Page 2 of Beautifully Deranged

If he’s ever wondered why I show up so dressed up every time I ask for something, he never says. I take the jug, letting my fingers brush against his. A tiny thrill runs through me.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “I’ll give you some cookies when I’m done.”

I wait. Hoping for an invitation inside. But, as usual, he gives me a curt nod and closes the door.

I walk away, lips pouting. But just as I reach my apartment, his voice stops me. “Lola.”

My legs weaken. That’s my name. On his lips. My heart skips a beat, thudding loud in my chest. Is this it? Is he finally going to ask me in?

“It seems like you need to hit the grocery store,” he mutters, before slamming the door shut again.

My jaw drops.

What the fuck?

All I asked for over the past few days were some eggs, milk, and sugar. Is that really so much? God, if he ever bothered to actually talk to his neighbor, he wouldn’t have to deal with this every damn time.

I think I might just lose it.

I never actually needed any of those things. It was always just an excuse to see him. To feel that rush, that tiny moment of connection.

But every time, I end up with nothing.

Not for long.

?Chapter Two?

Lola

My legs ache, my lungs burn, and a stitch digs into my side, but I push through. He’s fast. If he keeps up these morning runs, I’ll be down a few pounds by next month. Not that I mind. Anything to keep up with him. To stay close. I keep far enough not to be noticed, but close enough to follow. His muscles coil and stretch beneath his shirt. I press my thighs together at the sight. He ran harder today, longer. Is he restless? Frustrated? I wish I could crawl into his head.

By the time he reaches his usual café, I’m already there, hidden in a dark corner. My running hat shields my face. My coffee cools between my fingers. He steps inside, sweat clinging to the back of his neck. I could lick the salt from his skin.

He orders his usual: black coffee, no sugar. A creature of habit. A man of discipline. He likes control. I could give him control. Anything he wants. He leans against the counter, waiting. The pretty barista hands him his cup, all smiles and bright eyes. His fingers brush hers as he takes the drink. She lingers.She fucking lingers. I take a sip of my coffee. It sits in my stomach like poison. I notice the ink smudged along the side of his cup. Her phone number. My vision turns red. I imagine ripping the pen from her pocket and dragging it across her throat. I picture shoving her fingers into the espresso grinder, bones crunching like brittle candy, then stringing those fingers onto a chain and wearing them around my neck like trophies.

Would she still smile at him then? Would she still dare to scribble her pathetic little numbers on something that belongs to me?

Mikhail takes a sip, completely unaware. Unaware of the war I would wage for him. He glances toward the window, and my pulse spikes. I think he noticed me.

But he didn’t. I don’t know whether to feel grateful or pissed.

He doesn’t sit inside today. He takes his coffee and leaves.

I give him a head start, my blood still humming as I push to my feet.

And just like always, I follow.

A sleek black Range Rover slows to a stop in front of him. My brows pull together. He didn’t order an Uber. I would’ve noticed. He hadn’t even touched his phone since stepping inside.

Mikhail slides into the car without hesitation. The tinted windows reveal nothing of who’s inside before the vehicle speeds off, too fast for me to follow. I chew my lip. I’ve been behind him since early morning, and now he’s gone.

I make my way back to my apartment, shoulders slumped. Will he be long? Is this one of those times when he vanishes for days without a trace? The keys dig into my palm. I hate when he’s gone.

The cool rush of air conditioning in the apartment complex is a relief.

"Miss Lola," the concierge greets.

"Morning." I reply.

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