Page 3 of Detour

“Well, we both know you can’t count that high so…”

I can’t help but laugh at his horrible joke. Jerk. Well accustomed to using humor to diffuse uncomfortable situations—hey, if you don’t laugh, you cry, right?—I recognize what he’s trying to do here. Drew likes to downplay his role in my life but there’s no denying he’s played a very large part in keeping me from falling into hopeless oblivion. He didn’t have to stick around after our parents turned into bitter rivals but he did—thankfully.

Drew plants a kiss on the top of my head while I crush myself against his chest, his usual tangy, berry-like scent as calming as his very presence. With one last squeeze before he walks over to his dad’s borrowed truck, he hops onto the shiny running board, pinning me with his tawny eyes, saying, “Call me if you need anything and I’ll be right over. I mean it.”

“I will.” In my own attempt to lighten the mood, I call out, “You’re my boy, Drew.”

Barely earning a smirk from my former step-sibling, he ducks inside while I swallow the stubborn lump in my throat.

Three motorcycles, with almost obnoxiously revving engines, pull into Creekwood Apartments just as Drew reaches the entrance. His brake lights hesitating tell me exactly what he’s thinking without even needing to see his face, but who says they live here? They could be visiting someone, anyone really. I haven’t met any neighbors yet so Drew’s guess is as good as mine.

As the noisy machines approach, three heads snap my way just before finding parking spaces across from my Jeep.

The winding engines cut off, filling the lot with complete silence save for Drew’s awkward idling. Why do big brothers, even ones not born to the position, lack any sense of subtlety?

With a flick of my hand to the truck, I grab the last box and make for the stairs but not before darting a glance over to the guys still sitting atop the street bikes. Motorcycles aren’t my area of expertise but these ones look nice. The car wash I work at doesn’t cater to bikes, which is a serious drawback in my opinion. Due to the relatively mild climate, this entire region is known for housing toys of all shapes, sizes, and speeds. Whether they’re for land, air, or water, they all get dirty just like cars do and would benefit from a place that could accommodate them accordingly.

None of the guys have removed their helmets yet and I almost don’t want them to. What if they do live around here? And they’re complete assholes?

What if they’re picking up a friend and I’m worrying for nothing?

I can’t help but admire their rides though. One is red with some numbers near the handlebar. The neon green one in the middle has the word Ninja splashed across the side while the last one is flat black with no distinguishable markings whatsoever.

The first two reaching for their helmets have me quickening my steps but the last one, the guy on the black bike, holds my gaze hostage. Even though I can’t make out his eyes hidden in his helmet’s shadow, it’s like I can feel them on me. Phantom gawking. It’s a thing, right? A chill runs up my spine despite the sporadic breeze dying down moments ago, leaving the sultry air to almost crackle against my skin. I tear my eyes away as I climb the rest of the stairs leading to my apartment.

Safely back inside, I turn on “Young, Dumb & Broke” by Khalid before taking stock of my limited belongings. I stay busy the rest of the night unpacking and decorating, dancing and singing, genuinely having a good time in my new place.

My place.

I like the sound of that.

CHAPTER 3

Angela

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I grumble from my bed.

It’s been a quiet couple of days, but here it is Friday night and the neighbors are having a party. Oh, excuse me, it’s now Saturday morning. Hours into the shindig and it seems to be growing in both volume and size—if the amount of door slams are anything to go by. My shift starts in exactly six hours and I’ve got shit for sleep so far. With the party only gaining momentum, I doubt that’ll change anytime soon. Saturday is the wash’s busiest day, but more importantly it’s the day I open. Vacuum canisters need emptied, towels need folded, spray guns need tested, along with many, many other tasks that can only be done once the sleep has been slept.

Damn it.

Checking my phone for what feels like the hundredth time, I groan seeing those minutes ticking painfully by—with me still awake. My finger hovering over the keypad, I contemplate calling the cops but the fact that nobody else from the other apartments has so much as banged on the wall or yelled outside for the partiers to shut the hell up makes me reconsider.

A door, that sounds suspiciously close, crashes against the wall making me flinch. Raucous voices filter through my wall, directly into my bedroom feeling particularly invasive. Yes, my bedroom is also my living room which is also part of my kitchen but still, hearing slurred partygoers only feet from your bed is disturbing on a good day. And today is not that day. Today is the day I meet my neighbors.

Groaning, I pull a loose cardigan over my sleep set, trudging the few steps to my front door. Upon opening it, I find that the party is directly across the hall, like I suspected. People in all states of inebriation fill the hallway between the two doors. My feet freeze in the doorway while my hand jiggles the phone. It’s not too late. I could still call the police. Or maybe just the manager since I don’t want to add snitch to my resume for such a pitiful excuse of a party. Not that I know what makes a great party but if this hallway is their most desired location it makes me wonder who the hell is hosting it to begin with.

A glance down at my outfit, or lack thereof, has me second-guessing this plan altogether until a shirtless guy halfway down the stairs lets out an obnoxious howl.

People take calm for granted. When silence is used as a weapon your whole life, you learn to appreciate how valuable the quiet can actually be and these assholes are screwing with the peace I’ve finally found in living here.

My fist rapping against the metal goes unnoticed, unless you count the kissing couple perched next to it shooting a glare my way at the interruption. Whatever. The warm hallway feels sticky, muggy, as if the alcohol’s seeping from its occupants’ pores into the narrow gap, intoxicating everybody present.

Another crack of my knuckles proves useless, so I do it again, this time much, much harder. Some call it pounding, I call it making a point. Either way, it’s time to introduce myself.

When the door finally swings open, I’m met with a black shirt that reads Save A Horse, Ride A Biker stretched across a toned chest in bold white letters effectively solving the mystery of who owns one of the motorcycles from the other day. Except this torso appears to have no end in sight as I search for the face of my neighbor. I’ve always been fairly tall at 5’8” but this guy must be well over six feet as my neck cranked almost all the way back is the only way I can even make out his chin. The striking blue eyes peering down at me hold so much mischief I swear they actually twinkle. I mean, how? He’s sporting the most playful smile I’ve ever seen along with some light facial hair to round out an incredibly handsome face. A tilted baseball hat with blond bits of hair peeking out, and the guy is hot. As hell.

Losing myself in the easy tilt of his lips, I almost forget why I came over to begin with. Nobody’s ever been that carefree around me. That uninhibited. Without warning, my body sways forward as if the cheery virus might be airborne and his happy vibes will infect me.