I can only nod, because I don’t know what this is. My stomach is tied in knots and I can barely swallow. The driver closes the door and I tell him the address before sitting back in the seat. I enjoy the quiet ride until we pull up in front of the apartments.
After the driver opens my door, I hop down. “Will you wait a moment? I’m not sure if he’s home.”
“Certainly.” The old man isn’t like Gabe. He’s thin as a rail and looks like he might fall over if the wind blows too hard.
I hurry over to the door and knock. Dread fills my stomach, because it’s possible that he’ll tell me to go away, but I can’t. He’s one of my best friends and when this all started he didn’t condemn me for my new job.
Marty pulls open the door. It’s early and overcast. He stands in the doorway with sleep in his eyes and a messy head of sandy hair. There is a pair of plaid boxers hanging low on his trim hips and a loose once-white T-shirt.
“Hey,” I say tentatively. When he doesn’t answer I add, “I didn’t know if I should come—”
Marty gives me one of his signature grins and pulls me into his arms for a quick hug. When he pulls back, he holds both my shoulders. “You’re always welcome here.”
I wave to the driver to take off and head inside. His apartment is just the way I remember it. The little room has his bed, a kitchen with dirty dishes in the sink, pizza boxes littered across the floor, and his books are everywhere. “Finals just ended. Sorry, the place is wrecked.” He rubs his eyes hard and takes a deep breath.
“It’s fine.”
He looks over at me while he goes to the kitchen. “So, you didn’t show up for any of them, did you?” There’s a bit of annoyance in his tone, as if he’s disappointed with me.
“No, something came up.” I don’t want to get into the guy trying to kill me, because I can’t tell anyone—even Marty—that I killed the pilot. I shiver thinking about it, and shove the thought away. I’m going to go crazy before I’m thirty. I can feel it. I’ll be the Long Island madam with forty-two million cats. It’ll be pussyland all right. I groan and sit down on a stool.
Marty shoves a bowl of dry cereal at me. “Sorry, no milk. It turned to cottage cheese a week ago. I haven’t been shopping yet.”
“It’s fine.” I pick at the sugar covered corn flakes and pop one in my mouth. “How have things been?”
He leans back against the counter and pours some of the cereal into his mouth directly from the box before answering. “Do you mean before or after there was a dead girl at the hotel you were at? Or how you hung up on me mid-call and didn’t bother to tell me shit? Because right around then, I was feeling peachy. Just fuckin’ peachy, Avery.” He slams the box down on the counter and turns his back on me. His hand clutches his temples like he has a massive headache. “I thought you were dead. Mel disappeared, and no one had the decency to tell me jack shit, so of course I’m fine.” When he turns back around, Marty glares at me. The look is so cold that I shiver.
I’ve never heard him curse so much before. It’s unnerving coming from him. “I would have called if I could have. Things are out of control and I came here because I wanted your help, but if you’re too pissed to—”
Marty’s head is tipped to the side and his shoulders are rigid. As soon as I speak, I start for the door, ready to leave. Marty deflates and stops me. Grabbing my wrist, he spins me around. “I was worried about you, that’s all.”
“And there’s a lot to worry about, which is why I’m here.”
He nods. It’s an acknowledgement that he won’t bring up the past few nights or ask about them again. His grip lingers on my wrist. That’s when his gaze narrows in on the gash on my arm. I’m wearing a hoodie over my shirt and a pair of jeans. I was cold when I left, so I grabbed it. I think it’s Jon’s sweatshirt, so it’s way too big for me. I pushed the sleeves up to my elbows and he can see the bottom of the wound. “What the hell?”
I tug my arm away from him and push the sleeves down. “Don’t.” It’s a one-word warning that means a million things. Don’t say it. Don’t push me. Don’t ask…just don’t.
His jaw tightens and I can tell he wants to scream at me, but he doesn’t. “So, what can I do for you, Avery?”
I sneer at him and mutter. “I liked it better when I thought you were gay.”
He rolls his eyes before fluttering his lashes at me. “Go on, girlfriend. Tell me what’s on your mind and then we can have a bitchfest about men and eat too many donuts.” He watches me and finally smiles. His voice goes back to the lower register, without the extra flare. “Seriously, Avery, I’m here for you. I’m just fried. Finals were a bitch and I was really worried about you. It looks like I had every right to be concerned.”