.

I sit down on the floor in the middle of my place, the apartment I’ve occupied since the night after I graduated high school. As much as I hate it, I love it too. It’s the first place I ever really felt at home, where all my best friends are. My house mates are the closest thing to real family I have.

We have to be out on the same day classes start. We’re all so screwed.

With the letter in hand I walk downstairs. Paul is alone on the stoop. Mr. Torso has disappeared into his million-dollar townhouse across the street. I hand Paul the letter without a word, just looking at that beautiful house over there, with its brickwork, deep summer windows, stained glass, all the fancy trim and molding painted so bright.

The world isn’t a fair place. I know that. I’ve known it forever. But today the Universe feels particularly cruel. To see a guy like that—a guy who has everything, who’s so young and handsome—and he can afford to buy a fine, expensive house. I’ve got almost nothing to call my own, nothing to fall back on, and now I’m about to be homeless.

Yeah, the universe is a ruthless bitch.