Page 19 of The Hitch
I can't wait.
"Everything to your liking, sir?" Roman stands at attention at the foot of the stairs.
"Perfection, as always," I call back, flicking an invisible speck of dust from the railing. "Is everything in place for tomorrow?"
He nods and grunts the affirmative. My leather-soled shoes tap quietly as I descend the stairs. I'm suddenly quite critical of my interior decorating. Roman's always called me an uptight rich boy, and he's right. Though I wonder if Melody will learn to like that side of me, or if she'll hate every moment of the three years—minimum—that we have together.
"You're absolutely certain about her?" Roman asks as he extends a whiskey glass to me. I take a long pull and hiss out a breath, nodding.
"Yep, she's the one."
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Of course."
Roman inhales sharply and follows me to our respective chairs. "She murdered Charles. She's on the run from the law—not to mention the Seraph connection. Are we entirely sure you'll be safe?"
I swirl the whiskey in my glass and watch the ice clink against the sidewalls. "No. But what's life without a little danger, hmm?"
Valencia's eyes nearly popped out of her skull when I told her I wanted to hand-deliver the non-renewal letters to each and every tenant at Ridgeway Arms. Melody is working today, so she'll be home late, and I'll be waiting for her.
Claude, the building super, follows me morosely through the halls. He points out various attempts at maintenance over the years—a spot of paint here, buffing the tile there—but it doesn't matter. I can't imagine why he cares so deeply about the dregs of society that live here.
This singular apartment building accepts all kinds, no background check, no credit check, nothing of the sort. That all ends very soon. This building, the very name—Ridgeway Arms—will be synonymous with luxury and class by the time I'm done with it. And by the time I've got Melody in my arms.
Most of the residents are out and about, likely at their jobs. I happily slip the letters under their doors and follow Claude all throughout the building. I've never been so happy in a place that smells this much like urine. And it doesn't have anything to do with the profits I'll make. No, it haseverythingto do with the fact we've just crested the fourth floor.
Melody's floor.
Mysterious stains smear the thickly painted walls. The metal doors for each tenant look slightly battered, as though they've been kicked by one too many drunken residents after a late-night bender. It addscharacter. And the new tenants, after everyone is out, will laugh to their rich yuppy friends about what adealthey got. How they're really living the gritty city life.
Apartment 403 is the only thing between me and Melody's home. Claude knocks on the door, and a stream of curses and grunts lets me know thatsomeoneis home.
"Uh, sorry. About him, I mean." Claude coughs. "He's not the most friendly."
"You don't say," I mumble as I wait for the man inside.
The metal door swings open with a creak, and a middle-aged balding man appears, a grimace on his face, wearing a yellowed undershirt and baggy blue sweatpants.
"You're not my lawyer," he sneers.
"Very astute. I am the new owner of Ridgeway Arms. Your lease expires at the end of the month." I sniff and nearly cringe into myself. He smells as though the hot water hasn't run in this building since the Reagan administration.
"Expires?Thismonth? Claude, what's this suit saying? I have to leave?" He turns and berates the building super.
"You knew the risks moving here, Art. Month-to-month. Could end at any time." Claude looks up at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact.
"Where am I supposed to go?" the man—Art—spits out.
"That's not my problem. Best of luck to you and your future endeavors." I smile and turn on my heel. Nothing can keep me from Melody's apartment, now. Claude and Art bicker behind me as I stride closer and closer to her door. Rifling through my jacket's inner pockets, I find a different letter.
She doesn't get the form legalese. She gets something much, much better. The envelope is thicker, a creamy off-white, andher name is handwritten across the top. Checking my watch, I see there are only a few hours between now and her end of shift. A perfect amount of time for me to lose Claude and the loud man.
I stoop down and slip the envelope under her door and grin. She'll befurious. But maybe just mad enough to take me up on my offer.
Claude and Art are still arguing over what is and isn't legal, vis-à-vis tenants' rights, when I straighten back up and smile over at the long-suffering super.
"Enjoy your day, gentlemen."
