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1
MILA
Can you get arrested for breaking into your own apartment?
What if it’s not technically yours anymore?
I really don’t want to find out, so I slip into the alley next to my old building and check the back door, hoping that it’s still left unlocked during the day. Yes! There’s some movement and low voices in the Eagles’ Roost—the bar owned and operated by the Screaming Eagles, but from what I saw outside, it’s still closed for repairs after the fire, so it’s probably just workers. I tiptoe up the stairs, feeling a little badass, like a private eye or something.
Sneaking into my old place feels like the kind of thing that isn’t illegal until you tell someone about it. If I get caught, I can honestly say that nobody said I couldn’t go back, right? As long as my key still fits in the lock, this is fine. Totally fine. Being nosy is practically a job requirement if I’m going to make it as a journalist. I can’t let a little anxiety about getting yelled at stop me.
The key fits.
I freeze for a second with my hand on the door handle, fighting a wave of nausea. The smell of smoke still lingers in the hall, and my leg throbs. The scars are still fresh, and so are my memories.
Move, Mila!
I force myself inside, and ignore the trashed living room to make a beeline for my old bedroom. I press on the cheap hollow baseboard, prying it away from the wall in the corner. There, right where I left it is a little envelope with a flash drive. I tug it out of its hidey-hole and squeeze it as hard as I dare in my fist. A wave of relief floods me even though there’s no guarantee the storage hasn’t been ruined. I'm never letting this out of my sight again if I can help it. I slide it into my pocket, patting the outside just to feel the bump and reassure myself that it didn’t slip into an alternate dimension or something.
With a relieved sigh, I stand up and look around my old place, really taking in the devastation for the first time. It’s like looking at the set of a post-apocalyptic TV show. I wasn’t here when we were allowed back in, but it’s obvious that only the most important things were shoved into boxes and bags while everything else was left to gather dust. There’s a mug on the table, and cereal on the counter, like we just decided to walk out one day and not come back, but towards the outside wall where the bomb hit, it’s a different story. The structure of the building was damaged, leaving the windows blown out and bits of the wall and ceiling crumbled. A lot of it is black and charred from the fire that traveled up the front of the building.
My roommate Meghan sent me a few pictures, but this is the first time I’ve seen it in person. She and my Mom packed my things for me while I was in the hospital. The bookshelf with all my textbooks and random knick knacks I accumulated over three years of college lies collapsed and burnt in the corner of my room. There’s even a partially melted plastic cup from the mango bubble tea I was drinking when the first explosion hit.
A shiver forces its way down my spine. The danger is long past, but my heart starts thundering anyway. I could’ve died in that fire. If the bikers hadn't busted in our door and carried me out, I’d be lucky to only have nightmares and an ugly scar up my left calf. My ankle twinges like my leg’s still trapped under the debris from the gaping hole in the ceiling. Sometimes when I least expect it, I feel the phantom crush, pain, and heat coming closer. My parents made me talk to a therapist a few times over the summer. She said it will fade with time, but I’m still waiting.
I turn away from the rubble and poke around my closet. Everything looks okay, but it smells like I went camping and let everything dry above the fire, times a hundred. I wrinkle my nose. Nothing to salvage here. New clothes are expensive, but so is dry cleaning—if that would even help. Things that I used a few months ago don’t feel that important anymore. There’s nothing in here worth more than what it would cost to save it.
And where would I put it anyway? I’m crashing on Meghan’s couch and her new roommates are annoyed enough that I’m there. They’d kick me out in a second if I dragged soot across the floor and made their place smell like a toxic bonfire.
There's a loud creak, followed by heavy footsteps out in the hall and deep voices talking. “I told you I fucking heard something. The door’s unlocked.” The voice is gruff and raspy.
I have a split second to decide if I’m going to pretend to be a dumb blonde that didn’t know any better, or hide, and since discretion is the better part of valor, I jump into my closet and pull the door closed until there's only a tiny crack to peek out through. Immediately I regret my decision. If I thought the smoke smell was bad before, being trapped in a little space with my ruined clothes makes it much, much worse. The acrid stench tears at my nose. Hopefully they just look in, decide it must have been a squirrel and leave.
“Could be squatters.” The second voice is deep, like it's rumbling up from the bottom of a well. “The apartments have been empty for months.”
Debris crunches as heavy footsteps walk through the living room.
Dust tickles my nose. I try to take quiet, shallow breaths, but once that itch starts, it’s hard to ignore. I scratch it, trying to make it stop.
“Who the fuck would squat here with the club right across the street? We have people watching around the clock and working right downstairs. It would be fucking stupid to come in here.” A third voice points out. Dark, with a hard edge. He's right, but I didn’t have a lot of choice.
“These days? The economy is shit and there’s a lot of money in materials. Pipes and fixtures are easy to grab and nobody cares if they smell a little smokey.” Raspy voice again.
“Over there,” says the deep voice. “Shoe marks. Those are fresh.”
It’s the Screaming Eagles. Crap. I can’t say I’m shocked, but I was sort of hoping it would just be construction workers. The bikers might have saved my life, but I’m not stupid. They’re also a lot more dangerous than some carpenters or plumbers.
Do I leave the closet and hope they’ll be understanding? It wouldn’t take a lot to cry. Heck, my eyes are watering just from being trapped in here. But it sounds like there are at least three of them, and I'm just… me. I took a self defense class as my gym elective two years ago, but I'm a journalism student, not a ninja.
Fate, or rather my nose, decides for me. One last tiny speck of dust tips the scales, and before I can stop myself, I sneeze loud enough to alert not just them, but probably the whole freaking building.
Silence. Maybe they didn't hear it.
Yeah, right.
“What the fuck? They’re still here.”
The closet door slams open, and a big fist shoots in, grabbing me by the shirt and hauling me out into the room. I find myself staring up at a big guy in denim and leather. Thick, black hair skims his shoulders, and a day or two's worth of stubble covers his strong jaw. Gold-flecked brown eyes, way too pretty for a guy with a gun in his belt, stare down at me from under suspicious brows. I was ready for big and dangerous, but devastatingly sexy catches me completely off guard.
