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I scoff at myself as I lock the door and reset the alarm. Marcus gave me a key to his place too, and left a key to one of his cars hanging on a hook by the garage. If I think about how much shit he’s trusting me with, how deeply he’s letting me into his life, it freaks me out. So I just go to the kitchen and make myself some eggs for breakfast on the sleek black stove and fancy countertops.
I haven’t quite worked up the nerve to poke around yet. I’m sure there are security cameras around the house, and I don’t really want Marcus to think that the very first thing I did after he left was ransack his house.
So I spend the first day doing exactly what he suggested. I veg out and watch a couple of movies I’ve never seen before. After lunch, I go back upstairs and take a bath in the massive tub that sits alongside the shower, and by the time I emerge, pruney and warm all the way through, I’m pretty sure this was the best idea ever.
Aside from the few days I barricaded myself in my apartment after I realized the guys were following me, I haven’t done nothing just for the sake of doing nothing in a long-ass time.
It’s nice.
It feels strange sleeping in Marcus’s bed without him there, but the sheets still carry his addictive scent, and when I bury myself beneath the blankets and fall asleep at night, my dreams don’t overwhelm me as violently as they usually do.
By the second day, I work up the nerve to go snooping around Marcus’s house—something he practically invited me to do. After fixing myself breakfast, I take a grand tour of the mansion, starting on the first floor and working my way up.
The place really is massive, with several rooms I’m pretty sure he hardly ever uses. The ones that seem most lived-in are the living room, the kitchen, his bedroom, and the room with the pool table. There’s also an office on the first floor, but all the drawers in the desk and filing cabinet are locked. I do find a few pictures of the people I think are Marcus’s parents. They’re both attractive people with serious faces, and I can see parts of their son in each of them. His father runs an investment firm, apparently, which is the business Marcus will one day take over.
Slipping the pictures back between the books where I found them, I tug out another photograph. My heart does that strange little thud-thud in my chest as I look at an image of a teenage boy with eyes the color of earth and air.
This had to have been taken at least six or seven years ago, maybe when he was sixteen or so. There are traces of the man he is now in the boy’s face, a hardness around the eyes that seems to have existed even then. But I can sense more of the hope that I see in Marcus from time to time in this picture.
I want to see more pictures. I want to know fucking everything.
My exploration of the house becomes less timid and more thorough as I gain confidence, and by the middle of the second day, I’ve poked around in every room. I haven’t found anything that answers the burning questions that still hover in my brain when it comes to Marcus, but I feel like I know him better anyway. Like I’ve seen the innermost workings of his day-to-day life.
Shit. Is this what he felt like when he watched me all that time?
It feels strange to have the tables turned like this. Now I’m the one peering into his life and realizing that the answers I want most are hidden away inside Marcus’s heart. His mind.
After making a quick lunch, I soak in the tub again, relishing the feeling of having nowhere to go and nothing pressing to do. My skin is flushed and warm when I get out and pad back into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around myself.
I throw on jeans and a t-shirt, and I’m just slipping on my shoes when my phone dings with an alert.
My head snaps up, and I walk over to the bed where I left it and snatch it up. I haven’t heard from Marcus or any of the guys once since they left, which sort of surprises me. I’m assuming this text is from him, checking in on me or bitching about the gala or something, and I’m honestly more excited to hear from him than I thought I would be.
But when I glance down at the screen, my eyes widen.
It’s not from Marcus. It’s from Natalie.
NATALIE: There’s a fire.
I stare down at my phone, brows furrowing. What?
ME: What are you talking about? What do you want?
NATALIE: There’s a fucking fire!
ME: What are you talking about??
Almost as soon as I hit “send” on the message, my phone rings, and Natalie’s name flashes across the screen. I tap the accept button and bring it to my ear.
“Bitch, there’s a fucking fire! Where are you?”
She sounds panicked and shrill, all the usual smugness gone from her tone.
“What the hell are you talking about, Natalie?” I demand, annoyance and worry creeping through me.
“A fire. A fire.” She repeats the word as if I’m stupid, then switches to a video call. As soon as I accept it, she flips the phone around, showing me what’s in front of her. “Our building is on fucking fire!”
My heart stops.
