Bypassing the small overgrown courtyard, they take the elevator up to the third floor and follow the walkway to Lacey’s apartment. She sticks her key in the lock, deftly positioning her body in front of the doorknob that sticks like a son of a bitch. Suddenly she’s very aware of where she lives. In a run-down apartment in a very not-prime neighborhood of LA.
Seth peers around her, arching an eyebrow. “You need some help there, princess?”
“No. I don’t.” She wiggles the sticky knob. “Just ... a ... little ... more ...” She puts her shoulder into it and the door flies open with a clattering bang.
Immediately, they’re in the kitchen.
Seth whistles as he follows her inside, his normally sunny face sober as he sets his duffel bag on the kitchen floor.
He looks at her. “I thought you had a job.” The edges of his mouth twitch and she can’t tell if he wants to laugh or frown.
“I do have a job and a good one.” She shuts the door behind them, says, “It’s LA, Seth. I’m lucky I can afford a car.”
But she’s suddenly self-conscious, noticing Seth’s scrutinizing gaze, the way his eyes rove the place, his dark scowl.
She’s proud of the little apartment she decorated and bought herself. She can’t do much about the surroundings, but she’s still made it her cozy, safe space. There’s no sadness here, no stepmother. Everything, she controls. It’s her space. One she’s tried to make as cheerful as she can.
The scuffed-up walls are a warm gray. A plush pink rug covers the stained shag carpet. Potted plants add color to the living room. Brass hooks on the wall for jackets. Small photos of her and Sal hung across the back of the couch. No photos of her father; the photo of her mother lives in her bedroom, pinned to her bathroom mirror.
Seth swaggers around, peering out the kitchen window to be met with a direct view of another kitchen window. “Christ.” His blue-eyed gaze sweeps to her. “It’s like Attica meets Shawshank.”
“Shut it, Seth.”
“This ain’t no life, Lace,” he says, kicking his boot against a loose baseboard.
“Sorry we can’t all have spacious digs by the river.”
The beach. Think of the beach. Not killing Seth Kincaid and dumping his remains in the Pacific.
He steps close to her and her heart dips. Only Seth moves to the door instead, his face tight as he fingers the broken safety chain. “This is pretty damn important, don’t you think?”
Her gut churns, not wanting to think about the mugger.
Lifting her chin, she strides past him, not touching him, not once, to the living room, where she gingerly lowers her leaden body on the couch. Seth’s gaze is intense, his eyes won’t leave hers and because it’s too much, because his kindness, his worry is palpable, Lacey closes her eyes.
“I’m tired, Seth. Can we not do this right now?”
All she wants is to change her clothes, pour a glass of wine and pull out her laptop. Seth being in her apartment has her antsy. She’s never been this still. She’s never not worked.
Seth’s rumble of a drawl washes over her. “When’s the last time you ate somethin’?”
Unable to help it, she flinches at the talk of food. A bad habit, a bad past that still creeps around the edges of her put-together life.
She opens her eyes, watching as Seth steps into the postage-stamp-sized kitchen. She sighs, already knowing what he’s going to see, but too tired to do anything about it.
He yanks the fridge open and swears. He stands, staring into the void of fluorescent light, like he’s trying to gather himself, and then says through gritted teeth, “Lace. You ain’t got no food here.” He turns to look at her over his shoulder. “You eat, don’t ya?”
“Only on a full moon and standing over the kitchen sink.”
Seth blinks, unsure if she’s joking or not. “There a store around here?”
It’s Lacey’s turn to blink. “You’re going shopping?”
“Hell, I think someone’s got to.”
She nods, sucks in a breath. Food would be nice. Something hot, melty and delicious. “Two blocks down. On the corner of Hershel.”
He grunts, sweeping up the car keys.