Page 13 of Fated Shot

Not bad for the first day. I’m freaking exhausted, but I’m glad to be at least somewhat settled. I decide the rest of the unpacking can be tackled slowly over the next few days. Throwing a few empty boxes under my arm, I walk out toward the main space.

It takes some clever maneuvering, but I manage to haul the entire stack of broken-down boxes to the parking garage. Holding the door open with my foot, I toss them into the green recycling bin in the alley.

Finally,time for bed. Making my way back up, the moment I hit my floor, a pit forms in my stomach. Ripping my phone out of my front pocket, I frantically pat down the slides of my leggings. This cannot be happening right now.

The panic sets in immediately as I rush to my door and try the handle, which doesn’t budge an inch. I’m not good under pressure, but I suppress my tears as I roll through my options.

The door is locked. My key card is probably still where I left it on the counter from this morning. Bean, in his twelve-pound glory, cannot learn to open doors in the next ten minutes. Checking the clock on my home screen, it reads 11:26 pm. The lobby has no one manning the desk until 5 am. Mom and Dad are spending one last night at the cottage. It would be nearly 3 am by the time they would get here, and even so, then we’d all be locked out. I have my phone. I could call a cab to a hotel and… Shoot, my wallet is inside and freaking internet safety 101 taught me not to save any payment information on my phone.

Think, Mia, think. I dial my parent’s numbers three times each. They’re driving up early tomorrow morning, meaning they’d have gone to bed at nine and are dead to the world at this point. Trying their cells one last time, I hold back the urge to throw my phone when they go to voicemail again.

Pacing back and forth in this obnoxiously bright hallway, I try desperately to fight off the panic attack that’s brewing. I’m on my own. Staring down at my recent call list, a name catches my eye, one phone call from Saturday night, Jack Brody.

It’s this or spending the next six hours in this asylum hallway. I hit dial immediately and wait with baited breath as it rings.Please pick up.

There’s a click on the fourth ring and a groggy voice on the other end, “... Hello?”

“Jack?” I let out way too eagerly, “It’s Mia, um, Cameron… from the barbecue?”

I hear some rustling on the other end of the phone. “Oh hey, how’s it going?” he replies, sounding significantly more lively.

“Listen, I’m so sorry to do this, I know it’s late, but I didn’t know who else to call, and I can’t get a hold of anyone and—” I pause, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill out.

“Mia, are you okay? Where are you?” His deep voice on the other end suddenly sends a wave of calm through me.

“I’m okay. I’m in my building. I just left my keycard in my apartment, and now I’m locked out, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Stay where you are. What floor?” he commands. The usual polite tone of his voice growing a bit more concerned.

“Wh-why?”

“I’m coming to get you.”

“Wait, no, you’re coming here?” Not sure what I expected when I called him, but the realization hits like a ton of bricks. I look down at my old, black leggings, oversized New York sweatshirt and navy crocs. Impeccable planning on my part.

“What floor, Mia.” He sounds incredibly serious. He’s coming to get me. I deserve this, let him see the slob kabob that is me right now. I brought this upon myself.

“Twelve,” I surrender.

“Be there in five.” There’s a click of the phone disconnecting, and I sink down to the floor in front of my door. Useless and calling a man for help less than twenty-four hours into living on my own?Lovely. I vow to keep my key card glued to me from this moment forward.

Less than four minutes later, the elevator door dings. Stepping into my hallway is Jack freaking Brody coming to save the day in his white Converse, gray sweatpants, and black t-shirt. The sight alone nearly makes me burst into tears, and that’s not the exhaustion talking. There is no reason that man has any right to look this good.

As he walks toward me, out of breath, I ask, “Did you run here?”

“What? N-no,” he replies in a poorly convincing voice. He stretches his hand out to me. I take it as he pulls me to my feet.

“So, you’re here,” I say, as I plant my hands on my hips and turn to the door in front of us. “Got a plan that doesn’t involve breaking my door down?”

“Yep,” he says matter of factly, as he turns back toward the elevators, “Come on, you’ll stay at my place.”

“WHAT?” I let out way more high-pitched than socially acceptable, but that seems to get his attention.

He laughs, “Easy there, Tiger,” flashing me a quick glance. “I’m not leaving you out here by yourself, Mia.”

I’ve completely stopped moving, but he turns back to me, a seriousness on his face. Clearly sensing my hesitation, he continues, “I guarantee you my couch is a lot more comfortable than the floor.”

He waits for a moment as I run through my exceptionally limited options. He’s right, it’s this or the floor essentially. With no better ideas, I follow him toward the elevator.

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