Page 6 of Level Up for Love

Chapter

One

Six years later

“Are you here yet?”

I’m standing in a stranger’s bathroom, yell-whispering into my phone.

“Your location shows you’re in an alleyway.” My sister, Ramona, squeaks into my ear, her voice high-pitched and stressed. “He didn’t actually ditch you in an alleyway, did he, Reagan?”

“Jesus, Mona, no.” I try to peek through the tiny window in the shower, but the glass is frosted and opaque. I scowl. “It’s a black apartment building…I think.” I squint, trying to recall the details. Through the fog of my memories, I remember only a shining neon sign piercing the cloudy sky: a donut illuminated like a halo. “There’s a donut place across the street!” Last night, I considered going there instead of following Tyler—Taylor? Trevor?—up to his apartment.

“Oh! Yes! Okay, I see it. I’m here.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Three naked bulbs poke out from the wall above the mirror, though only two of them light up when I flip the switch. The stark white light is unforgiving, highlighting the eyeliner and mascara smeared under my eyes. My outfit, at least, still kills: black sports bra, faux-leather miniskirt, chunky boots, and mesh crop top that shows off the black floral tattoos that spiral up my left arm.

It’s a great look, but perhaps not suitable for a Sunday morning.

My grown-out curtain bangs bend in awkward swoops toward my ears, and my dark hair poofs out in a cloud around my head and shoulders. On my best days, Ramona tells me it looks like a cool, artsy shag. On days like today, well—the layers just make it look like a huge mess, and the dark maroon dye is half faded. I lick the tips of my middle fingers, swipe them under my eyes, and twist my hair into a knot at the back of my neck. I wrinkle my nose at an old toothbrush lying near the faucet, but after some digging under Tyler-Taylor-Trevor’s sink, I find half a bottle of mouthwash behind a basket of razors and Q-tips. It’ll do. I take a mouthful, spit, then march out of his bathroom and down the hallway to his bedroom.

As I lean in the doorway and stare at how his bare ass and one leg poke out from under his navy comforter, I feel the familiar urge to simply walk out. Why wake him? He probably needs his sleep.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Mona:

hello???

does he have you trapped? do i need to call the police???

Time to go. I refuse to sneak out—I’ve got no reason to be embarrassed. I rap my knuckles twice, hard, against his bedroom door. He wakes immediately, his shaved head popping up from under the covers. I’m pleasantly surprised to see that he’s just as handsome in the weak morning sunshine as he was in the flashing blue lights of the club.

“I’m heading out,” I announce.

He squints blearily at me. “Okay?” He’s barely awake. “Do you…want some coffee or anything?”

Admittedly, I’d kill for coffee, but not here.

“I’m good,” I say, propping one hand against my hip. “Thanks for last night. I really enjoyed it.” And I had, for the most part. If nothing else, he’d made up for a lack of skill with stubborn enthusiasm, and I always admire that quality in people. Stubborn enthusiasm has gotten me far.

He pulls the comforter back from the other side of the bed in an invitation, his white teeth flashing against his olive skin. “Doesn’t have to end so soon, sweetheart.”

“My ride’s here.”

He shrugs easily. “Fair enough. What was your name again?”

I offer him a sweet smile and a small, fluttering wave. “See you around.”

I hear a huff of a laugh behind me as I stride back through the narrow hallway and into the living room, passing his mounted TV and a sad little bookshelf with a few scattered pristine-looking paperbacks. Untouched. Still, the ghost of a smile passes over my lips as a piece of Mona’s advice regarding one-night stands comes to mind: If they don’t own a bookshelf, don’t sleep with them.

Not that Mona’s one for having one-night stands, happily partnered as she is. But I’ve got rules for these things, and she helped me create at least half of them. I text Mona their address, because I never bring them to my apartment. Ideally, I leave right after, but failing that, I leave at least before 10 a.m. If they don’t have a bookshelf, I run home. I always say goodbye, but I don’t get friendly. Never mind that the hookups have happened only a handful of times since the Cataclysm—I never break the rules.

During the elevator ride down, I stand in silence next to an elderly woman and her panting pug, and I let her shuffle out ahead of me before following her into the sun.

The crisp early autumn air is a shock to my bare legs and stomach, motivating me to stride quickly to where Mona leans halfway out the window of her ladybug-red Kia Soul, crooning to the woman’s dog. “Hi, sweetie pie! Good morning, little pumpkin!” Twin golden braids hang past her shoulders, and her headscarf is patterned with bright green flowers. I share a cringe with the elderly woman as she looks back and forth between me and Mona, trying to connect the dots between my ray-of-sunshine sister and me. I flash her a smile she doesn’t return and climb into the Soul’s passenger seat.