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  ANNA CRUISE

  Interlude

  By Anna Cruise

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Interlude

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2015

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.

  Books by Anna Cruise

  Interlude

  Finale

  (December 2015)

  The Abby & West Series

  It Was You

  It Was Me

  It Was Us

  All She Wants

  All He Wants

  Anywhere But Here

  Down By the Water

  If I Fall

  Maverick

  Set In Stone

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  one

  There’s this rhythmic sound coming from the front of the house. I think it’s Joey, banging some girl in his room, and I flip over and smash the pillow over my head. It stinks of bad breath and sweat, but I don’t wanna hear the tempo pick up, or the bedframe squeak, or the moans and groans that’ll follow.

  But then I remember. Joey isn’t here. ‘Cuz I kicked his sorry ass out for dealing. Not because I just found out and went all narco on him. I’ve known that’s his gig, and I told him I didn’t give a shit what he does at work or outside the house, but the minute he brought his junkie friends through the front door to swap his shit, he was out.

  I sit up a little and listen. The sound isn’t rhythmic, and it isn’t coming from Joey’s old room. It’s pounding. At the front door.

  I fall back on the mattress and squeeze my eyes shut. Probably Joey.

  It’s been three days and I haven’t heard a word from him. No text, no Snap, no voicemail. He cleared out his shit in two hours – he didn’t have much – and last I heard from him was a loud, bitter, “Fuck you.” Shitty way to end a living arrangement, but it was his fault it went down like that. I always knew how he got the cash to pay for his room, and I told him I didn’t care. As long as it didn’t involve me, he could do whatever the hell he needed to do to get me his $400 a month. Except bring drugs in my house.

  The pounding gets louder. I listen. It isn’t angry or forceful, the way Joey would knock if he’s high on shit and wants to rail on me. It’s softer, insistent, the way a dog wanting to go for a walk might tug on a leash.

  I grab my phone off the nightstand. One o’clock in the morning. Who the hell is knocking on my door at one a.m.?

  Sara. An image of her long black hair and soft lips flutters through my still-foggy brain. And then I remember: Sara is pissed at me. Kicked me out of her place earlier, sent me home with no dinner and no sex. Some shit about not understanding her needs, not being responsible, not taking life seriously. I know what her needs are – she needs a boyfriend she can parade around the marketing firm where she scored a job a few months earlier. Not some college dropout who earns a living running lights at frat parties and small-time concerts.

  The banging doesn’t stop. It’s not a polite, sweet dog anymore. It’s a dog who’s like, “Dude. I have to go out right fucking now.”

  I fumble for the bat I keep under the bed. The wood is smooth and cool and I hold it tight. I slip out and head down the hall, bits of cat litter crunching under my feet. My big toe nudges a pile of wet goo and I pull back and mutter under my breath. Goddamn cat hacks up a hairball every single night.

  I reach the foyer and listen. Someone is definitely pounding on the front door. A few knocks, then a pause, then more knocks. Sherlock is sitting a safe distance away, his ears cocked, his pink nose twitching, and I think for the hundredth time how stupid it is to have a cat instead of a dog. A dog would bark and growl and scare the shit out of anyone. The cat just sits there. Waits for me to do something about the noise so he can go back to sleep. After he throws up a hairball or kicks more litter out of his box.

  I take a tentative step forward and lean toward the peephole. My heart races a little, wondering if I’m all wrong about what mad knocks sound like and maybe Joey is out there, wild-eyed and high as fuck, aiming a gun at the peephole, ready to blow my brains out. He’s my friend – was, I guess – but I wouldn’t put it past him. Because I worry that, under his cool façade, he’s a crazy ass motherfucker.

  I level my eye with the peephole and steal a quick glance. But there’s water on the hole ‘cuz it’s raining outside and all I see is a murky silhouette, like some dark, watery painting.

  I clear my throat and move to the left of the door, up against the wall, clutching the bat a little tighter. If someone has a gun, they’re gonna aim dead center, right?

  “Who’s there?”

  The knocking stops. “Hello?”

  It’s a girl’s voice. Not one I recognize.

  I step back toward the peephole and peer through it again. It still looks like a Monet painting – the one with the fog and the building that looks like Dracula’s castle, all blurry and out of focus – but the figure is more visible. Or maybe I just think it is, because I now know there’s a female voice attached to it, which means the person standing on my doorstep is not my drug-dealing ex-roommate, looking for revenge. Or a dog that needs to take a piss.

  “Who’s there?” I repeat. Just because I know it isn’t Joey doesn’t mean the fear is totally gone. Because there’s still someone knocking on my door at one o’clock in the morning. And if it’s a girl…hell, I don’t even want to think about what that might mean.

  “Lydia.”

  I frown and mentally go through the list of ex-girlfriends, hook-ups, and old classmates. Pre-Sara, of course.

  No Lydia.

  Rain taps at the windows and a streak of lightning flashes the sky. “I think you have the wrong house,” I tell her through the closed door.

  “Nash, is that you?”

  She knows my name. Shit.

  I set the bat down and turn the deadbolt.

  A girl in jeans and a skimpy black tank top is on my doorstep. Her hair is wet, plastered to her scalp. I think it’s brown but don’t know for sure. Her eyes are red-rimmed and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s been crying or because she’s high. Or both. Beads of water trickle down her cheeks and she wipes at them. Rain.

  “Can I… can I come in?” she asks.

  There is nothing familiar about her. I haven’t dated her. I haven’t slept with her. I didn’t have classes with her.

  But she’s on my doorstep and she knows my name. She’s wet and shivering and she’s either scared or stoned. She’s looking at me and she’s asking me if she can come in.

  And I don’t know what the fuck to do.

  two

  There is a puddle of water on my floor.

  From Lydia’s shoes.

  Because she’s standing inside my house, her arms wrapped around her, green eyes flitting around like the eyes of a scared baby bird.

  I decide to be blunt. “Who are you? And what do you want?”

  She glances down at the floor. “I need to see Joey.”

  I roll my eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Just for a second. Really. I’ll be quick.” Her words tumble over each other.

  “You’re one of his junkies, aren’t you?” I don’t even try to hide my contempt. “Newsflash, sweetheart. Joey doesn’t live here anymore.” I grab the doorknob and yank the front door open. “Get out.”

  Her eyes – I can’t stop looking at her
eyes – are wild. They’re still bloodshot, but they’re this hypnotizing green.

  “No!” She says it in a loud, panicky voice.

  I look at Sherlock so I don’t have to look at her. He keeps his distance, cautious of her wetness. He stares disapprovingly at her, then up at me, as if he’s disappointed I haven’t taken care of this…thing yet.

  “I’m calling the cops if you’re not out of here in”—I look over at the LED display on the docking station in the living room—“thirty seconds.”

  “I don’t need drugs!” Her tone goes a notch higher. “I just—I need to see Joey. Please.”

  A gust of wind blows the rain sideways, spraying her back with droplets. Goosebumps sprout on her arms and I notice her hands are mottled pink and white, probably from the cold. It’s San Diego, but February rains can be brutal. Her teeth begin to chatter and tears well up in her eyes.

  Fuck. Maybe she’s not high. Maybe she’s been crying. Maybe this is his girlfriend. Or sister. I know nothing about the guy except he deals, pays his rent on time, and that, once, he kicked back and had a beer with me while we watched the Chargers piss away a playoff game.

  “He’s not here,” I repeat. But the anger is gone from my voice.

  A tear slips down her cheek, along with a little bit of eyeliner. “D-do you kn-know where he is?”

  She’s shivering like crazy. Her hands go to her arms and rub at them but it doesn’t seem to do much. Her lips shake and her teeth knock together so hard, I can actually hear them.

  Sherlock stands up and stretches. His golden eyes are hard and cold and I swear he sneers at me. Mocking me. Judging me. Because he knows.

  I’m not calling the police. And I’m not kicking her out.

  Not when she looks like this.

  I kick the door shut, a little too hard, and it crashes into the frame.

  Lydia startles at the noise. “S-so he is here?” She glances around anxiously, as if she expects him to pop out from behind the sofa or something.

  “No.”

  She frowns and I add, “I kicked him out earlier this week.”

  “Wh-what?”

  She’s still shivering.

  “Follow me.”

  I turn on my heel and head toward the kitchen. It might be the middle of the night but I need to wake up a little to deal with this, and it looks like she could use something warm to drink.

  She doesn’t budge. “Why?” she asks, eyeing me warily. Her eyes glitter and the look she gives me reminds me of the one the goddamn cat just shot in my direction a minute earlier.

  “Because you’re gonna freeze to death if you don’t warm up.”

  She falls into step behind me, her shoes squeaking on the floor. I motion at the kitchen table, an old Formica I picked up at a thrift store. “Sit.”

  I make a quick detour into my bedroom and grab the first article of clothing I find – a zip-up Ripcurl hoodie on my floor. I sniff it quickly, then, satisfied it doesn’t reek, head back to the kitchen.

  Lydia is still standing. Sherlock moved in behind her, still at a safe distance, and is sniffing a drop of water on the floor.

  I thrust the sweatshirt at her. “I told you to sit.”

  “I’m not staying.” She rubs her arms, then looks around, ignoring the sweatshirt. Her hand drifts to the pocket of her jeans and she crams it inside. “I just…can I use the bathroom? Before I go?”

  I toss the hoodie on the back of the chair and wonder what she has in there. Drugs? A tampon? She’s fingering something.

  “Sure.” I grab the empty carafe and fill it at the tap. “After you have a cup of coffee.”

  “I don’t want any.”

  “I don’t care.” I scoop grinds into the coffeemaker and pour the water into the chamber. My skills in the kitchen are pretty much nonexistent, but I can make a decent pot of coffee. Most of the time.

  “So you’re gonna force it down my throat? Tie me to a chair and make me swallow it?”

  “No. I’m going to hand you a cup and you’re going to drink it.” I turn around so I’m facing her and lean against the kitchen counter. “I don’t have sugar, though, and I use milk instead of cream. Hope that’s okay.”

  She shakes her head. “Who the hell do you think you are? Telling me I’m going to drink a fucking cup of coffee, making me stay here against my will. I just want to use the bathroom.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not keeping you here against your will. I’m asking you to drink something warm before you do anything else.” I nod toward the living room. “But if you wanna leave, go for it. You know where the door is.”

  She stares at me, those eyes shooting daggers. Her hair is starting to dry and it’s not brown. It’s red. Auburn, actually, that weird combination of red and brown that can only come from a bottle of hair dye.

  The smell of coffee fills the kitchen and I inhale deeply. Her nose twitches and she rubs her arms and I fight back a smile. “Sure you don’t want to stay for a cup?”

  She glares at me but yanks out one of the brown vinyl chairs tucked under the table.

  I spin around and grab two mugs from the cupboard. Not because the coffee is ready but so she can’t see the grin on my face. Nash, one, Lydia zero.

  I don’t know why I care if she stays. I don’t, really. At least that’s what I tell myself. But, deep down, I know. Because I’ve always been a sucker for someone in trouble. Always willing to help. It’s how I ended up with Joey. How I ended up with Sherlock. The haughty chick sitting at my table isn’t a stray cat and she isn’t someone who wants to rent a room from me. No, she’s a strange girl who showed up at my doorstep, shivering and crying, looking for my drug-dealing ex-roommate.

  And the least I can do is offer her a cup of coffee before sending her back out in the rain.

  I pour a little too quickly and hot coffee splashes onto my hand and the countertop. I wince and wipe it on my shorts.

  I hand her a cup before pulling out the chair across from her. She has the sweatshirt on now, and it swallows her.

  She takes a tiny sip, making a face as it goes down.

  “Is it that bad?” I ask.

  “No.” Her hands tremble a little. “It’s just…maybe we could add a little something…”

  “Oh, sorry. Milk. I forgot.”

  I stand up and she shakes her head, a small smile on her lips. It’s shy, hesitant, and it completely stops me in my tracks. Holy shit.

  “I meant…something stronger.” I stare at her and she quickly adds, “To warm me up, I mean. I’m freezing. Maybe a little…I dunno. What do you put in coffee?”

  I have no clue. It’s not like I go around sipping spiked coffee drinks. I’m pretty much a beer and shots kind of guy.

  Her smile spreads. She has dimples, tiny crescents in each cheek, barely noticeable. But I notice them. And I notice her teeth, white and perfectly even, the work of a great orthodontist, no doubt.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them. Why the hell am I looking at her dimples, her teeth? Why am I noticing her emerald eyes – Jesus, I never compare eyes to precious stones! – and the color of her hair? Maybe it’s because I didn’t get laid earlier. Sara and I had passed the six-month mark in our relationship, which, with past chicks, usually signified a significant slow down in sex. But not with Sara. She likes it as much as I do, which is probably the main reason we’re still together.

  At least I think we’re still together. I flash briefly to our earlier conversation, right before she shoved me out the door.

  Maybe not.

  “Hello?”

  I blink and focus my eyes on Lydia. She’s staring at me, confused, that damn smile still on her lips. There is a scar above her left eyebrow, small and delicate, and I want to touch it.

  Stop it!

  “What? Sorry.” I run my hand through my hair and pick up my cup of coffee. “Zoned out there for a minute, I guess.”

  She nods and then gestures to the countertop. “Is that whiskey?”

  I gl
ance in that direction. She’s pointing at a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Uh, yeah. Close enough.”

  I grab it and plunk it down on the table. She reaches for it, unscrews the cap, and adds a small splash. She takes a sip and closes her eyes and a soft murmur escapes her lips and all I can think is, I bet that’s what she looks like when some guy is on top of her.

  Jesus. What am I doing? How did I go from being pissed off to turned on in, what, all of ten minutes? Maybe Sara and I aren’t having as much sex as I need, after all. I have to do something to get back on track. But I don’t even know what that means.

  I swallow a mouthful of coffee. “Tell me why you need Joey.”

  Maybe she’s his girlfriend. Fiancée. Wife.

  “I…it’s complicated.”

  “Why?”

  “It just is. I just…” She pauses and swallows. “I need to find him. Give him something.”

  “Give him what?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  I press. “How do you know him? Boyfriend?”

  She shakes her head and the flutter of relief I feel unnerves me. I dismiss it.

  “Brother?”

  Another shake.

  “Dealer?”

  A shake and a glare this time.

  “Huh. What else is there?”

  She sips her coffee and sets the mug back on the table. Her fingers drum the top. Her nails have flecks of red polish on them and I can’t tell if she’s picked it off or if it’s just been a while since she painted them.

  I wait for her answer. Her eyes are a little less red, and her teeth have stopped chattering. The hoodie is unzipped, the sleeves bunched up to her elbows. Her hair is drying a red, tangled mess.

  As if she can read my mind, her fingers still and her hand flies to her head. She tries to run her fingers through but gives up quickly.

  “This is going to sound ridiculous,” she says, her cheeks blooming pink, “but do you happen to have a brush I can borrow?”