Next Stop Love, #1

by Rachel Stockbridge

  She rolled her eyes at that, some of her earlier confidence returning. “You’re not a murderer.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I’m pretty sure if you were a murderer, you wouldn’t be telling me about it.” She stood and retrieved a messenger bag and jacket from one of the chairs. “I’m also pretty sure you wouldn’t have been planning on defending yourself with writing implements.”

  Julian scowled. “You’re not taking this seriously. Trust me: Vito isn’t someone you want to mess with.”

  “What do you care?” Simba asked, throwing his own words back at him. “I’m just some random girl whose study room you appropriated for your murder drama. You’re welcome, by the way. For saving your butt.”

  Shit, this girl was weird. He couldn’t seem to stop staring at her. She wasn’t even that pretty, judging by conventional beauty standards. Her hair was ridiculous, she had freckles which looked like they’d been placed by an overenthusiastic Georges Seurat wannabe, and she was wearing the most hideous sweater he’d ever seen outside of a ’70s sitcom. Yet she was . . . strangely compelling.

  He opened his mouth, determined to say something clever, or at least sarcastic, in response to her quip, but not a single coherent word came into his head.

  She shook her head, sighing. “I gotta find an actual quiet place to finish reading,” she said, shoving her book in her bag. “If that guy comes back, shout for help or something, okay? I’m pretty sure most of the librarians here know how to dial 911.”

  The concern on her face threw him. Why did it matter what he did? He was nobody to her.

  Anyway, the concern was irrelevant. There was no way he could keep coming back into the city for work every day. Not after Vito had spotted him. If Julian was smart, he’d put himself on the next Greyhound to California and stay there. And stop letting some shadow of a childhood dream persuade him that he could find a way to get on his feet for once.

  “Don’t worry,” Julian said, stepping away from the door so she could leave. “I’m not going to run into him again.”

  Something in his tone made Simba pause, her hand on the doorknob, and look at him. He had the strangest feeling, for a single moment, that her eyes had pierced something inside him and laid his soul bare. That she knew everything about him—every secret, every shame—and was weighing what to do with him.

  And then she smiled, somewhat sardonically, and the feeling was gone. She was just a tiny, freckled stranger again. “All right. Well. Take care, fugitive.”

  Despite everything, he found himself returning the smile. “You too, lurker.”

  She snorted, her eyes dancing, and then she slipped through the door and was gone.

  Three

  Beatrice was still distracted and tense by the time English Lit let out. And ravenously hungry. She filed into the hallway with the rest of the students, half her brain occupied with whether she should get something to eat before she headed home. She’d been good at staying on budget this week, so grabbing something at the food court wouldn’t set her back. But the food court was also loud and crowded, and Beatrice’s nerves were already frayed after the incident in the library.

  The part of her brain that wasn’t calculating whether peace of mind was more important than an empty stomach was busy trying to convince her that Not-an-Art-Student and his ballpoint pen shiv had gotten home safely. He’d seemed so sure the other guy—Vito, she thought it was—wanted to kill him. And after facing him down, Beatrice believed it, too. Though who the heck knew why. Not-an-Art-Student didn’t strike Beatrice as the kind of guy who’d hang out with scary guys like Vito.

  Because clearly, Beatrice was an authority on the habits of strange men whom she barely knew.

  She shook her head as she trailed after some of her classmates down the stairs to the ground floor. It was a good thing she didn’t have any more classes today. Between fretting about the library confrontation and her growing hunger, she hadn’t paid as much attention in class as she should have. Thankfully, the hardest thing about English Lit was keeping up with the reading. She’d managed to cobble together a couple of semi-intelligent answers during the discussion, and everything else she could get from the official class notes the professor uploaded every week.

  Beatrice hopped off the last step, adjusting the strap of her bag. She might as well stop somewhere nearby for dinner. She rarely wanted to fight the press of people in Grand Central for food, which meant if she didn’t eat here, she wouldn’t eat until she got home, in another two hours or—

  Arms wrapped around her waist from behind, jerking her back. Beatrice squawked in a particularly unladylike fashion and twisted out of the hold, her fist raised, heart in her throat.

  Greyson laughed and put his hands up in mock surrender. “Please don’t shoot,” he said. “I’m unarmed.”

  Beatrice dropped her fist, flushing. “Don’t do that.”

  “Sorry,” Greyson said, grinning.

  She didn’t much appreciate how funny he seemed to find the whole thing, either. Her heart was pounding, and she couldn’t get the defensive, bristling feeling in her shoulders to settle back down. “I’m serious, Greyson. You scared me.”

  He made a brief attempt at an apologetic expression that couldn’t take the humor out of his pale blue eyes. “I said I’m sorry.” He had the kind of voice that you heard in the soles of your feet. The kind of voice that invaded your chest and settled there like heavy velvet. The kind of voice that made Beatrice feel small and squeaky in comparison.

  He ducked his head and stole a kiss. “In my defense, I did try to call your name like five times first.”

  The kind of voice that she completely tuned out when distracted by food.

  God. She had to be the worst girlfriend in all of New York State. “You did? I didn’t even notice.”

  “Must have been some class, to have you so distracted.” Greyson tugged at a lock of her hair.

  “Riveting,” Beatrice muttered, pushing her hair back over her shoulder, out of his reach.

  “Careful, you’ll make me jealous.” He turned her chin up with his fingers and kissed her again.

  Beatrice pulled back, her face warming. You heard people talking about butterflies in their stomachs when they were around people they liked a lot. Beatrice’s stomach seemed to be inhabited by suffocating trout on a dock when she was around Greyson. Less flutter, more flop. Maybe that’s what it was like for everyone, and butterflies were simply more romantic-sounding than dying fish. Or maybe there was something seriously wrong with her.

  She suspected it was the latter, since she also enjoyed wearing clothes in the most hideous colors she could find. And she had spent most of her lit class worrying about a scowling stranger with gentle eyes.

  Gentle eyes? Good God. Guilt washed over her, giving new life to the trout in her stomach. Don’t mention that to Greyson.

  She pointed vaguely towards the front doors. “I should, um—”

  “You hungry?” Greyson asked.

  Beatrice’s stomach took a quick break from flopping to growl, but she shook her head. Food with Greyson meant being on a date. She didn’t have that kind of energy right now. “I can’t. I have a paper I need to start tonight, and I still haven’t finished that presentation for marketing tomorrow—”

  “So we’ll get something quick and I’ll drive you home,” Greyson said. “How does pizza sound?”

  “I was going to write the paper on the train.”

  “But you can’t write it in the car?”

  “Not if you’re talking to me the whole time,” Beatrice said. It took her another split second to realize it had come out more of a grumble than anything. Why was everything she said to Greyson the exact wrong thing today? “Wait, no,” she backpedaled, “that came out wrong—”

  “Beatrice,” Greyson said, resting his hands on her shoulders and trapping her gaze with his inscrutable, ice blue eyes. “It’s okay. I can refrain from talking for an hour if you need to write a pap
er. Let me drive you home.”

  “But—” Beatrice began, floundering for a good excuse. “I—I don’t want to put you out. It’s a long drive. And you have to come all the way back. And it’s already getting dark—”

  “I don’t mind.” Greyson squeezed her shoulder, offering one of his perfect smiles. He had the chiseled jawline and razor-sharp cheekbones of an A-list movie star. Sometimes he didn’t seem quite real. “Listen,” he said, lowering his voice so the few students still milling around the lobby area couldn’t hear, “I know you think I’ve got some secret agenda, wanting to date you. But I don’t. I really like you. And I think we’d be good together. I just need you to give me a chance to convince you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Plus,” he said, “you’ll get home faster if I drive you. And it’s safer than taking the train, right? It’s win-win-win for you.”

  “I guess.” Beatrice sighed. He was trying to help. And she was hungry. She just didn’t like feeling as though she was indebted to him. But she didn’t want to make him think she didn’t appreciate the offer, either. She didn’t have the emotional wherewithal to force another confrontation today. “Okay,” she relented. “But I’m paying for the pizza.”

  * * *

  Julian’s sister was perched on a suitcase outside his apartment when he returned home that evening. She had her arms crossed and was giving the darkened window of the out-of-business tobacco and liquor store across the street her worst death glare.

  For one uncharitable moment, Julian thought about turning around and hiding out in the 24-hour laundromat around the corner until she gave up waiting for him and went away. When Fabiana turned up without warning, it was always because something terrible had happened that she expected him to fix. And Julian had already had one hell of a bad day. He wasn’t sure he had any fix-it powers left.

  He took a deep breath and went to meet her, certain he was going to end up sleeping on the floor tonight.

  Fabiana looked up as he approached. Her shoulders tensed, and her expression turned guarded. Yep. She was definitely in trouble again.

  “What happened, Fab?” Julian asked, stopping beside her, hands in pockets, his tone flat.

  Her bottom lip stuck out as her frown deepened. “I need money.”

  No surprise there. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Bullshit. You have an apartment.” She eyed his hoodie and frayed jeans. “You do have an apartment, right?”

  “I have the shittiest apartment in the shittiest building on the shittiest street in town,” Julian said in the same expressionless tone. “I have thirty bucks and a Metro Card in my wallet, and less than a hundred in the bank. I’m not going to be able to pay rent next month, and then I won’t have an apartment. I don’t have any money. Now, will you tell me what happened?”

  She glared at a trio of teenagers down the street who were sharing a bottle in a brown paper bag and talking over each other in loud voices. Julian didn’t know how long Fabiana had been sitting here in front of his apartment, but he was surprised she hadn’t been mugged. She was in stilettos, for Chrissakes, and an expensive, strappy clubbing dress under a fitted leather jacket. In a neighborhood like this, that kind of ensemble just screamed Take my money! I have lots!

  She did have a pretty impressive glare, though, and despite the expensive getup, she could switch into alley-cat mode in a blink. She would be more than willing to use her manicured nails to defend herself if it came down to it. Which it probably wouldn’t, because Julian suspected she had Mace or a Taser inside the tiny black bag tucked under her arm. And she did look forbidding, leaning on her suitcase on the street.

  “Fabiana,” Julian prompted when she didn’t seem to want to answer his question.

  She huffed. “Walter cut me off again. And Arthur’s being a dick about it. That puts you next on the list. Congratulations.”

  Translation: Their step-dad had kicked Fabiana out—again—and her latest boyfriend wasn’t willing to help out. Julian couldn’t remember if Arthur had been the name of the boyfriend from six weeks ago, which was the last time he’d spoken to Fabiana, but it didn’t matter. If Fabiana had ever had a boyfriend who wasn’t a first-class dickbag, Julian hadn’t met him. Mostly Fabiana went for rich, middle-aged white guys, a good third of whom were already married. Not one of them had ever lasted longer than a few months.

  Not like Julian could judge. He didn’t have a great track record with romantic relationships, either. He was usually the one responsible for blowing them up. Fabiana just had a knack for picking terrible partners.

  Julian took another breath, resigning himself to his twin-saving fate, and dug his keys out of his pocket.

  “Come on,” he said, making for the door.

  “What about my suitcase?” Fabiana demanded. “Aren’t you going to help me?”

  “I could,” Julian replied. “But if you make me carry that up the stairs, I’m going to make you sleep on the floor. I’ve only got the one mattress.”

  Fabiana gave him a withering look, but when it became clear he wasn’t going to give in and carry the suitcase for her, she grabbed the handle with a huff and marched after Julian, stilettos clicking on the pavement, swearing in his direction under her breath.

  Four

  Julian didn’t have much in the way of food in the apartment. Just peanut butter, macaroni, crackers, and a few packets of ramen in the pantry. Butter, eggs, and a half-eaten bag of grapes were all he had left in the fridge. Fabiana turned her nose up at all of it and tried to talk him into ordering Chinese. Julian ignored her and put on water for ramen. Then he went to the narrow coat closet and took out a clean set of sheets and a sleeping bag.

  He ought to tell her to change the sheets herself, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. The poor-me pout might not have any effect on him, but he knew beneath the crusty exterior she was probably hurting more than she wanted to let on.

  Julian had made his peace with being adrift a long time ago, but Fabiana fought tooth and nail for stability. It always seemed to elude her, and she still turned around and tried to grab it again. He sympathized with her, but he wasn’t sure how to tell her as much without making the situation worse. The least he could do was make sure she had a place to sleep until she convinced their step-father to take her back, or spun off to her next sugar daddy scheme.

  “Did the wise and generous Walter give you a reason for cutting you off this time?” he asked, dropping the linens on a chair and stripping the bed.

  “Same old Walter reasons, I guess,” Fabiana said, her eyes traveling around the scant furnishings of the studio apartment. “Something about disapproving of Arthur or my shopping or . . . something. I don’t know.” She wrinkled her nose at a small pile of laundry on the floor and prodded them with the toe of her shoe. “Don’t you ever pick up after yourself?”

  “Never,” Julian said, deciding not to point out that Fabiana had always been worse about leaving her things strewn around than he was. The quick deflection made him think she was lying about why she got cut off, but he let it go. It didn’t matter why. He’d try to help her regardless. He threw the old sheets at the laundry basket he kept against the wall near the bathroom. “You’re welcome to tidy up if you don’t like it.”

  “Screw you,” Fabiana replied, and crossed to the single window. She pushed aside the old tablecloth that served as a makeshift curtain and scowled at the street below. “Your apartment is shit.”

  Julian couldn’t argue with her. It was shit. The whole thing was one room plus a closet-sized bathroom. The walls were paper thin. The power had a tendency to short out for no reason. He was fighting a losing battle with a colony of ants in the bathroom, and a steady parade of cockroaches everywhere else. It always smelled of grease and fish and cigarettes. Sometimes the smell of weed smoke crept through the vents, to change things up. He’d taken to wearing headphones at night to drown out the baby down the hall who never stopped wailing, and the upstairs neighbors having loud,
drunken arguments every other night, and he was still sometimes woken by the slamming of doors shaking the walls.

  His table—a tiny chipped kitchen nook thing—he’d gotten out of a dumpster, and the two chairs were thrift store finds with uneven legs. Even the sheets were from a thrift store. Not that he was going to tell Fabiana about that. He didn’t have a couch or a TV. He had a phone with crappy service and a nearby library he frequented for their computers and Wi-Fi. He didn’t spend much time here, really. He mostly came back to crash at night, or to grab a quick bite to eat.

  Once he finished making the bed, he checked on the ramen, ignoring Fabiana’s continued bitching about his subpar living situation. The last time she’d had to crash with him had been over a year ago. He’d been staying in a one-bedroom that wasn’t so bad except for the mold in the carpet. Fabiana’s then-boyfriend had kicked her out of his place while Walter was out of the country. She’d gotten ahold of Walter the next day, and he set her back up in the apartment he kept for her in Brooklyn when she wasn’t living with boyfriends. Julian had been at work when it happened, and the only thing his sister had communicated to him was a text saying she was going home. And then she hadn’t spoken to him for months.

  He hadn’t exactly tried to talk to her, either. They always ended up fighting, when neither of them were mid-crisis. He thought she was still angry at him for leaving Walter’s penthouse without her, after the incident with his hand. He was still angry at her for staying. But they never talked about it. They just fought about every other thing they could think of.

  Apparently, shared trauma didn’t always bring people together. Sometimes it pushed them apart.

  Fabiana leaned against the pantry as Julian cooked, her arms crossed, scowling at the dingy paint. He left her alone. She’d talk if she wanted to. More likely, she’d keep on trying to pick a fight. Like she thought if she didn’t ever say how hurt she was, then it wouldn’t be true.

  “You know, you could always ask Walter to find you a job,” Fabiana said as Julian got a couple of hard-boiled eggs out of the fridge.