Page 33 of Pretend You're Mine

The rest of the drive passed in silence, the low crackle of the heater filling the space between us. My thoughts drifted back to those moments we’d shared, the quiet intimacy, the way Avery's fingers had traced my tattoos, lingering over the scar that cut across my shoulder. A jagged souvenir from shrapnel during my last deployment, one I usually kept hidden under layers of muscle and silence. But he touched it like it didn’t bother him, like he wanted to understand the story behind it. Maybe someday, if I was lucky enough to keep him around, I'd tell him about that scar—and all the others.

But now, with each mile that pulled us closer to the city, the warmth of that memory faded, replaced by a cold, creeping doubt. What did a guy like me have to offer him? A dishonorably discharged vet with a past I couldn’t outrun, and a future that felt like a question mark. He had everything—a world of high-rises and tailored suits, a family that expected perfection. And me? I had a shitty car and a jacket that had seen better days.

When we finally pulled into the parking lot where my beat-up car waited, the moment hung in the air between us, fragile as glass. I reached for the door handle, pausing when Avery’s hand brushed my arm—just a fleeting touch, but it sent a shiver down my spine. I turned to face him and his gaze met mine, searching.

“Take care, Creed.” His voice was softer than before. He leaned closer, his breath warm against my cheek, and for a second, I thought he might kiss me again, right there in the car park.

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. “Yeah... you too, Avery.” My voice was barely more than a whisper, rough around the edges. Part of me wanted to reach out, to hold onto him for just a little longer, but I couldn’t. So instead, I forced a smile, one I hoped looked a lot less broken than I felt.

He lingered, like he had something more to say, but then he pulled back, slipping into the shadows of his own thoughts. I gotout of the car, my boots crunching on the gravel, and watched as he drove away.

Standing in the parking lot, I did the math in my head—again, like I’d done a hundred times since I’d folded the bills into my pocket. It wasn’t enough for an apartment, not in this city. Chicago wasn’t cheap, and my options were limited. I’d get maybe a month or two in a decent place before I was out on my ass again. But if I found a room—just a room in someone’s rundown house, or maybe in one of those old buildings that smelled like mildew and bad decisions—I could stretch this money further. Three months, maybe four. Enough time to get back on my feet, to find work and start piecing together whatever the hell my life was supposed to be now.

The thought made my chest ache, a deep, dull throb that settled under my ribs. I missed Avery already, missed the way his presence had filled the empty spaces in me, even just for a little while. But I shoved that feeling down, focusing on the numbers instead. Numbers didn’t care if you were lonely, or if you missed the way someone’s touch made you feel like maybe you weren’t entirely broken. Numbers only cared if you had enough to get by.

With that thought in mind, I started looking for a room. I scanned through ads pinned to coffee shop bulletin boards and scribbled numbers and took the little tear-away strips left by hopeful landlords. I even tried calling a couple of places listed in the classifieds, but either they didn’t pick up, or they hung up before I could finish asking about the room. It was as if they could hear the strain in my voice, my desperation leaking through the phone line.

Eventually, I found a posting at a run-down laundromat, the kind where the machines rattled and squealed like they were about to fall apart. “Room for Rent – Cash Preferred – No Questions Asked.” It wasn’t exactly promising, but beggarscouldn’t be choosers. I took a deep breath, pocketed the slip of paper, and dialed the number.

The guy on the other end sounded about as friendly as you’d expect from a man renting out rooms at rock-bottom prices. He grunted something that might have been an address and told me to meet him there in an hour. No questions, no small talk. Just the time, the place, and a dial tone.

I found the building on the outskirts of town, squeezed between a liquor store with bars on the windows and a boarded-up pawn shop. It looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades. A rusty fire escape zigzagged down the side, and the bricks were crumbling away in places, as if the whole structure was barely holding itself together.

A man leaned against the doorframe, smoking a cigarette down to the filter. He was short and stocky, with greasy hair slicked back from his forehead and a stained shirt that stretched tight over a beer belly. His eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down, sizing me up like he was assessing just how much trouble I would be. I shifted on my feet, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

“You’re looking for a room?” He flicked the cigarette butt, crushing it under the heel of his boot.

“Yeah. I—uh—got the cash up front.” I patted my pocket, trying not to let the nerves show in my voice.

He snorted, a sound that was more like a grunt. “You can take a look, but no funny business. No parties, no friends, and definitely no cops.”

He pushed open the door, and I followed him up a narrow staircase that creaked under our weight. The walls were stained yellow with age and smoke, and the air reeked of stale sweat and something sour that I didn’t want to identify. At the top of the stairs, he unlocked a door with a key that looked like it hadn’t turned smoothly in years.

“This is it. Take it or leave it.”

The room was about the size of a closet—barely big enough for a twin mattress pushed up against one wall, a chipped wooden dresser, and a window that looked out over the alley. The carpet was threadbare and stained with what I hoped was just spilled coffee, and the plaster on the ceiling was cracked, sagging like a heavy bridge waiting to collapse. A single lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow glow over everything.

I tried to imagine myself living here, waking up each morning to this view of dumpsters and graffiti. But it was better than sleeping in the back of my car, shivering through the night, wondering if this was the night I’d finally freeze to death. I forced myself to take a deep breath, tasting the dust in the air, feeling the grit settle in my lungs.

“How much?” I kept my voice steady, even though everything in me screamed to turn around and walk away.

The landlord crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. He gave the figure and then said, “Cash, like I said. No questions.”

I did the math again in my head—three months, maybe four if I stretched every dollar and stuck to canned soup and discount bread. I couldn’t look at him when I nodded, forcing the words out before I could change my mind. “I’ll take it.”

He grunted his approval, slapping a key into my hand. The metal was cold and worn smooth from years of use. I handed over the cash. Without another word, he turned and lumbered down the stairs, leaving me standing in the doorway of my new home.

I closed the door behind me, and let the quiet settle around me. The mattress creaked when I sat down, the springs digging into my ass. I ran my hand over the rough fabric, tracing the cigarette burns and stains. It was rough, ugly, but it was mine—for now, at least. A roof over my head, a lock on the door, a place where I could be alone with my thoughts.

The envelope in my pocket felt heavier than ever. I pulled it out, thumbing through the bills, counting out the weeks I could stay here before the money ran dry. My chest tightened at the thought of Avery, of the way he’d pressed this cash into my hand like he was giving me something more than just a transaction. Maybe he thought he was helping me, giving me a chance to get back on my feet. Maybe he was right.

But there was no denying the bitter taste in my mouth, the shame that prickled under my skin. I shoved the envelope back into my pocket, leaning back against the dingy wall, closing my eyes against the sight of the peeling wallpaper and the dirty window.

It wasn’t much, but it was more than I’d had before. And if I kept my head down, kept my mouth shut, I might just make it to Christmas.

CHAPTER 19

CREED

---