Page 30 of Twisted Beauty

Matt swore under his breath as he crossed a cobblestone street balancing a stack of pizza boxes in his arms.

Zach was supposed to meet him at Los Muertos Brewery for a beer or two before they picked up the pizzas and headed to Nate’s party. But Zach never showed. No apology, no explanation, just one lame-ass text.

435 Aguacate. Meet you there.

Asshole.

Apparently Zach found something better to do, and Matt would bet money that something had short blonde hair and a list of demands a mile long.

So now he was heading to Nate’s alone. He’d never even met the guy.

If that wasn’t bad enough, this would be his first time seeing Liv and Kat after the incident at Tito’s shop. Kat he could handle. She’d hiss at him a few times and get over it. But Liv? Considering the way she stormed out of El Brujo the other day, she was probably still pissed. He had no idea what to expect from her now, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be pretty.

Tito gave him one hell of a talking-to after they left, and insisted Matt apologize to both women. Much as he hated to admit it, his grandfather was probably right. If Tito’s version of the story was true, then Matt really had overreacted. But since his reasons were no one’s business but his own, he had no clue how to handle it.

Matt followed the addresses up Aguacate. He was in the right vicinity, but couldn’t find Nate’s house number anywhere. Instead, there was a single, unmarked door beside the window of an Italian cafe right where the address should have been. The faint sound of opera from inside the restaurant seemed out of place, considering the sidewalk beneath him was cracked and slanted, and he was staring up at a dilapidated building with holes in the walls.

But this had to be it. He balanced the stack of pizza boxes in one hand and knocked with the other.

No answer.

Matt tried the knob and the door swung open. He stepped into a small entry, or maybe an empty storage closet. Hard to tell. But to his right was a steep set of stairs with no rail.

“Hello?” he called up the stairway.

“Come on in,” said a distant voice.

Matt shut the door behind him and headed up. When he reached the top, he found himself in a cavernous living room with maybe twenty-foot ceilings. He was the only one there.

“Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath. He took a moment to gape. The plaster walls were crumbling in multiple places, the floors were an unfinished concrete, and hardly any furniture filled the space—just a few folding chairs and a couple of small tables, all in broken, weathered wood, probably rescued from a curb somewhere. To his left, a rusty metal sliding door led to a balcony that overlooked the street.

Was this it? Or had he stumbled into some condemned structure that would collapse beneath him any second now? The restaurant below was hopping, so probably not the latter. He did remember Zach mentioning Nate’s place was a fixer-upper, but that was one hell of an understatement. It looked more like a bomb had gone off.

Excellent choice for a party.

A loud crash came from somewhere above him and drew his attention to an upstairs landing that jutted out partway over the living room.

“Bloody hell,” that same voice said. A string of profanities followed.

Matt traced the sound to a closed door near the top of the stairs, with light seeping out around the edges.

“Nate?” he yelled up.

“Be right down. Make yourself at home.”

Home. Not exactly a word he’d choose for this place.

Matt headed to the corner of the room where an L-shaped countertop clung to the wall. Just a couple of slabs of sickly green formica, peeling at the edges and glued together at the corner. Smallest kitchen in history. And the least appetizing.

He set the pizzas down next to a stack of red plastic cups and several bottles of wine. If that was the extent of the alcohol for this evening, he wouldn’t last long. He’d been here all of sixty seconds and he already needed a strong drink.

Zach had assured him there’d be plenty of craft beer. With any luck, the pint-sized refrigerator in the corner was well stocked. Matt pulled it open and found only ketchup and a couple of to-go boxes with grease seeping out around the edges.

Not what he signed up for.

Just as he slammed the refrigerator door, he heard the door above squeak open and looked up to see a blond man in khaki shorts and an oxford shirt descending the spiral staircase.

“My apologies,” the man said as he reached the kitchen. He took one look at Matt and chuckled. “You look downright panicked. You’ll find beer in the ice chest.” He gestured toward the living room. “You must be Matt.”