by Emilia Finn
He might be… but he won’t be my boyfriend material.
Galileo’s deep growl comes while my brain is focused on my friends, so it takes me a second longer than usual for my hand to whip to the back of my jeans, for my heart to thunder in my chest, for the scream backing up in my throat to turn into something more useful.
I slam my back to the brick wall for just a second, take my gun and hold it tight in my hands, then I bound into the opening on the stair landing and come eye to eye with that dude.
Tucker Morris.
My new neighbor. My new nuisance.
“What the fuck?” I roar. “Dammit, Tucker.”
“The fuck me?” He stands at the top of the stairs in torn jeans, his arms raised in surrender. “The fuck you!” He skips back when Galileo snaps his teeth. “Stand down, woman. For fuck’s sake.”
“Why are you in the hall?”
“I live here!” he shouts. He stands in holey jeans and a tight shirt that emphasizes every ridge and line beneath. “Why are you in the hall with a fucking gun?”
“Because I have the right to protect myself! I’m a single woman, living alone in a building that doesn’t house only honorable people. Why were you skulking around?”
“I wasn’t skulking!” His eyes flare wide with challenge despite Galileo’s menacing growl. “I was going out to buy a fucking meal. Ya know, because I like to eat three meals a damn day. Is that okay with you, Nazi?”
“It’s way past bedtime.”
“You’re my mother now? It’s eight-o’-fuckin’-clock. I didn’t realize the kitchen closes at six.”
When Galileo snaps again, Tucker grows braver. “Sit down, dog!”
The day my sister was murdered was a pivotal moment in my life. It changed the very fabric of my soul, it altered the direction my future would go, and gave me enough emotional trauma to last me a lifetime. The next worst moment was when I decided to lose my damn mind and travel to a city far away from here; I made my way through a crowd of hundreds of thousands of people, and I met Ben in the octagon when he was announced victor of a professional fight. That night changed my life again. It hurt me, and sent me scrambling back to my home to hide away for another few years.
Having Galileo has helped me, knowing he will protect me with his life has helped me become less obsessive about my memories.
But now he sits for this stranger, and suddenly, Tucker from 4B has the keys to my home.
“Don’t speak to him!” My hands shake from fear. My voice cracks from trying to be brave, but my heart falters when he lifts a daring brow. “Don’t speak to my dog.”
“Well, you won’t! You use him like a weapon, like it’s okay to torment innocent men in the street with a set of fuckin’ teeth. You refuse to tell him to stand down when I’ve never done anything to you. So I did it for you!”
“You don’t get to speak to him!”
I hate that my voice tremors. I hate that in my head, all I can hear is, ‘You broke him! You broke my security system!’
“Leave me alone, Tucker Morris. Leave me the hell alone.” I lower my gun and shove my way past the man that bars the top of the stairs. “Galileo, come!”
“Don’t take it out on your damn dog.” Tucker follows me with his eyes as I slide my keys into my front door. I pass my thumb over the hidden print scan plate, and push the door open.
“Galileo! Come now!”
“Don’t get mad at him because he followed orders,” Tucker snarls. “He’s your family, not your whacking stick.”
“He was my security,” I scream. “And you took that away from me. Go to hell, 4B.”
“Yeah, you too, stick-up-your-ass 4A. I’m going to get dinner.” He adds, “I’ll be gone for twenty minutes. So if you hear a noise in the hall then, don’t panic. It’s just me, and not a fuckin’ criminal out to hurt you!”
I hold the door open long enough for Galileo to come through, then I meet Tucker’s eyes. “You ruined my safe haven. You ruined something that you had no reason to ruin. Go to hell.”
“It would be more fun there!” he shoots back.
It almost feels like we’re twelve, and ‘I know you are, I said you are, so what am I?’ is the best comeback we can conjure.
“When I get there, do you have a message to pass on to Lucifer?” He grins when my nostrils flare with rage. “You know him, don’t you?”
“Shut up! I hope you choke on your dinner. I’ll be sure to send flowers to your mother.”
“Bitch.” He turns on his heels and makes his way down the stairs. “I prefer hell anyway. The women don’t give me frostbite.”
“You’re a prick.” I run to the top of the stairs and lean over the banister. “You’re a…” I have nothing. I have no comeback under pressure. “Prick! You ruined the property value by moving in.”
“Probably should move, then.”
“I couldn’t agree more!”
“Not me.” On the second floor, he peeks between the stairs and looks up. “I meant you. Hurry up and leave, because you’re costing me a fortune in heating.”
“Asshole!”
Laughing, he only turns away and keeps moving. “I’ll try to be quiet when I get back, 4A. It would be a damn shame if I kept you awake again because I was being noisy.”
Turning with a grunt, I rush through my front door and slam it with an extra hard shove. Then I spin and press my back to the steel frame.
My chest rises and drops with heavy breaths, my heart races, and stars float in front of my eyes as I barely keep control of myself and stop from descending into a full panic attack.
Galileo sits on his haunches just six feet away, and tilts his head to the side with curiosity, but I can barely stand tall, I barely remain upright and breathing as my mind works hard on tricking me.
My trauma wants to hurt me. It wants to send me down dark and horrible alleyways, until I find that four days have passed, and I still can’t sleep. My mental health insists on spiraling, on hurtling me back a thousand days, and forcing me to undo all of my hard work.
“You listened to his command.” I sound like I’ve been eating sandpaper. “Dammit, Galileo. You listened to him.”
He tilts his head the other way.
“Galileo, down.”
The swelling seed of anxiety that rests in my stomach lessens a little when he drops flat with a fast slap on the floor.
“Galileo, sit.”
He whips back up to his haunches.
“Galileo, speak.”
A loud, instantaneous woof makes me jump.
It’s the final straw that allows a single tear to break through my lashes and stream over my cheek. “Dammit, Galileo.”
Sliding down the door, I drop to my ass and pull him in for a hug when he rushes forward and rests his snout against my neck.
He’s not a specially trained dog. He doesn’t come from some elite military training school where he knows his one and only job is to obey my command and make me feel safe. He’s just a mongrel dog that enjoys listening to my orders when I give them.
The fact that someone else gave him one and he obeyed shouldn’t be enough to break my heart the way it has.
“You’re such a silly dog.” I bury my face in his fur, and cry away the poison. Get it all out, purge the bullshit my subconscious wants to slap me with before it visits me in my dreams and gets worse. “You’re so naughty, Galileo. What’s gotten into you, huh?”
I push the Glock that Kane gave me for my birthday two feet to my left and turn the barrel toward the wall. It’s safe, I became proficient with a gun a long, long time ago. You can’t be Kane Bishop’s friend and not know how to handle yourself, but still, I push it away and pull Galileo onto my lap until he lays out with a heaving groan.
More than two hundred pounds lay on my thighs, but two black eyes watch me upside down as if to ask if I’m still mad.
It was just the neighbor. It was just Tucker, the mechanic with a decent credit score, no known firearms registered to h
is name, a single motorcycle in his possession, and a proclivity to come home at three in the damn morning on Friday and Saturday nights.
It’s been three weeks since he moved in, which means I’ve studied his routine. His habits. I know he works six days a week. His alarm is set for six in the morning, and he’s always running out the front door at ten to seven. He returns again at a little after five, settles in so the smell of cooking food penetrates my apartment and reminds me to eat too.
Five nights out of seven, that’s the end of it. He stays in, sleeps at some point after CSI finishes, and doesn’t make a peep until that six o’clock alarm. Two nights a week, he’s gone for several hours, only to return home in the dead of night – not alone, it should be noted.
A few hours after that, his door opens again, his more-often-than-not blonde visitor leaves, and the cycle begins all over again.
I know this, because I make it a point to study those that live near me. The woman in 3A is a nurse, and the couple in 3B have a toddler and nine-to-five jobs. The family in 2A is noisy, but because there’s an entire floor between us, it doesn’t bother me so much. A man lives in the apartment above me. He stomps around like he has elephant feet at exactly four-forty-five every single morning except Sundays, but that’s as far as his annoyances go, so I leave it alone.
Tucker Morris warrants closer inspection, because he’s right there, right outside my door. And damn him for breaking my dog.
I remain sitting against my door until the sounds of stomping feet make their way back up the stairs. It could be anyone. It could be 5A, or one of 4B’s million female visitors. It could be the dude from Friday the 13th, or it could be the cops to say that 4B was hit by a bus on the way out of the building.
Though of course, that’s all silly.
I sit with my back against the door while keys jiggle in the lock across from mine. I sniffle, and swipe a hand under my nose when it insists on running. My eyes burn as the smell of Chinese food penetrates my senses, then I jump when his door slams with a loud whack.
Galileo remains in my lap, my emotional support system, while silent tears slide over my cheeks, and make me feel like a fool.
It’s all so dumb. It’s not like my sister’s murderer walks free. It’s not like there is anyone in this town, or, hell, on this planet, out to hurt me. There’s no reason for me to be scared anymore, but I guess the world wouldn’t be that kind to me.
I sit in place on the cold floor for several minutes, running a hand through Galileo’s fur, and staring at my watch – my panic button. I talk myself out of hitting it again and bothering Kane.
But it’s tempting. A simple brush of my fingers over the button on the side, and I can have a friendly voice in my ear. A fast press of a button will result in a phone call that’ll help me sleep easier tonight.
I close my eyes and rest my head back against the door, and in the silence, I work on matching my breaths to Galileo’s. I slow myself down, pull a deep breath in, and let it out until my heart slows, but then the door across the hall opens again.
My pulse races as footsteps cross the concrete floor outside my door, as boots stop just inches from where I sit. My breath stops completely, catching in my throat and threatening to choke me, but when I expect him to knock, he doesn’t.
Paper rustles, then a Chinese takeout menu slides under the door and barely stops short of brushing my thigh.
Fat tears escape my eyes and plop onto my cheeks. My lips quiver, and my hands shake as I study the menu by my leg.
After a moment of silence, his footsteps move back across the hall, and his door slams a second time.
“Galileo…” My voice breaks and draws him closer until he makes soft whining sounds in the back of his throat. “I don’t want to be scared anymore, Galileo. I don’t want this.”
The door across the hall opens again. “Read it!” Then he slams it closed and makes me jump.
Swallowing, I peek down at the upside-down menu. At the map printed on the back to show me where the Chinese restaurant is – two blocks away. The phone number. The delivery times and charges.
Picking the menu up between my thumb and forefinger, I turn it over to find a message in red pen.
‘Open your door once I go back inside. I promise not to jump out and scare you.’
Slowly pushing Galileo off my lap and climbing to my feet with a pained groan, I peek through my peephole and blink to clear my blurred vision.
The hallway is empty, and Tucker’s door is closed.
I stand on my toes, and try to look down, but the space I can see remains empty.
Dropping back to flat feet, I clear my throat and rest my hand against Galileo’s neck. He’s the size of a grown man, pure muscle, and despite his apparent new allegiance to my annoying neighbor, he makes me feel safe.
Unlocking the door with slow, silent movements, I crack it open and peek into the hall with my breath stuck in my throat.
Tucker’s door remains closed, and the staircase remains silent.
Looking down, I find another sheet of paper, folded in half with a lump inside, like he’s stuck a rock in the fold.
Swallowing, I leave the door all but closed, kneel down, and reach through the gap to snatch the paper and its contents. Yanking it back, I slam my door and swipe the tears from beneath my eyes at the sounds of the high-tech security system sealing and locking out intruders. Flopping back down onto my ass, I work on evening my breathing and willing away the headache that insists on splitting my brain.
Opening the paper, I frown when a fortune cookie slides into my lap. I pick it up, and study the sealed gold and brown packaging. Then I look back to the letter and read.
‘I’m sorry for scaring you. Everyone is entitled to peace in their own home. I’ll try to be more considerate in the future. I swear. Chuck.’
I hate that, for no reason at all, fresh tears swell and slide over my cheeks.
It’s so illogical, so silly, but I can’t stop it. I can’t forget about hands pulling my hair, the stench of cigar smoke in the air, the flashing lights from a dark club. It’s been more than ten years since the one and only traumatic experience in my life, and yet, it feels like it was only yesterday.
Lisa deserved better than to die in a filthy club. She deserved better than what she got, and because she should be here, and maybe I shouldn’t, the guilt burns me up and insists my time is coming.
My poor neighbor is taking the backlash from something he had absolutely nothing to do with.
Galileo stands over me, looks down at me so his ears flop over his face and almost tickle his sniffing nostrils. He takes a whiff of the letter in my hand, then he presses his nose to my lap and reminds me of the fortune cookie.
Reaching between my legs, I pull the package out and study the gold font.
I’m not eating it. Safety 101; don’t eat food that random people give you. But I open the package, lick my lips to moisten them. They feel dry and cracked, as does my tongue and throat. I pull the single cookie from the wrapper, place the foil on the floor by my knee, then with my thumbs on either side, I crack the cookie open and swallow at the loud noise.
I set the cookie halves on the floor. “No, Galileo.” I stare into his eyes, and wait for his acknowledgment. “Do not eat.” Then I flatten the little note inside.
Fortune and love favor the brave. Lucky numbers: 4, 6, 30.
Chuck
Puzzle
Sitting on my couch with a tub of garlic chicken in my lap, I stare at my TV with a frown, but I don’t see whatever is playing. I don’t see my now tidied living room, the bookshelf I built this week, or the coffee table I bought at a garage sale. I don’t see the children’s drawings on my fridge – my friend’s little girl. I don’t see anything but the terrified eyes of a woman from half an hour ago. Terrified eyes that turned heartbroken once I spoke to her dog and he listened…
I hurt her. And that hurts me.
Using a fork instead of the chopsticks the restaurant su
pplies me with every time I go there, I slowly work through my dinner, and think on the woman that is my new neighbor.
I watched her through my peephole; I watched her snatch up the letter and cookie. She was on her knees, she refused to open the door all the way, and the moment she had the paper in her hand, she slammed the door again like she worried I would race out and murder her.
Five feet, six or seven inches tall. Brown hair – not super dark brown, but not light either. Her eyes are always scared, always jittery, and the fear in them eclipses the color. It makes it hard to catalogue a color, a shape, whether she’s kind, or the bitch I pegged her for.
Her fear makes her mean, but who is she beneath that?
And why the fuck is she so scared of a guy in the hall?
Taking out my phone, I stare at my screen for just a moment and think. Who do I call? Who will have the information I need?
Mac.
I scroll down my contacts list and search for his name, and when I find it, I press dial and wait.
“What?”
I scoff. “That’s not a very nice way to speak to your friend, asshole.”
“I’m kinda busy right now, Chuck, so if you’re dying, say it. If not, go away and call back tomorrow.”
“You got that pretty girl in your lap, huh?” Resting my head against the back of the couch, I study the ceiling and smile. “Hey, Lucy. You wanna come hang out with me? I could make you forget your boyfriend within seconds, ya know?”
“No thanks.” Her melodic voice makes me smile. “But thanks for the offer. Are you dying?”
“I am not.”
“Then Mac will call you back tomorrow. Goodnight, Chuck.”
“No, wait—”
I sit up tall, and stare at my now blank screen. Motherfuckers hung up on me!
“Dammit.”
I scroll through my contacts list again, go back to the ‘A’s, and hit dial.
“Are you dying, Chuck?”
“Why must I be dying for anyone to take my call these days? What the fuck is up with that?”