Page 16 of King of Sinners

It takes more than half an hour to make the five-mile trip to my apartment, Mason mostly texting on his phone. I’d hoped for clarity during this car ride…

I trust Mason to tell me the truth and I wouldn’t lie to him either. When the elevator opened last night, I’d made my peace with death.

The longer this drags on, however…

Did I just forfeit my protection when I admitted I hadn’t had sex?

But I know I have no leverage in this situation, so I keep quiet, clasping my hands in my lap.

It’s not until we pull up to my run-down apartment that I realize Mason is going to see where I live. How I live. Does he know I’ve been totally on my own? When my dad died, that small bit of help I’d gotten died too.

I wince, looking down the street at the homeless camp that’s cropped up along the chain-link fence that barricades an empty lot just down my street. A tent city of tarps, drugs, and crime, the smell of unwashed bodies wafts toward us from a quarter mile away.

My building is a stucco row of apartments, the stucco in major disrepair. Mine isn’t even a full apartment. It’s been split into upstairs and downstairs studios. Basically, it’s the worst of the worst.

I took the downstairs one because it’s cheaper, but it’s had its drawbacks. The break-ins being the most obvious.

My cheeks color as I look at the place from his eyes.

I’m not ashamed. I’m graduating college—hopefully graduating college—with no debt. How many people can say that?

But still, I’m not exactly proud of my address.

He doesn’t say a word as he slides out of his seat and comes around the car to open my door.

I smoothly exit the car, adjusting my skirt and then walk to the front door with my head high.

I don’t lock it. It just makes people break the window to get in.

Instead, I created a hiding spot for anything valuable.

We step into the space that could almost fit into the bathroom I used this morning in Mason’s apartment, but my shoulders still unwind as I step inside. Small as it is, this is still my place. And it feels like me.

There’s a pale floral cover on the bed, and a small cream couch I picked up at a moving sale.

My counters are always neat, just a candle out, not a lot of clutter. Some of my photographs are on the wall, and I painted a mural on the bathroom door which was too awful to save without massive splashes of paint.

I look back at Mason and he’s taking in every item, every choice. “Home sweet home,” I say as I open my one tiny closet and pull out a duffel bag. It’s the same one I left Nebraska with.

I open the drawers and pack in my neatly folded clothes.

He stands watching, not saying a word, as I cross to the bathroom, getting some of my favorite products from the shower and the counter. Most of what Mason bought me is better, but this stuff…it’s mine.

Now for the reveal. Not that I’m worried Mason is going to steal from me when he knows my hiding spot. It’s just that this is one of the few secrets I guard. Not even my friends know where I stash my money.

I come back out of the bathroom and set the bag on the floor. He’s next to the bed, looking at a photograph on the wall. A profile of my friend Kim in the setting sun. The light glistens off her red hair, making the wild strands look like they’re on fire.

“Very nice,” he says, looking at me. It’s the not the compliment but his eyes that have my cheeks heating. There is appreciation there. And considering we’re standing in my tiny, run-down apartment, it makes me feel better.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Would you mind stepping a bit to the left.”

“Why?”

“I need to move the bed.”

One brow rises and then he turns around, pulling the bed back from the wall.

Brushing back the artsy curtain I’d used to create the illusion of a headboard, I reveal my hole in the drywall.

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