Stranger Beneath the Covers

Chapter 2

When I got to the fifth floor—the top floor, I took a minute to catch my breath. The bags were too heavy.

I crossed my fingers as I wheeled everything to apartment 521. My hands trembled when I put the key in the hole. Everything was too perfect so far. I prepared for the worst.

I turned the lock, opened the door, and just stared. I expected it to be a disaster, Murphy’s Law said it should have been, but it too, was perfect. White, crisp walls with a light-beige sofa and a white love seat. There were armchairs and beautiful sofa tables. The clean lines and simple colors carried into the kitchen, where white cupboards with glass inlays and a pale, marble counter awaited me. Everything was modern and clean. The only thing I hadn’t noticed was the dishwasher was stainless steel, where the rest of the appliances were white. It was an odd thing to see, it sticking out against all the white. I would have noticed it. It had to be new. New was good.

The floors were dark hardwood and brand new. Everything was glass and white and clean and crisp, except the dishwasher. It was exactly the apartment, I wanted it to be. It was almost completely the picture from the Internet.

When did that ever happen to people?

I took it as a good omen. Like I was on the right track. I was finally getting my dream.

I set my stuff inside and closed the door, locking all three of the locks, and leaned against the door. The sigh that left my parted and completely peaceful lips, was cut short by a noise. A girl moaning maybe?

My head lifted when I heard it again.

My hand slipped into my pocket, clutching the mace. I walked farther into the apartment, looking around for the source of the noise.

Were the walls thin? Was it coming from another apartment?

I tiptoed down the hall to the first bedroom. My heart was pounding as I rested my hand on the cold, metal knob and waited for the courage to open the door. I turned slowly, not making any noise.

The room was a bit stale but it was empty. I sighed and closed the door.

I did the same in the bathroom, but again, it was empty. The new glass tiles and beautiful four-piece bathroom made me happy. But the sound of people moaning and a girl giggling didn’t.

I left the bathroom and walked to the end of the hall, where the last bedroom was. I gripped the mace as I heard the sound again. I clutched it and the door knob. I turned the knob slowly, cracking the door open only a bit.

Feet moved, squirming on the end of the bed, pushing beautiful beige covers to the floor.

Two people mauled each other, sliding against one another. A strong male body with tattoos and lean muscles was grinding against a slim, overly-tanned female with bleached hair.

My heart felt like it was going to explode. I pulled my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1 as I sprayed. Screams rose from the bed as I hosed them in mace.

“What the f**k?” the guy screamed.

I turned and ran down the hallway to the bathroom. I closed the door and locked it. In a low tone, I whispered, “Hi, I need police, I live at seventy-three Hemenway Street. Apartment 521. There’s someone here. Intruders. Please hurry.”

I turned off the phone and sat on the edge of the bathtub. My heart was pounding, my mouth was dry, and my hands clutched the mace so tight, I couldn’t feel it in my grip anymore.

Hands started pounding on the door. Shouts and screams and footsteps were everywhere, making the small bathroom so tiny it felt like a coffin. I closed my eyes. Names were called, sentences were screamed, but I didn’t stop rocking and clutching the mace. The door sounded like it was going to be ripped off the hinges.

I looked at my phone. I wanted my parents. I wanted Jett. I wanted anyone who would solve the dilemma and make it go away.

My brain taunted me. It laughed almost at how right it had been. How I had made such a mistake. How I wasn’t strong.

“You open this god-damned door and get the f**k out of my house! Crazy-assed, stalking b***h!” the guy screamed.

I trembled but then I heard it, the sounds of rescue. The sounds of people shouting for them to get down on the ground. I started to cry; tears of joy streamed down my cheeks.

I got up and banged on the door, “I’m in here. Is it safe?”

A man shouted at me, “Miss, are you the one who called?”

I turned the lock on the door and nodded.

A police officer greeted me in the small crack space I let the door open, “Miss, you okay?”

I started to cry heavily, “Noooooo.”

I let him open the door all the way and pull me into his arms, “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

He led me from the bathroom to the living room where two half-naked people were cuffed and on their bellies on the floor.

The guy turned. His face was puffy and red from the mace. He glared, “She’s crazy. This is my house. Jesus. You idiots arrested the wrong person. She’s in my f*****g apartment. What the f**k? Do you know who I am? she’s a stalker.”

The cop gave me a look. I ran to my bag and fished out the lease agreement that I had printed out.

“See—my house,” I said defiantly.

The cop looked it over and shook his head, “She’s got a lease, man.”

The girl was crying on the floor with no shirt on, and her obviously-fake boobs holding her up in the air, like she was doing ‘upward dog’ without hands.

I looked at my watch, it was 5:00, I wasn’t on schedule, the way I wanted to be. I wanted to be running and unpacked by 5:30.

Roomies

I felt considerably worse when the tattooed guy produced a lease agreement, identical to mine, from a cupboard. He ranted and pointed at me, cussing up a storm when the cops removed the cuffs from him and the girl. They tried to calm him down, shaking their heads and muttLilyg, “This is a civil issue. You need to hunt down the property-management people.”

The guy rinsed his eyes at the sink in the island and pointed his middle finger at me, with water dripping from his red face, “This is bullshit. I want her escorted off the property. Use the cuffs.”

I felt sick. My whole plan was taking a huge turn down a road I hadn’t been prepared for.

The cop shook his head, “It’s as much hers as it yours—in our eyes.”

One of the other cops motioned for the guy to come over, “Larry, can I get you to sign this?”

Why didn’t he want my signature? I was the one who called? Maybe it was a witness statement for his defense, and I didn’t need one ‘cause I had called. I hugged myself and paced the living room.

The sobbing girl ran and grabbed her shirt. She slapped the dark-haired guy when she left.

The guy took the hit, staring daggers at me, “Guess there’ll be no happy ending at the end of that meal.” I noticed the red was starting to lighten in his eyes, flashing dark-blue hatred at me. I hadn’t noticed his eyes were blue before. They had looked black—with hate. The way he furrowed his brow, took away all the light from his eyes.

The cop laughed with the guy and pocketed the thing he signed, “This is pretty funny. You have to admit. You being you and whatever.”

The guy didn’t look like he felt like laughing. He looked savage. I didn’t feel like laughing. I hugged myself and dialed the property manager’s office… again. When I got the answLilyg machine, I felt homicidal.