Midnight Muse

Laughing under my breath as I respond to the message, I glance up to the flickering floor number, seeing that I’ve only just passed the second level. I roll my eyes at the slowest elevator I’ve ever been on and it creaks as if it knows that I’m being impatient. Rory and I had opted to take the stairs for what we could of our unpacking, trying only to use the elevator for larger pieces of furniture like our beds, the futon, and the TV, taking it up with prayers that the old thing wouldn’t give out while we were on it. I can’t help but glance at the certificate that says the machine is in running order until its next inspection in two years.

“Is that forged, George Brown?” I mutter, squinting at the paper displayed in the corner with his signature on it. It’s frayed at the edges and yellowing, so I’m not all that sure this elevator has been inspected when it says it has.

It comes to a jerky halt that makes me sway when it hits the lobby. Rory’s second oldest sister, Pipa—Peep for short, lived here with a few of her friends during their undergrad years; they’ve now moved on from the shitty apartment buildings riddled with horny college students to a quaint house in town while working on their masters’ degrees.

When the doors to the elevator slide open, I slip out as fast as possible, a shudder working its way up my spine as I wonder how many times it’s broken down before. I’d hate to be in there alone if something like that happened. Perhaps I’ll save my fate by taking the stairs from now on.

The lobby of the building is small. There’s a front desk in which no one ever sits, as if there might have been a doorman at some point in time. Mailboxes are pinned to the wall, lining the area behind the counter, and a garbage can sits, stuffed full of envelopes and empty bottles of alcohol and take-away, maybe even a used condom or two.

It’s muggy down here, more so than our apartment which has me wondering why the landlord hadn’t turned on the air conditioning when he knew we’d been showing up today. Whatever, I hadn’t had to see the greasy man—he’d left the keys on the counter for Rory and I to find when we arrived—and I’m more than thankful for that.

Brushing away some of the hairs that have come loose from my ponytail, I cross the lobby, shoving my phone back in my pocket. The keys to the moving truck jingle on the ring as I swing it around my finger. The hazards of the U-Haul are blinking through the window from where it’s parked in front of the building and the skies are turning darker as the sun continues its descent. It’s taken us all day to unpack the truck and we’re returning it tomorrow morning, so we need to move it to a normal spot for the night.

I push the door open, steps faltering as someone brushes past me like a shadow, my shoulder nearly colliding with theirs. I startle, spooked by the sudden presence. I hadn’t even seen them walking this way and my brows furrow as I turn to toss a comment about their rudeness when the words dry up in my throat at the sight I’m met with.

Tugging off the motorcycle helmet, I can’t help but stare as his biceps bulge against his skin tight black t-shirt. Tattoos line the length of his arms, but I’m too distracted by his body and can’t make out the finer details from my position at the door. The muscles of his broad back glide like butter beneath the fabric as he moves and my gaze travels down his spine to his taut waist, dipping into dark jeans.

His thick soled boots thump loudly as he stalks through the door, stopping at the mailboxes to check if there’s anything inside. The tiny door opens with a squeak that has me snapping back into reality, stunned by his musculature. He’s in a league of his own, a masterpiece of perfectly crafted body parts and proportions. He has an angular nose and long, dark lashes that match his disheveled hair. He runs his fingers through said hair and tucks his helmet under his arm as he digs through the mailbox. For the first time in a long time, my fingers itch to pull out my sketchbook and pencils from one of the boxes upstairs.

I force my stare away, cheeks heating at the thought of this stranger turning around only to find me drooling over his good looks in the doorway. Pivoting, I click the keys, unlocking the U-Haul, only to stop short when I see that the truck is caged in. A big, vintage Bronco sits parked behind it, and a shiny motorcycle that looks like it moves faster than the speed of light is wedged between the front of the truck and the SUV Rory had pulled behind earlier.

“Hey,” I call, ripping the door back open to the lobby. I have no doubt that the motorcycle is his, taking up the only extra space I had to move the truck—not to mention that it’s not even a real parking spot. “Is this your motorcycle out front?”

He’s already on his way to the elevator, phone stable in the leather riding gloves he’s wearing, swiping across the screen, envelopes tucked into his helmet. The elevator door screeches open and he doesn’t even bother to turn around to meet my gaze as he punches the button to his floor.

“Nope.”

CHAPTER 2

QUINN

“Nope?” I mutter under my breath, brows furrowed in confusion. His blunt words—word—hasn’t quite settled yet, but it forms a coherent thought right as the doors to the elevator begin to grind shut on creaky limbs. My body floods with so much annoyance that my chest aches with it, and I’m shoving myself away from the front door, lunging across the lobby towards the elevator in response.

My eyes catch his when they lift from his phone and my steps falter. They’re gorgeous, the color of jade or ferns. My breath hitches in my throat. It’s definitely because I’m worked up from the run to catch the doors and certainly not because of how pretty his eyes are.

The urge to start dumping out boxes on the living room floor to find my art supplies is both sudden and strong. Recreating those hues is going to be a challenge, but one that will be well worth it.

There is no way I’m going to catch the doors in time, and goddammit I probably look like a fool right now, with my flushed cheeks and blonde hair wild from the move, my forehead dewy with sweat. I’m blazing with intrigue and irritation, embarrassment and exhaustion. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a taunting smirk, as if he too, knows that I won’t be able to slip inside of the elevator with him before the doors shut. The machinery is slow as fuck when I need it but now it chooses to work properly? What’s that all about?

“Fucking asshole,” I screech, slapping my palms against the metal doors that separate him from me. I hope that he hears it, feels the ringing of my anger through the reverberating steel beneath my hands. I hope he understands just how lucky he is that I’m not on that side of the doors, making his life a living hell right now.

Releasing a long groan, one that comes from the depths of my tired soul, I press my forehead against the cool metal, squeezing my eyes shut.

The truck doesn’t have to be returned until tomorrow morning, but the spot we parked it in is a loading zone, and the last thing we need on our first day back in town is a parking ticket on a rented truck. Or worse, the truck getting towed. We don’t even have enough money to pay the bail, and the last thing I’m trying to do is call my dad and ask for money on my second day back.

I trudge up the stairs because I can’t be assed to wait for the stupid elevator to return to the first floor. While I take the treacherous trip, I stew in my anger. The effort it takes to climb to the fourth floor helps dispel some of the white, hot annoyance toward the handsome stranger, and I’m beginning to think that maybe I should have expected that kind of behavior from someone as good-looking as him.

I shake the thought from my head as quickly as possible and begin to take the stairs two at a time.

I filled Rory in on the lobby incident as soon as she finished her shower, which took a whole forty minutes after I returned from the stairs of doom. In that time, I’d called my mom, updated her on the moving progress and might have complained a tiny bit about the boy who wouldn’t move his motorcycle. I left out the fact that he was one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen, and tucked the phone between my chin and shoulder as I began digging through one of the many boxes labeled Art Supplies, searching for my case of colored pencils. She told me not to make any vendettas before the semester even started, to which I rolled my eyes and used the perfect excuse: “he started it.” It’s my go-to response for most arguments in my life, especially when I’m fighting with my older brother. It normally works like a charm then, but not tonight. Apparently, it’s my fault Rory parked there and that Mr. Tattoos blocked us in, which only fueled my irritation on the entire situation.

I told Rory to keep checking out the window every so often to see if either of the people blocking us in move their cars before I stalked for the shower.

Two hours later, once pizza fills my stomach and I’m swaddled in my comfortable pajamas, neither of the owners of those vehicles have left.

“Give it up,” Rory groans, tossing her half-eaten crust back into the pizza box. It’s stacked on top of a moving box labeled Living Room: Puzzles & Pillows. I don’t understand Rory’s packing techniques—if the two are placed in the same box because it makes sense in a way that I can’t comprehend or if it’s because they both start with the letter ‘P.’ I’m too tired to care about it right now, or ever.

Groaning, I slump back onto the couch in defeat. The truck remains ticket-less thus far, but the constant nagging of my conscience is keeping me from getting into the reality TV show Rory and I are obsessing over. It’s about a bunch of young couples shoved into a house to find love. It’s cringey as fuck, but the drama makes for some good entertainment.