LOST BOY Page 5

  “Why don’t you have curtains? You know she can see in here, right?”

  I look where he’s staring at the woman in question wearing only a bathrobe while she tidies her apartment. “Charlotte likes to be on display.” I shrug.

  “So does she if the length of her robe is anything to go by.” A smile tilts my lips. I’ve seen her in less. She kinda feels like another roommate. “And you?” he asks, coming to the couch and taking a seat.

  “Me what?”

  He turns to face me, dissecting. “Do you like being on display?” The room shrinks around us. Is he flirting? Twisting the dynamics of our friendship? No.

  We’d been friends since he transferred into my cognitive psych class eight months ago, and he never gave the impression he saw me as anything other than a friend.

  “You know me better than that.” I raise a brow, taking a bite of a brownie.

  His mouth breaks into a broad smile as he chuckles to himself. He does that a lot. There’s always more going on in his eyes, however. “Your face just then was a real picture.”

  I throw a pillow in his direction and offer a scathing glare, making him laugh harder. “You want to study?” he asks.

  Reaching for the remote, I shrug. “We could watch a movie instead.”

  Cold drops of water trickle over my face, waking me abruptly.

  My eyes open to see Charlotte standing over me, a bottle of water in hand. I’m still on the couch. I sit up, my head a little groggy, my eyes going to where Stephan was sitting before I fell asleep. “He left,” Charlotte informs me.

  “What time is it?” The TV is still on, but there’s no sound. Water droplets run down my face. Wiping them away, I stretch, yawning.

  “Nine,” she informs me, walking over to the window and looking out. “He was watching the apartment opposite. He said weird noises were coming from the window.” I push off the couch and join her. A breeze is blowing in. He must have opened our window to listen. The woman opposite has hers open too, but there are no lights on. Just pitch-black stares back.

  “She works nights,” I mumble, rubbing my arms to chase away the chill. “She’d be at work by now.”

  “I hear nothing.” Charlotte shrugs, pulling our window closed. “Stephan is a great looking guy,” she announces, changing the subject.

  “We’re just friends, Char,” I groan. We’ve had this conversation before.

  “Girls can’t be friends with guys.” She shakes her head.

  “No, you might not be able to, but other people can.”

  “Do you not think he’s hot?” She puts me on the spot, staring at me, willing me to indulge her.

  “Why are you doing this?” I huff out, irritated.

  “I just want you to be careful, okay? You have to still go to class with him if things don’t work out.”

  “He knows we’re just friends. He’s never pursued me for more,” I snap, shaking my head. There’s no way he likes me in that way. He knows I’m broken. “He called me weird,” I add defensively.

  She rolls her eyes and goes to the fridge, putting her water inside. “Weird is the new cute. Just make it clear nothing is going to happen between you two.”

  “Do you want him for yourself? Because fucking him and then throwing him out the next morning would also make it weird for me.”

  “What if I didn’t throw him out?” she counters, dipping her head.

  “Charlotte,” I warn. Having to listen to her with him would be more than uncomfortable.

  “I’m kidding.” She waves her hand dismissively.

  “Are you?” I quirk a brow.

  Smirking, she waltzes past me, leaving me watching her bedroom door as it closes on me. Going to my room, I flop down on the mattress, pulling my phone out.

  Sorry I crashed.

  A soft hum of music sounds from above, then the movement of feet. My limbs grow heavy as I stare up, wondering what he’s doing up there.

  Stephan: Charlotte is intense. I’m not sure if she hates me or wants to fuck me. I didn’t want to wake you.

  A smile tugs at my lips. I think it’s the latter. It’s Charlotte we’re talking about.

  The music above turns off, and the pipes creak to life. He’s showering. An overwhelming ache throbs between my legs. It’s crazy to fantasize about someone I’ve never even seen, but my hand slips down into my panties to alleviate the ache. I’m soaking wet just thinking about the idea of watching the stranger as he showers. Slipping my fingers through my folds, my breath catches. I embrace the moment, allowing myself the pleasure—the fantasy—the stranger. I imagine a strong, powerful body braced against the shower wall, the water pounding down against his tensed muscles. My back arches from the bed as I thrust inside myself with two fingers, pushing the heel of my palm against my clit. I’m lost in my head. My shower guy lifts his head and the penetrating green eyes from the guy earlier pushes me over the edge. I moan out loud as my body quakes, my clit throbbing as I orgasm around my fingers. Heat claws over my chest and up my neck, flushing my skin. A heavy thud sounds above me, causing my eyes to spring open. I’d been so lost in my release, I hadn’t noticed him return to his room.

  Can you hear me?

  Six

  Standing at the traffic lights, Bruno and his owner round the corner, his overweight body making him pant as he comes over to sniff my leg before being pulled away. She doesn’t say hi today. She jerks her head in acknowledgment, and I awkwardly wave as she passes.

  The atmosphere on campus is still somber. Abigail’s empty chair taunts me. I’m transfixed, my pen tapping wildly against the table surface. Is it too soon to move the empty seat? “Ms. West, what will your paper topic be?” Professor Ashraf asks. I hear the turning of heads, the creaking of chairs as all attention lands on me. A weight pushes down on my chest, the room feeling two times smaller than moments ago. Sweat begins to pebble on my forehead. Just speak.

  “Neurobiological foundations of fear,” I answer, swallowing down my anxiety and flicking the pages of my notepad to distract myself from everyone’s attention. Marco, Marco, Marco covers the entire thing. Slinking down in my chair to make myself smaller, I stare at him, waiting for him to move to someone else. He knows I hate speaking to the room. Eyes burn into me as they all wait to smirk and turn their noses up at my answer.

  “Elaborate,” he requests. Asshole.

  Concealing the annoyance I feel toward him, I clear my throat. “I want to explore how terror affects cognitive structures.” Training my eyes solely on him, I add, “More accurately, an individual’s response to fear.”

  His brow lifts, intrigue hooking the side of his mouth. “Keep going.” He waves his hand in a rolling motion.

  Sitting up a little straighter, I add, “I want to know why it affects people differently. Is it the biological or chemical makeup of each individual's brain?” Did Willis Langford feel fear? Or just get off on embedding it in others?

  “Interesting. I look forward to reading your findings. Daniels, tell me what your topic will be.”

  Relieved he moved on, I write out everyone’s topic, turning when I feel Stephan’s gaze boring into the side of my face. “What?” I crinkle my nose.

  “Nothing. I’d just like to take a walk inside your mind.”

  Letting out a short bark of laughter, I shake my head. “Trust me, you wouldn’t.”

  I nudge him when he’s still staring at me and not answering our Professor, who called his name. Turning to face the rest of the class, he confidently replies, “I’ve always been interested in nature versus nurture. Suppose criminal tendencies can be passed on biologically, I want to study prolific criminals, their background, and their offspring.” My heart rages.

  Jack.

  Jack.

  Jack.

  There’s a humming in my ears. Stephan’s lips continue to move, explaining his topic, but I can’t hear anything but my own breathing. When the room comes back into focus, everyone is packing their stuff away to leave. “Liz? Are you
coming?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, stuffing my crap into my backpack and darting from the room.

  We’re only a couple feet into the corridor when someone calls out, “Ms. West.” A man I recognize from the day Abigail’s body was discovered. He was the officer in the sedan. “Cover the body.”

  “Yes?”

  Stephan pats my shoulder to signal his departure. I want to chase after him to rescue me from whatever it is this detective wants. The older man looks tired. Heavy bags sit under his eyes, creases pulling at the corners. He reaches his hand out for me to shake. It’s cold and clammy. The urge to scrub my palm down my coat is overwhelming. “I’m Detective Barnett. I’m speaking with Abigail Cane’s friends.”

  “We weren’t friends,” I blurt out, halting his sentence.

  Concern tugs down his brow. “Well,…I was told you sat next to her in class.”

  “By who?” I scowl.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Who told you I sat next to her? It wasn’t a choice: we’re just two people in the same class.” Why am I so defensive about this?

  “All the same, with you sitting next to her, maybe you overheard any conversations she may have had. Any indication she was anxious, scared in the days before her death?”

  “She was just Abigail.” I shrug. “I’m sorry, Detective. I have no helpful information.”

  “You never know what might be useful. It can be something small that doesn’t seem important. When was the last time you saw Ms. Cane?”

  “There’s lipstick on this mug. I want a new one.”

  “Saturday. She came into the coffee shop I work at.” He jots that down in a notepad. The pen looks like something you’d get from a box of Scrabble or Ikea.

  “Was she alone?” I try to bring that day back. Her face is like a neon light in my brain.

  “There’s lipstick on this mug. I want a new one. You should really make an effort to ensure you only serve from clean mugs. It’s a health hazard.” Pouting ruby red lips. A petite frame. A curtain of auburn hair.

  “I’m not sure. I think she was with people.”

  “People or a person?”

  “I don’t know. It was busy. I don’t really pay attention. The faces blur into one.” Liar. He watches me as I fidget, biting on my nails. “Is there anything else, Detective?”

  Pulling out his wallet, his badge flashes as he pulls a card and hands it to me. “If you remember anything else.”

  “Do you know who killed her?” I ask, the phantom scars burning my hand.

  He offers a tight smile. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  A pale, lifeless body. Blood, blood, blood.

  “Don’t take too long, Detective. No one deserves what happened to her.”

  I hate the dead hours between my day finishing and bed. I need to exhaust myself if I have any chance of a dreamless sleep. I check the fridge for food, my stomach growling in hunger. There’s nothing but leftovers.

  Pacing the floor, I stare into the window of the apartment across from us. The lights are out. The window is still open. It’s just a reflection staring back at me. The nothingness is torture. It leaves room for too much thinking.

  “You going out tonight?” I call down the hall, getting an answering grunt from Charlotte’s room. Thanks. That clears things up. I feel like I’ve been drinking energy drinks and bubbles are traveling through my bloodstream. “I’m going for a run,” I call out, grabbing my running shoes.

  “You sure that’s wise?” Charlotte pokes her head around her bedroom door.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell her, pushing up my sleeves.

  “What if there’s a killer out there?”

  “There are lots of killers everywhere,” I snap, pinning her with a stony glare. Slipping on my headphones, I leave without another word.

  My aunt would hate that I run in the evenings. “It’s not safe. Nowhere will ever be safe.” I hear her in my mind as clear as if she were walking alongside me. I know my head is trying to warn me, but if I don’t tire my mind, it will hold me hostage all night. The neighbor’s door above slams closed as I descend the stairs. I wonder if he struggles with quieting his mind too. We should introduce ourselves. I’m dying to see who he is, but terrified he won’t live up to the version of him I’ve created. I like having the illusion, the fantasy. Without it, I wouldn’t pursue him. I’d never allow myself the moments in my room. The thought flees as fast as it came, and before I know it, I’m stomping the curb.

  The misting of rain glistens under the streetlights. Cars passing make the world seem safe. It’s still moving, people milling around, living their lives. I push on, tiring my legs, forcing myself forward even when my calves burn and demand a reprieve. The rain hurts my skin as it tears across my face, but I don’t stop. I run. And run.

  My lungs burn, screaming for a break. I slow my pace until I’m at walking speed. Condensation creates clouds around me. Fog creeps across the field to the park, coating the grass. Streetlights flicker above me, making the hairs rise on my arms, the trees rustling with the power of the wind whispering to each other. Nighttime has fully claimed the sky darkening my surroundings.

  I stretch my limbs and turn back. The streets have emptied. There’s no one around, only my heartbeat pounding in my ears to keep me company. Fear begins to bloom like a flower seeking the sun within me. Every sound and shadow has my mind firing off. Tugging out my earphones to hear any impending danger, I internally berate myself for letting the fear take root inside me and ruin simple things like a jog I’ve done a thousand times before. This is what sickos want. They want us scared. Checking over our shoulders. Not leaving the house. My roaring heart dulls out every other sound as anger replaces the fear. Seeing shadows dance and transform into boogey men is irrational. I won’t allow myself to stop living.

  “You can come out of there now, sweetheart.”

  No. No. No. My brain screams when I suddenly collide with a wall of man. My body jolts from the impact. Jerking back, my ankle twists onto its side, almost tipping me off the curb. Two firm hands grip my arms, stopping me from falling at his feet. My instincts are to disengage his hold, but I find myself mesmerized. Beard, full lips, those eyes. “It’s you,” I say dumbly, breathless. Can a person steal the air from your lungs?

  “It’s me.” He smiles. It’s the first time I’m hearing his voice, and it strokes places inside that haven’t been touched by another in a long time.

  It’s awkward. He’s held on to me longer than necessary, and I haven’t pulled free. I’m clumsy when he does release me. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I plant them on my hips, sucking oxygen into my lungs. “Well,…thanks for not letting me fall.” I smile tightly, dipping my eyes to his feet, my cheeks heating a hundred degrees. He reaches out, tipping my chin up with a brush of his fingers, making a gasp wisp past my lips. It’s intimate—too intimate. The simple touch sets a blaze over my skin. I step back from his touch, feeling vulnerable and confused. “I should go.” I shake my head to clear it. I don’t say goodbye as my legs start moving away. Pain shoots up my ankle, begging me to take the weight from it, but I carry on running, sneaking a look over my shoulder every couple seconds. He hasn’t moved. He's just watching me, his silhouette lit by the streetlight like a painting, a beautiful piece of art that should be on display in galleries.

  I almost fall into our pitch-black apartment, slamming the door and resting my spent body against it. My chest heaves, trying to drag air into my lungs. I feel exhausted and alive at the same time. “You okay?” Charlotte asks from the couch, making me screech.

  “Why the hell are you sitting in the dark?” I scold, walking over and flicking on the lamp.

  “I swear I saw movement in her apartment. It’s better to see with the lights out. Why are you all sweaty and gross?”

  “You know I went for a run. She may have company and doesn’t like the lights on—not everyone is as confident as you.” I wave a finger up her body for emphas
is.

  “You went for a run ages ago and she’s always half naked waltzing around, there’s no way she’s shy.” Rolling my eyes, I head over to the sink, grabbing a glass and filling it twice. The cold water swills in my stomach, reminding me I haven’t eaten. Opening the fridge, I pull out old pizza and stuff half a slice into my mouth. My insides groan, protesting the intrusion. “That’s hideous. You live like a student,” Charlotte gags.

  “I am a student.”

  “You go to classes three times a week, Liz. You’re hardly a scholar.”

  “I’m sorry, what was your degree in again?” I taunt with a narrowed glare. I want to say cock doesn’t count, but refrain.

  “I’m going to marry into money or just sponge off you when you use your college degree to get a high-flying job.” Don’t count on that. “Did you see that?” she gasps, and my heart skips.

  “What?” I follow her to the window.

  “Something moved in there, I’m telling you.”

  “I don’t see anything.” I focus, narrowing my eyes. “It’s your imagination.”

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Something darts at the window, making us both scream and jolt back. My ankle smarts. Motherfucker. One of her cats walks across the windowsill like it’s on a model runway. “I nearly just had a heart attack.” Charlotte chuckles, a hand to her chest. “Is that thing safe with the window open?”

  “Cats always land on their feet, right?” I cringe. “I can’t watch.”

  Peeling the clothes from my sweaty body, I test the shower and groan when only cold water pours from the head. Charlotte drained the hot water. Taking a brave breath, I move under the spray, yelping when the icy blast explodes over my skin. I manage one minute before I get out, stuttering, my entire body shivering.

  Collapsing on my bed, my ankle prickles, reminding me I injured it earlier tonight. Blue bruising is already blooming across my foot, and the ankle is two times bigger than the other. Perfect.

  Rummaging through a pile of half dirty and half clean clothes, I pull out a pair of shorts and a tank top, tug them over my body, and crawl under the covers. The moon glows through the window. Feet overhead stomp around, drawing my eyes up briefly. I stare out at the moon, imagining the guy above me is doing the same thing. It’s not long before my interaction with the guy from earlier begins replaying in my head. The way he touched me like I was his… What would have happened had I not ran away like I always do? Maybe he would have kissed me, two strangers in the night sharing a moment. Am I just thinking the finger under my chin was too personal? Charlotte meets people on her app and an hour later shares her body with them. Maybe it’s normal.