Page 81 of Cruel Cravings

It’s Brontë’s single command as we enter the city limits.

Soon we go from being surrounded by the highway to being swallowed up by towering buildings on either side. I take the next off ramp and join the congested streets of the huge metropolitan city.

Vendors camp out on every corner selling their goods, and blares of honking horns fill the air. I’m not sure where else to drive, so I take us by my sister’s old apartment, guided by the false hope that she might miraculously turn up.

I’m misleading myself.

My sister’s nowhere to be found, the red brick building serving as a reminder that she’s gone.

My stomach pits and I sigh, foot pressing on the gas.

“Keep driving,” Brontë directs. “7885 Croft Street.”

The address is so specific that I don’t question him on it. I flick on the turn signal and change lanes to head toward Croft.

Traffic slows us down, but we’re pulling up outside 7885 Croft Street within minutes. We’re in downtown Easton where peace and quiet don’t exist. Neither does privacy as I find us a parking spot a few blocks down and we’re forced to walk the crowded streets.

A big urban city like this is probably the only place on the planet where Brontë can walk down the street in broad daylight wearing his minotaur mask and not garner second looks. People are too preoccupied with their own day to pay us any mind. They rush in all directions on the sidewalk, hurrying to catch a subway or make it home from work.

Besides, he’s not the only one in a costume—a half-naked pirate strums a guitar on a street corner nearby, asking for donations from passerby.

Brontë leads the way toward 7885 while I cautiously stick by his side. My neck aches, craning for a look up at the skyscraper.

I’m not sure what business we could possibly have inside a building that looks like it costs a hundred bucks a second just to breathe its air.

“What are we doing here?” I ask. “Do you see how we’re dressed? There’s no way they’re letting us into a place this nice.”

Brontë ignores me as we approach the revolving glass door and the doorman on post furrows his brow at us.

“See,” I hiss, barely above a whisper. “He’s not letting us in here.”

But Brontë couldn’t give less of a fuck whether we’re allowed anywhere. He stalks right through the revolving door even as the doorman calls out to stop him. I curse under my breath and then rush to follow.

The lobby is wealth personified, with high, vaulted ceilings and floors so polished you can see your reflection staring up at you.

It definitely costs a C-note just to breathe the air inside here.

The air, which doesn’t smell polluted like outside, smells of fresh flowers and tangy citrus.

A few residents who happen to be passing through, some with their fluffy little dogs on diamond-encrusted leashes or strolling in business attire, take notice of us.

The two outcasts who just entered their midst. One who’s gigantic with a whole-ass minotaur mask on his head. I’d laugh if my cheeks didn’t burn from embarrassment at their startled looks.

Yep, we definitely don’t belong here.

“Sir! Miss! Excuse me!”

“Crap,” I whisper to Brontë. “What do we do?”

A concierge steps in our path before we can reach the elevators at the back of the lobby.

“Good afternoon,” he says with forced politeness. “May I help point you to the right location? This building is for residents only.”

Brontë doesn’t slow down. He merely snatches the concierge by the front of his suit jacket and slams him into the wall next to the elevators. The man’s glasses are knocked off his face and hecowers like a shaken puppy. Any courage he had to prevent us from getting on one of the elevators has vanished.

He quakes off to the side as the elevator we’re waiting for arrives and we step on. The instant the doors roll shut, I turn to Brontë.

“You didn’t have to do him like that,” I say. “At least let him think he has some authority.”

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