Chapter Five
Vince
Since I wordlessly fled Carly’s apartment the other night, I haven’t seen her. I’ve worked longer shifts these few days so I worried I might run into her on my way in or out of my apartment, but I’ve managed to avoid her.
And I am avoiding her. I mean, usually she shows up on my doorstep so it’s not like I seek her out anyway, but I feel like it’s going to be weird when I see her again and I don’t wanna deal with it. This is exactly why I don’t fuck pretty neighbors. I didn’t even fuck this one and I still might have to deal with the weirdness. Damn sure got the short end of that deal.
I’ve been home for about an hour Saturday night when the knocking starts.
I don’t even bother to greet her, I just lean an arm against my doorframe and lift an expectant eyebrow.
She grins at me, as bright and cheerful as always. “Hey, neighbor. What are you up to tonight?”
“Research.”
She schools her pretty features into a covert expression. “For your criminal mastermind degree? Awesome. Need help? I could be your sidekick. I’m really good at doing research. Do you know why pound cake is called pound cake? Someone asked me once, so I do. Wanna know why?”
“Nope.”
“But it’ll back-up my research assistant credentials,” she says, like I’m being unreasonable.
“It’s an unpaid position,” I inform her.
“Can I wear a lab coat? I think I’d look really hot in a lab coat. High heels. Red lipstick. Maybe nothing underneath.”
Motherfucker.
She flashes me a grin and a casual wink, then moves on. “Anyway, I ordered a pizza that’s way too big for me to consume by myself, so I thought I’d see if maybe you could help a girl out?”
“I’m always helping you out,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says, swaying forward and playfully touching my arm. Her gesture is obviously flirty, and I have no idea whether or not to take it seriously. She doesn’t make me decide though, she just moves right along. “You’re like my own personal Superman. I get in a bind, there you are to save me. Too bad we didn’t know each other for Halloween. I could’ve been your Lois Lane.”
“I’m not looking for a Lois Lane,” I state. “And trust me, I’m the furthest thing from Superman.”
“Maybe you’re red kryptonite Clark. Did you ever watch Smallville? It’s this old Superman show I used to watch with Laurel, and oh, my god, I had such a crush on red kryptonite Clark. I guess the red kryptonite was a bad influence, it made him get all moody and sexy and he broke laws and went all bad boy—but with super powers. Laurel was like ‘he’s such a jerk’ and I was like ‘If I could give a fictional man my phone number, I swear to God.’ Regular Superman is a bit too good for me, but you’re a secret criminal, so you’re perfectly balanced. Save my kitten from a tree during the day, pick my lock and break into my bedroom after dark—swoon.”
This girl is fucking crazy.
Grinning, she nods toward her apartment. “Anyway, your place or mine? Where are we plotting?”
“Neither. I wasn’t joking; I really have stuff to do tonight.”
“Research stuff?” she questions.
“Yes.”
“I’m really good at researching. Can I help?”
“No. You’ve distracted me enough; I need to get back to my own shit.”
“What kind of shit? I’m really bored. I still haven’t found a job so I have a lot of time on my hands. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“Nothing you can help with.”
“Well, then why don’t you take an hour off and come eat pizza with me? It’s free food and good company; just say yes.”
I need to tell her no. I need to make her leave—and I should be mean to her so she doesn’t come back.
Thing is, I just don’t want to.
That’s why I should, though.
“Why?” I ask.
Cocking her head to the side as if confused, she asks, “Why what?”
“Why do you want me to come over?”
Blinking a couple of times, she drawls, “Because pizza. We covered this already.”
Looking down at the dirty, splintered threshold, I decide to offer up a little more forthright honesty than I typically offer girls these days. I’m not sure why it’s different with her. I’m not sure why I feel like I owe this girl—who I’ve never so much as kissed—any kind of explanation when I’ve given far less consideration to girls I’ve actually fucked.
“I don’t know what you’re looking to get out of this,” I tell her. “But I don’t have anything to offer you.”
I expect a cheeky comeback but she just watches me, waiting to see if I’ll go on. Kinda makes me feel like I should.
“I don’t date,” I explain. “If that’s what you’re looking for, you’re wasting your time. It’s nothing personal. You’re fun, you’re obviously attractive, you’re nice, you make damn good cookies—I just don’t want to date anybody. I’m in sort of a weird place in life. I know that sounds like a bullshit, fuckboy explanation but I actually mean it. I won’t even let a girl come over to my apartment. That’s literally too much for me. The idea of someone spending the night in my bed makes me legitimately nauseous.”
“Because you enjoy your random hook-ups too much to part with them?” she asks lightly.
“No, I hate those. I just… get lonely sometimes.”
Her casual smile slips. I immediately regret saying it. I didn’t mean to. Jesus. That was—I don’t know how that made its way out. Now I really want her to leave.
Taking a step back, preparing to flee her company again, I tell her, “Thanks for the invite, but—”
“Wait. Don’t…” She trails off, but takes a step closer, not letting me close the door on her. Her seamless playfulness seems to have taken a hit in light of my stupid fucking share, and she seems to be debating what to say. I hate this. This is exactly why I avoid shit like this. Vulnerability is the absolute worst thing in the fucking world, and even a sliver of it is too much. I don’t know what possessed me to tell this girl I get lonely. Jesus Christ.
After thinking for a second, she takes another step closer. Because I want to flee her more than anything, I take a step back. Her eyes narrow, but there’s a hint of amusement coming back.
“Don’t run from me,” she says, simply. “Maybe you wouldn’t get lonely if you let yourself have a friend. That’s all I’m looking for. Nothing scary. No commitment. Just a friend.”
“Do you talk about your break-in fantasies with all your friends?” I ask her pointedly.
“All the hot ones, obviously. You should hear the naughty conversations Gus and I have.” She shakes her head. “They’d make you blush.”
Cracking a reluctant smile, I roll my eyes. “I somehow doubt you’re capable of making me blush.”
Her blue eyes widen like that’s an absurd claim. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Nodding her head, she turns her back to me and heads toward her apartment. “Lock up, Superman. Come have pizza with me.”
---
Three hours, two episodes of Smallville, and almost a whole pizza later, I’m sitting on the floor in front of Carly’s couch while she relaxes on her belly above me.
“This show isn’t good,” I inform her.
“Shush, you. This show is wonderful. At least, my 16-year-old self believed it was when I watched it with Laurel. On the basis of every other opinion I held at that tender age, it’s completely infallible.”
“You talk about her a lot. You guys are close, I take it?”
She twists her index and middle fingers together. “Super tight. The only thing I hate about Connecticut is how far away from her it is. I’ve never lived so far away that I’ve had to go weeks without seeing her before. It’s weird.”
“How old is she?”
“She just turned 19 a month ago.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“I’ll be 23 in May.”
Just a little younger than me. I nod my head. “Where’d you live before?”
“Chicago, born and raised. That’s where Laurel goes to school now.”
I turn to look back at her. “No shit. That’s where I’m from.”
She smiles and nudges me in the shoulder. “Look at that. We could’ve met already. When did you move away?”
“Few years ago.”
“Is that where your family is?” she asks casually.
I go quiet at that one. I’ve never really talked about my family with girls more than I had to, but it’s a whole different category of off the table now. There’s something about her weird interest in my criminal side, though, that tempts me to share. One of the things that’s always created distance for me with girls since Mia is how none of them know about my past. If I could look at my old life as something I’m completely removed from, as another life, maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal.
I can’t, though. I wouldn’t be who I am now without my past. Maybe I don’t live that life anymore, but it was 19 years of my existence—and it’s just been wiped out since I left. It’s even worse since Vegas, when I threw myself back into it, when I took Mia. I stood no chance of feeling authentic with anyone after that because I could never tell anyone about it.
“Sorry, sore subject?” she asks, gently. “You don’t have to share; I was just curious.”
“We should probably hold off on that one.”
“Okay,” she says, easily.
Unease moves through me all of a sudden. That she brought it up at all, even though she dropped it easily enough, makes me edgy. She’s from Chicago, born and raised, she said. She knows my last name. Unless she’s troublingly sheltered, surely she’s heard of my family.
Her interest in me suddenly makes me suspicious. It wasn’t until I introduced myself as Vince Morelli that she started showing up on my doorstep.
Turning to look back at her over my shoulder, I ask, “What brought you to Connecticut?”
“Hm?”
“It’s a long way from Chicago. You came here to be a waitress?”
Her blue eyes meet mine, but I don’t pick up any sudden changes to indicate I’ve made her nervous. “No, I got an internship here. In Hartford. This was nearby and cheaper than living in Hartford, so I ended up here.”
“What kind of internship? When did it start? When does it end? Are you only here for a few months then?”
“Whoa.” She smiles uneasily, pushing up on the couch and curling her legs beneath her. “This just turned into an interrogation pretty fast.”
“It’s just kinda weird that we’re both from Chicago and we both ended up at this apartment complex within a few months of each other, isn’t it?”
Now she frowns, scooting down so she can get off the couch without disturbing me. “I don’t know. I guess? Chicago’s not exactly a small town, Vince. A lot of people are from Chicago.”
“Yeah, but not a lot of those people probably end up in the same corner of New England in the same apartment complex. On the same level, even.”
“Did I say something wrong?” she asks, frowning at me. “I was just trying to get to know you.”
“Why do you make so many comments about me being a criminal?”
“Because you own a lock-pick set,” she states, eyebrows rising.
I shrug, pushing up off the floor since she’s standing now. “Hobby. I like to know how things work.”
“All right? I don’t know why you’re being so defensive all of a sudden, the criminal stuff—it’s just gentle ribbing. You seemed to find it amusing.”
“Do I seem amused?”
“Not right this moment,” she admits. “Is this because I asked about your family? I just remembered you saying you didn’t have a home to go to for Thanksgiving, and I thought—I was just making conversation.”
“Do you know Mateo Morelli?”
Fear flashes through her eyes—it’s too fleeting and too unfamiliar in her for me to know why, but it does. I don’t know if it’s a good or bad sign that she pales a little and takes a step back, putting a little more space between us.
My eyes narrow and I take a step closer.
She takes another tentative step back, regarding me with no small amount of caution. That she knows to be afraid of me fans the flames of my paranoia.
“I think maybe you should go,” she finally says.
“You do know him, then,” I remark, taking a step closer.
She backs herself right up against the wall, but I hold her gaze. “I told you I grew up in Chicago, Vince,” she states. “Sure, I’ve heard of Mateo Morelli.”
“And you knew my last name was Morelli.”
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. It’s to herself, not me, but she rakes her hands through her hair, looking down instead of at me. “You just told me you were from Chicago two minutes ago. Morelli isn’t the rarest name in the world, Vince. If this is your way of telling me you’re mobbed up, you might want to work on fine-tuning your delivery.”
Since I’ve advanced on her while she was backing herself into a corner, I’m right on top of her now. She’s staring at my chest instead of my eyes. I try to read her, but I just don’t know her well enough. She stirs up shit inside me that no one else does anymore, but ultimately I don’t know this girl. I’ve seen her surface layers, but nothing underneath.
I reach out and grab a fistful of her soft blue sweater. She inhales fast and exhales shakily, but she doesn’t demand to know what the hell I’m doing—which is probably the more reasonable response. She should be scowling at me, demanding I get my hands off her, threatening to call the cops since I’m behaving like a lunatic.
That’s probably what an innocent person would do.
Carly doesn’t do any of that. She doesn’t utter a word, doesn’t scowl—she just waits to see what I’ll do.
This is not what I would expect an innocent person to do.
My suspicions double. I reach for the hem of her shirt and yank it up, checking her for a wire. She gasps as I do, but again, voices no objection. When I lower her shirt and release my hold on it, she stares at me like I’m a tiger whose cage just fell apart—but still doesn’t object.
None of that’s normal. That’s not a normal way to react to some guy getting aggressive with you and yanking your shirt halfway off.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I demand.
Her eyebrows rise in vague disbelief. “I don’t want to make whatever’s going on here worse.”
“You got Mia’s shampoo when you went on a trip to Chicago. Why did you buy Mia’s shampoo?”
“Who’s Mia?”
I narrow my eyes at her.
“I told you, my sister and I got our hair done. I bought a new bottle of shampoo.” She shakes her head, like she’s at a loss for a better explanation.
Would Mateo have sent a girl? He wouldn’t have sent a 22-year-old girl, right? She’s too young, too friendly—she couldn’t possibly be qualified.
Unless he figured I would think that.
Unless that was all an act.
But if he sent her, why am I still alive? That doesn’t make sense. He’s not going to want to keep an eye on me this time; he’s going to want a bullet in the back of my head.
“Did he send you?”
Her chest rises and falls rapidly but she manages to keep her cool as she shakes her head no. “I’m not here to hurt you, Vince. No one sent me. We both happen to be from Chicago and we both live here now. It’s not that weird. I don’t have a better explanation for you, I’m sorry.”
“Do you have weapons in the house?”
Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head. “No.”
I let her go, but I head for her bedroom. “I’m going to check.”
Her eyes are still bugged out, but she follows me down the hall. I’m more interested in her response than anything else—if she looks in a certain direction, like the place she might actually be keeping a gun. Right now she just follows me to her bedroom, but she’s still not trying very hard to kick me out of her house so I don’t trust her.
Then again, neither did Mia. Maybe I’m being unreasonable, expecting this 22-year-old girl who has likely never encountered a situation like this before to know how she’s supposed to handle it.
“Vince, I don’t have any weapons. I have knives in the kitchen for chopping up vegetables—that’s about as dangerous as it gets over here.”
Mateo would have cameras on her. If Mateo sent her, he wouldn’t leave anything to chance. His cameras are so damn well hidden though. My gaze darts around her bedroom but I don’t even know what I’m looking for. He’s had them installed in the stupidest shit—clocks and knick knacks. Once there was this stupid statue of a hippo in the library and I got to looking at it. Right there in its mouth was a camera.
I need to sweep her apartment. I don’t have the right equipment to do it quickly or thoroughly, but there’s gotta be something I can detect on my own.
I watch Carly to see what she’s most concerned about, expecting her gaze to drift to something incriminating, but she keeps her eyes on me like she’s more concerned about me than whatever she might be hiding. She stands there, arms crossed, not speaking as I toss her belongings. Her lips are downturned like she’s sad, and somehow it pierces my paranoia. I don’t want to make her sad. She’s never been anything but nice to me, and here I am tearing her bedroom apart looking for a gun. Worse, she’s letting me.
But she’s had a multitude of chances to kill me if that’s what she came to do.
She’s had even more chances to turn me over to Mateo, if that’s what she came for. Is there any reason he would just keep an eye on me? I know Mia didn’t want him to kill me before, but my assumption is she’s a lot less firm on that after Vegas.
No, she wouldn’t stand up to him for me. Not now, even if she might have once. And that’s assuming he’d even tell her, which he won’t. He’ll just quietly have me put down, that way he doesn’t have to interrupt his fucking happily ever after with the girl I brought to his attention.
I slowly close the drawer of Carly’s nightstand. I straighten, hyper aware of the horrible silence hanging in the air around us. Frankly, I’m braced for her to cuss me out and tell me I’m a fucking psycho, now that I’m emerging from the red haze. She probably kept quiet before because I was behaving like an unhinged lunatic and she was afraid I would turn the violence on her. She probably just wants to get me out of her apartment so she never has to see me again.
I turn back to look at her bed—I yanked up the mattress to check underneath, and now the once-neat sheets are bunched up at the bottom. Her pillows are on the floor. Items of clothing litter the ground because I searched her dresser drawers like a madman.
I shake my head very slightly, suddenly aware that I just lost my shit on this girl for no real reason.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, quietly. Without waiting for her to respond, I slip out of her bedroom and head for the door.