Thankfully, Ezra does not follow me home. Instead, he gives me an awkward hug outside of the restaurant that I definitely don’t return, pets me on the head, and tells me that he’ll see me around.
“It’s inevitable,” he adds cheerfully, backpedaling down the sidewalk. “Since, you know.” His grin widens, but before I can say a word, he pivots and strolls off in the opposite direction of my apartment.
“Death is inevitable,” I tell the air in front of me, for all the good it does. “You’re just unlucky.” I’ll tell him that, eventually. But not now.
Instead, I turn and go in my own direction, not stopping until I turn onto the street where I can see my apartment building.
Though, building is being generous. It’s only six different units in a building that might’ve once been a large, impressive house. Now each unit has its own door on the outside that leads to the street, and mine is on the top floor, at the very end. I like where mine is, for the most part. My next-door neighbor is quiet, and I’m honestly only vaguely aware of what they look like since we’ve never carried on a proper conversation. My neighbor below me, Abby St. Michael, I know better. She’s assured me multiple times that I don’t bother her by walking around or doing whatever it is I do during the night, and has invited me to her place for lunch a couple of times, just to greet me with ten different kinds of food she’s made during the morning.
We aren’t close enough to be friends, sure, but if I had to pick one of my neighbors to be stuck in a zombie apocalypse with, it would be Abby. At the very least, she could probably make a zombie’s arm taste like chicken if the end comes down to cannibalism to survive. Not to mention I like to think her knife skills are impressive enough to save us from said zombies.
When I get to the foot of the concrete stairs that will take me to my door, however, I stop. They’re blocked by the sprawling, leggy body ofCyril, who looks like he’s making himself at home on my stairs.
“Other people live up there, you know,” I tell him from the foot of the stairs as he reclines on his elbows, one leg extended. Posed like that and dressed in black jeans, sneakers, and a v-neck under his red coat, he looks a lot like a model who’s just waiting to be photographed before he can move to his next position. "What if they need to come down?”
“If anyone comes out, I’ll move,” Cyril assures me, though hedoesn’tmove. “Finished with your breakfast date sosoon? I thought someone would have to pry Ezra off of you.”
It should probably bother me that he knew where I was and with who. But since my breakfast ‘date’ involved one of his boys, I can only imagine that he knew beforehand.
“Why not justbreak inlike the others?” I ask, suddenly too tired to deal with him. “Instead of blocking my stairs.”
“Because breaking and entering isrudewhen it’s your apartment.”
“Yeah, that hasn’t stopped any of you before.”
“That hasn’t stoppedEzra and Isaacbefore,” Cyril corrects, rolling to his feet in a graceful motion as he comes down the stairs toward me. I don’t move becausewhy should I, and soon enough, we’re standing face to face, with him still blocking the stairs. “Last I checked, we’re pretty easy to tell apart. Plus, I don’tneedto break into your apartment, Ari.”
“Is that a fancy way of saying you don’t know how to pick a lock?” I raise my brows at him in question. “No shame, if not. I can’t pick a lock either. Though, I’m also not the Peter Pan to a group of boys who probably weren’t told ‘no’ enough as children.”
He stands there, digesting my words, and I can see a multitude of emotions flicker over his face as he thinks about them. “That was a pretty way of insulting me and my boys,” he admits finally, shoving his hands in his pockets as a grin curves over his full lips.
“Thanks. I worked on it all the way home.”
Cyril laughs; the sound is genuine and loud like I’ve managed to surprise him into it. “If I’m Peter Pan, and I’ve kidnapped you to my Neverland, does that mean you’re my Wendy Darling?”
I grimace at the thought. “No, absolutely not. Inno waydoes that mean–”
“Because I have to tell you, Wendy…” He rests an arm on my shoulder and leans forward to whisper in my ear, “There's no escaping the Neverland I’ve created for me and my boys. And you’re already here, so there’sreallyno escape for you.” His fingers skim the bandage on the back of my neck, sending a slight burning sensation racing down my spine.
I shudder, and he pulls away, a chuckle ready on his lips. “I’m not here to drag you back to my hideout. Though the other Lost Boys would love that, I’m sure. I have a job for you.”
“I don’t work for you, and my fees are very high.”
“I’ll put it toward the tattoo you didn’t pay for,” he replies easily.
“The tattoo I didn’tpay for?” I step back from him, incredulous, and my brows shoot upward as if to hide under my hair. “Are you fuckingjoking? I didn’t even want it!”
“Well, you didn’t know what you wanted, and I’m of the mind it looks good on you,” he says as if I’m not almost screaming at him. “So we’re going to agree to disagree, then?”
“I’m going to throw you off these stairs,” I say, and he steps down to the bottom off of the last step pointedly.
“Sorry to rain on your parade, Wendy Darling, but I’m not on the stairs. Unless your plan is to drag me back up them…?”
“It might be!” I’m not going to throw him anywhere, but I can’t help from glowering at him all the same. “I’m going to get it covered, you know. You can’t be everywhere, and I am aperson.”
“A very angry person right now,” Cyril observes, hands going to his pockets. “You’re pretty when you’re mad.”
“Whatever,” I scoff. “So, what do you want?”