Chapter Six

*Not edited* Not proofread*

Chapter Six— Go back to your knitting:

"Hey, Kody?" There's two quick knocks on the door before the handle rattles, Jace's voice calm and soft on the other side. I pause what I'm doing and stare at the door with slightly wide eyes. "Uh, why is your door locked?"

I quickly think of a believable reply. "Because you don't understand the meaning of privacy and I want a few minutes to myself."

Staying still and silent for a couple of seconds, I wait for his reply. I could never lie when it came to Jace. I never really had any reason to and he knew me well enough to catch me out even on the rare occasions I did lie to him. So I hope he doesn't catch on to this one.

"Alright, brat," I can picture him rolling his eyes, but he sounds unsuspecting. "I just wanted to see if you're okay."

"I'm fine," I raise my voice a little so he can hear me loud and clear. "Now piss off."

"Nice," I hear him mumble. "And can you please start picking your towels off floor after you've showered?"

"Yes, okay. Leave."

Without another word, I hear his footsteps start to fade as he walks away, probably going back downstairs. I wait a few minutes until I go back to carefully climbing out of my window, being extremely quiet as I do so. If Jace was to catch me sneaking out, then he'd wonder where I'm going, and I'd have to tell him, then he'd stop be from going.

Once my feet are firmly planted on the tiled roof below me, I pull my window closed and turn myself around. As I do this, my eyes meet the wrinkling, glassy, brown ones of my nosey, old neighbour. She stands with her arms folded as she peers up at my sneaky form sitting on the roof of my temporary house. She shakes her head and it makes me frown.

"What are you tutting at, old lady?" I hiss, loud enough so she can hear but not too loud as so Jace doesn't. "Go back to your knitting."

"You Mexican's," she turns her nose up. "So disrespectful. Especially the young ones."

"Shut the fuck up or I'll make the breaking of your hip look like an accident," I retort, satisfied when she glares at me angrily before hobbling back inside.

We haven't had many encounters since I've lived here, but the times we have met have not been pleasant. She always makes comments about Mexican's and has complained more than a few times about my "dirty, flea-riddled mutt". Jace says I can't do anything about it, that some people are just obnoxious, but I disagree. There are a lot of things I could do to that little old lady and neither options involve her surviving.

Carrying on with the task at hand, I continue to scale the trellis panels down the side of the small building until I'm firmly rooted to the ground.

Instead of sneaking around to the front of the house where my car sits in the driveway, I take a right into my neighbours front lawn so that Jace doesn't see me if he were to look out the window. This means I can't use my own car, but it's not a problem— I'll just highjack someone else's.

Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket, the tips of my cold fingers meet the small crumpled up piece of paper that lays torn at the bottom. A scruffily-written address inked on to its surface.

___

Leaving the room, I head straight towards the elevator, pressing the ground floor the moment I step inside. A few more people clamber into the already small space, and I bite down on my teeth in irritation.

Get me the fuck out of here, I chant to myself, trying not to think of the many germs that linger inside the four metals walls, how many illnesses and diseases the people crowded around me carry.

With batted breath, I wait impatiently for the lift to reach the ground floor so I can speedy-Gonzalez the fuck out of here. Or is it Gomez?

'Ground floor. Doors opening,' the monotone, automated voice announces, and I rush out without a second thought.

"Fucking disgusting," I mutter to myself, my hands feeling heavy with invisible dirt. I've always had a problem with my hands constantly feeling unclean. It's gotten to the point I was washing them whenever I had the chance. But now they just feel extra fucking dirty.

It makes me feel sick.

"Careful!"

Suddenly, my arm is grabbed and I'm pulled out of the way of a stout woman, who I hadn't even noticed, pushing a cart in my direction with no care for who or what she runs into. I stumble lightly on my feet but I'm able to recover and stay balanced rather quickly.

The grip on my bicep disappears once I'm steady and I turn my narrowed eyes away from the rushing nurse and to the person who'd grabbed me, my grey eyes meeting brown ones.

I know him, I realise.

His stare pierces through mine and there's a faint smile on his face. "Hi," he greets boyishly, his hair perfectly styled and his clothes fashionable. I don't say anything back as I look at him questioningly, and he smiles wider, friendlier. "I never saw you in class."

I think back to the display cabinet and the picture of the girl with the smile and the boy with the dimples. The guy who appeared leaning on the lockers opposite me and the saddened look he wore like an item of clothing. His name comes back to me immediately. Brad. I never saw him in class, either.

How many more people am I going to bump into today? First Simon, then Dakota, now this guy? I'm beginning to fucking hate Saturday's.

"How are you?" Brad asks, starting small talk, which I hate. I shrug without verbally replying, wanting to leave. "Not much of a talker, are you?" And I'm glad he picks up on it, because this was going to make for a very awkward encounter if he hadn't. His hand comes up so that he can rake his fingers through his hair, and my eyes catch on to a familiar tattoo on his wrist. "Well I'll let you get on—."

"Your tattoo," I interrupt without much thought. The memory in my mind is vague, distant, but I remember it from somewhere.

"Um... what about it?" He chuckles awkwardly, his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"When did you get it?" I know being blunt with my questions is probably not the best way to go, considering it makes people suspicious, but I don't have time to beat around the bush, nor do I want to.

"A few years ago now," he rubs the Roman numerals inked into the skin of his wrist with his opposite thumb, looking down at it with a pensive expression. "My brother and I got matching tattoo's."

"Your brother?" I pry. It couldn't be, could it?

Brown eyes meet mine as Brad lifts his head and drops his arms. "Yeah. He's younger by five years. One of my buddies down at the parlour done them for us seeing as Ricky wasn't old enough at the time."

I knew I'd seen that tattoo somewhere!

I give myself time to think of a game plan for this situation. This could work in my favour. I think of a plausible lie before I open my mouth again to speak.

"I didn't know you and Ricky were related," I feign interest, although there's not much faking because I am actually interested— but for all the wrong reasons.

Brad nods, and now that I look at him, I can see the similarities, but also the vast differences. "Yeah. You know him?"

"Yeah. Well..." I purposefully trail off, rolling my eyes. "I met him once at a—" I hesitate momentarily. "—party, but I left before I could get his number. So I wouldn't say I know him, but," I shrug, cutting myself off.

The fact that I just lied and pretended I wanted Ricky's number, makes me feel sick. It's gross just thinking about it. But I push the bile aside and carry on with my facade. Luckily Brad doesn't know me well enough to know I wouldn't be caught dead trying to get Ricky's number.

"Wow, my little brother was actually able to charm you into wanting his number?" Brad wonders with a playful grin. There's something in his expression that makes him look so different from his younger sibling. Brad seems genuine, carefree, like he's on top of the world. Ricky has this lost look to him, like there's something weighing on his shoulders.

"I wouldn't say charm," I can't help but add in, keeping the grimace off my face. "But we got along." Ew. "Maybe when you see him next you could pass the message on?" I ask hopefully. Though what I'm really hoping for, is for Brad to be naive enough to give me what I want.

"I might as well just give you his number," he offers, but that just won't work. "That way you can tell him yourself," he wriggles his eyebrows. If only he knew.

"I can't. I broke my phone the other day and I can't get it fixed until next week," I lie swiftly. "I'll just have to catch him some other time," I force myself to look the slightest bit put off by the situation. "Anyway, bye."

I go to turn away, but Brad is quick in pulling me back again. His grabbing makes the urge to rip his teeth out resurface, and I have to clench my fists to keep myself from following through with it. "How about you come over? He lives with me, and I'm okay with it, so I don't see why not. It saves you having to wait for however long."

"Really?" I pretend to be grateful.

I need to have a shower when I get back.

Brad nods his head, "Yeah, of course. Let me find some paper and I'll write the address down for you," he smiles brightly, seemingly happy he could do something nice for his 'little brother'. "Why don't you stop by tonight?"

___

As it turns out, Brad is twenty-three years old and a teaching assistant at Raven Hollow. Apparently he sits in in some of my World History classes, but I don't give my attention to people who aren't worthy of it, so clearly I deemed him irrelevant and that's why I never took notice of him.

He lives with Ricky in the next town over in an apartment next to the library— just the two of them. From what I could work out during our small conversation at the hospital after mine and Dakota's five minutes, Brad doesn't have a clue about what Ricky gets up to in his free time and thinks his little brother is your average, typical, teenage boy.

But I know that isn't the case.

Shaking my head and willing myself to focus, I pull the hood of my black jumper over my head and quickly double check I have the right address.

Once I'm certain I'm exactly where I'm meant to be, I shut off the stolen car I jump-started a couple miles away from my rented place, and close the door after getting out, peering up at the building that looms over me.

There's five floors, maybe four apartments on each one; two on either side. They seem quite spacious judging by the distance between each window and the overall width of the building. I wouldn't have thought a teaching assistant salary could pay for an apartment in a building like this, but then again, I don't know Brad's situation, nor his income, therefore I don't bother to question it as I head to the front entrance.

I need a passcode to get in, but considering I don't know it, I just buzz every buzzer apart from number nine in hopes someone answers and is dumb enough to believe any lie I tell them and let me in— or even dumber enough to let me in without asking any questions.

After a few seconds of waiting, a frail voice comes through the speaker. She sounds old and I curse my streak of bad luck. I fucking hate old people.

"Hello?" Her trembling voices asks curiously.

I falter for a moment. "Yeah, hi. I have a delivery for apartment nine, but nobody is answering. I need someone to buzz me up so I can leave it inside the building."

"Oh..." she hesitates. "Can you not just leave it outside?"

"No. It needs to be in a safe place and outside is clearly not a safe place," I roll my eyes, impatient and now highly inconvenienced. "I'll be in and out in thirty seconds. Either help me out or get off the intercom so I can try someone else."

"I bet you're from the local mail. Always so rude," she mumbles angrily. "Learn some manners young lady, that attitude will get you nowhere."

"Bite me, bitch."

And then she's gone and I have to start all over again.

"Um, hello?" This time it's a man who speaks. His voice isn't any indicator of his age, however I can tell he's not old.

"Hi. I have a delivery for—."

He doesn't even let me finish before he huffs out a breath and buzzes me in. I don't know whether to be pissed off or relieved. Clearly this happens a lot.

Pushing open the heavy fire-exit-like door, I step inside the dull yet clean entryway. There's a door to my left but no number is on it so I assume it's a closet of some sort or a maintenance room. The stairs are directly to my right and there doesn't seem to be an elevator. Great.

I start my ascent up the stairwell. If my assumptions are correct and there are four apartments on each floor— not including the ground floor— then apartment nine should be on the third one. Which means six flights of fucking stairs I have to walk up.

What kind of apartment building doesn't have a fucking elevator?

I shake my head and curse whoever's idea it was to make so many fucking steps as I pass by the first and second floor, reaching the third one in just under a minute.

I need to go back to the gym.

The hallway to this floor is warm. The doors are a deep brown with golden numbers drilled into them. The walls are a pale cream and are free of any fingerprints or dirt stains. The carpet is rough, a light burgundy colour.

While it doesn't seem to be the most luxurious apartment building I've ever seen, it's modest and somewhat cosy. It probably isn't overly expensive, but you'd still have to make a decent living to afford a place like this, especially in a town like Raven Creek. It's a bit more... prestige, than the town I currently reside in, so I can imagine the price difference.

Walking up to the door with a sparkling, gold number nine plaque nailed into it, I knock three times with a decent amount of force behind each one. I would usually pick the lock, but I don't think that's appropriate right now.

For a while there's no response and my impatience urges me to knock again, however just before my knuckles can come into contact with the deep-coloured wood, the door opens up to reveal a pair of familiar eyes that do not belong to Ricky at all.

Well this is going to be interesting.