“I just got lucky, I guess.”
She laughs. “Well, mark me down as impressed. You have a place to crash tonight?”
“I’m actually staying here.” I jerk my chin toward the set of rickety wooden stairs that hug the back side of the building. They look like they haven’t been used in quite a while. And byquite a whileI meansince the 1980s.
“Here?” Adam interjects, catching up with us. “What do you mean,here?”
“Isaac said I could crash in the room over the bar.” I hold up the key, proof of my new lodgings.
Adam’s face twists in displeasure. “Why would he do that?”
“Adam.” Carly elbows him. “Lay off.”
“I’m just wondering how the new girl is suddenly privy to free rent on top of her tips. I didn’t realize I was running a charity, here.”
“It’s only temporary,” I murmur. “Until I find somewhere else to stay.”
He stares at me with a scowl marring his handsome face. It’s strange someone could be so attractive on the outside, yet so unattractive where it counts.
“Whatever,” he mutters, heading for his truck. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Be on time.”
I swallow down a snippy retort, knowing it won’t do me any favors to engage with him. But in my head I tell him to gofudgehimself, as Gran would say.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Carly murmurs as we watch him peel out of the parking lot. “He’ll warm up.”
“Really?”
“Eventually. Maybe. Possibly.”
“How encouraging.” I snort. “Bye, Carly.”
“See you tomorrow, Felicity.”
She climbs behind the wheel of an older model sedan, yawning wide. I fight a jaw-cracking yawn of my own as I make my way up the back stairs and slide the key into the lock. It sticks at first, and there’s a brief moment of panic when I think I might wind up sleeping on a park bench after all… but with some jiggling and a forceful bump of my hip against the frame, the lock finally gives. The door swings inward with a rusty groan.
I fumble for a light switch in the dark. A shadeless bulb mounted against the ceiling flickers to life and I get my first look at my new crash pad. It’s no more than two hundred square feet. The air is stale from lack of circulation. Dust coats every surface my eyes land on.
To my left, there’s a narrow twin bed frame, stripped bare of all but a paper-thin mattress. A wooden rocking chair sits by the lone window. The three-drawer dresser looks as old as I am; the fogged antique mirror mounted above it is at least twice my age. There’s no kitchen, just a partially enclosed bathroom nook with a sink, shower, and toilet — all of which are streaked with rust stains and grime.
Home sweet home.
I take a step inside, set down my guitar beside the dresser, and sneeze when a cloud of dust wafts up into my face. It’s not exactly the Ritz, but I’m in no position to complain. I quickly lock the door behind me, the flimsy catch-chain offering merely the illusion of security. Since there’s nothing in here worth stealing, I should be safe enough. Still, I haul the heavy wooden rocking chair in front of the door as a precaution.
Old habits die hard.
I yank the sun-faded curtain across the window and strip quickly out of my black sneakers and work uniform. There’s a single sweatshirt in the small bag of clothes I brought with me when I left Hawkins. I hug it to my chest for a long moment before pulling it over my head. It smells like home. To most people, I’m sure that would be a comfort. To me, the scent sends a parade of memories flashing in front of my eyes that I’d do almost anything to forget.
The flare of a match striking in the dark.
The hiss of boiling liquid.
The creak of splitting wood.
A man screaming.
A woman sobbing.
A door slamming shut at my back.