to. You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”
She opens her door and we enter her small apartment. I glance around and am surprised yet again because this place is not anything like the outside of the building or the hall.
“Wow.” It takes only a few seconds to see the entire apartment. It’s all one room, except for the bathroom. But what she’s done with it—I could be at the Ritz or an ultra-urban version of it. I run my finger along the handcrafted shelves, which hold an impressive collection of vinyl. I spot one in particular and carefully extract the rare album cover. “Holy crap. How did you …?”
“I go to flea markets. Can you believe I got that one for a dollar? The lady selling it had no idea of its value.”
I put it back where I found it. “Was the place like this before you moved in?” I ask, taking in the wall that looks like exposed brick. When I move closer, I can see it’s been expertly painted. Her small open kitchen is sleek and modern, and there’s not a hint of rust on anything. The furniture is sparse but tasteful, and the lighting is fabulous.
“Nope. I did this with a little help from Brett and his friends.”
“Brett?” I ask, a gnawing in my gut.
“My brother. He and a few of his firefighter buddies helped me. And he has a rich friend who was redecorating, so I inherited some amazing furniture and light fixtures. Brett bought me the mini kitchen. You should have seen the place before.”
“I can only imagine but”—I peer at the many locks on the door— “is it safe?”
“It’s safe enough.”
My insides twist.
“Listen,” she says, seeing my concern, “I know all my neighbors. Well, except the guy who just moved in on the third floor. None of them are drug dealers. They’re regular people like me, waiting for their break.”
I go to one of the two large windows and then the other, testing the locks and making sure they’re secure. I examine the fire escape, wondering how easy it would be for anyone to climb up from the street.
I glance into the alley and swear I see someone who looks like him.
“What’s with you?” she asks, eyeing my balled-up fists. “You look like you want to kill someone.”
I retreat from the window. “You really have no idea how vulnerable you are, do you?”
“You need to relax, Crew.”
I open my mouth to speak, but she shuts me up by gripping my arm, twisting it behind my back, and pushing me up against her wall.
“What the hell, Bria?”
She releases me. “Just showing you I can take care of myself, that’s all. Brett made me take some classes.” She opens her small fridge and gets out two bottles of Bud Light. “Beer?”
I check the time on my phone. “It’s barely noon.”
“And you need to chill. How are we going to get any work done with you being all judgy?”
I take a beer and sit on the couch, then open my notebook to the last page. It’s a song we were working on three weeks ago. One of hers. It’s almost finished. It’ll be the easiest one to complete. I’m not sure I have enough creativity flowing through my veins to do anything else. Not after seeing that man in the alley.
She twists off the top of her beer and sinks into the couch next to me. She leans close to see my notebook. I can smell her. My first instinct is to scoot away—protect myself. I gaze at the window again, then at her, knowing I’m not the one who needs protecting.
Chapter Seventeen
Bria
We didn’t get much done yesterday, not with all of Crew’s questions about my apartment and the neighborhood.
Going out for a quick bite didn’t help either. He criticized something on every street corner. I get that he’s from Connecticut, but his high and mighty act is getting old. He needs to realize not everyone lives a charmed life.
I haven’t told him about my family, outside of Brett. I don’t need people feeling sorry for me. I want to tell him, though. I almost did yesterday to get him to quit with the third-degree about where I buy my groceries, what restaurants I go to, are the streets well-lit at night, and do I carry mace in my purse.
I’ve been on my own for a while now. I grew up in a house with a father, but he wasn’t really there. He may as well