Page 27 of Under Construction

Five stories of questionable architecture and even more questionable maintenance loom back. Sun-bleached walls, mismatched windows, and what looks suspiciously like vines creeping up the side. The whole place radiates a kind of dark, forgotten charm—or, in Dennis’s view, the need for urgent repairs.

"Seriously?"

"What's wrong princess? Too shabby for your tastes?"

It is. But Dennis isn’t about to admit that when Chris is looking at him in that way. Intent. Focused.

The kind of look that makes Dennis's throat go dry.

"Please." Dennis gets out of the Lexus. "I've seen worse."

"No you haven't."

Dennis hasn’t. Oh well, there are first times for everything.

The elevator's broken. They climb four flights of stairs, Dennis counting each step to distract himself from how Chris is taking them two at a time, thighs flexing with each bound.

They reach a door at the top of the building, its wood scuffed and bleached from years of sun and use. Chris’s keys jangle as he pulls them from his pocket and slides one into the lock. It sticks, grinding stubbornly, until he leans in and shoulders the door open with a grunt.

As the door creaks open, he sweeps his arm out with a flourish.

"After you."

Dennis steps into darkness. "No lights?"

"Power's out." Chris stomps on the floor with the heel of his work boots three times. "Hey Martinez! Flip the breaker!"

Nothing happens.

"Building manager," Chris explains. "Probably passed out again." He closes the door. "Hang on."

There's rustling, then the flick of a lighter. Then candlelight blooms, throwing shadows across a space that goes on and on and on.

The apartment's huge. One big room stretching the width of the building. Exposed brick and bare pipes. Windows on three sides where the moonlight filters in.

It could be beautiful.

Instead it's all uncovered bulbs and peeling paint.

A battered old couch that looks like it came with the apartment sits against one wall. There’s an expensive-looking sound system next to a rickety IKEA desk that has a sleek laptop on top of it.

On the floor, a king-size Tempur-Pedic mattress lies flat under what must be designer sheets, but there’s no bed frame to support it. An ultra-wide TV is mounted on the wall in front of it, cables neatly tucked away.

At the far end of the room, a clothesline stretches wall to wall, hung with drying cargo pants and T-shirts.

Racks of designer suits and crisp shirts stand in the middle of the room, their neat lines catching the dim light. Below them, rows of polished leather shoes—Italian loafers and handmade boots—rest quietly, out of place in a construction worker’s home.

Nearby, laundry baskets overflow with rumpled work clothes left unfolded—cotton and denim spilling over the edges.

The room looks like it’s holding two lives, mismatched and crammed into one space.

Little pieces that don't quite fit, like Chris himself.

"Beer?" Chris tilts the candle, lets hot wax pool on a windowsill before pressing the base into it. He heads to the fridge. Ancient thing that hums like it's dying.

"Sure." Dennis trails after him, hands in his pockets, not quite sure what else to do in this strange place.

Chris pulls out two bottles and pops both caps off against the counter's edge.

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