North Shore Read online

  “What the fuck, Charles?” Landon shouted, jumping out of the way of the remains of his shitty stereo. “Just let me pack—”

  “You thought that was a scene?” Charles’ voice boomed from upstairs. “This is a scene, motherfucker.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and watched in awe as Charles made a tapestry of the sidewalk, ranting loudly the entire time. It seemed like he’d shifted from horror to rage so loud that everyone on the block could hear him.

  “—can’t even keep a rhythm when you’re fucking me!”

  Wincing, I looked around just in time to see Mrs. Hernandez across the street standing in her driveway with Mr. Rosenblum. I waved, grinning, and they stared at me like I was surely the cause of this problem. This wasn’t the chat with your neighbors type of neighborhood since it was a mish-mash of longtime home owners and homes that had been split up and rented out, but man they were wary of me. Maybe my moving-in BBQ had been a little too rowdy, but what was expected when I was finally given access to a real backyard?

  “—find your mother and ask her to send you some more money!”

  It started to drizzle, and Landon scurried around, shoving his clothes into bags and trying to get dressed in the process. It took twenty more minutes for him to haphazardly pack his shit, and by then I was drenched. I could have gone back into my own apartment mad long ago, but two things—I’d left my sneakers and my shirt up in their apartment, and I wanted to see Landon get gone. Part of me kept replaying the sight of Charles ducking and covering his face, and that part kept reminding me this shit was kind of funny, but it probably wasn’t over. Landon was scum.

  “I need my phone, you dumb bit—”

  “I’ll get it,” I said, interrupting Landon’s shout. “I left my sneakers upstairs, anyways.”

  He looked ready to argue, glanced up at the now quiet and closed windows, and nodded shortly. I thanked my lucky stars that I wouldn’t have to beat his ass yet, and jogged up the staircase. Charles had already lined up the guy’s Laptop, cell phone, wallet, and a backpack on the landing outside the door. Convenient for Landon because his shit wasn’t smashed, but I still needed my stuff back.

  “Coño…”

  Grumbling, I shoved Landon’s shit in his backpack, wondering how I’d become some kind of fucked up go-between, and shoved it at him. It wasn’t until after he called an Uber and got in it five minutes later did I drag the rest of Charles’ bags up to their—his——door. It was old, just like everything else in the house, but I couldn’t help but notice a massive dent in it. Had it always been there? Or was it a sign of another violent altercation?

  Maybe I should have hit him after all, but I wasn’t trying to end up in jail…

  Licking my lips and bouncing on the balls of my feet, I tapped at the door. It was completely silent. I tried again, pressed my ear to the door, and heard nothing. Not a single sound.

  “The fuck…”

  I closed my eyes and told myself to call the sneakers a loss and walk away, but… something about this whole thing felt wrong. What if the dude was hurt? Or planning to hurt himself? He’d looked absolutely defeated. Crushed to bits. And if I knew anything about the type of rage explosion he’d just had, it meant he was coming down hard right now, and probably feeling worse than he’d felt before. I could see it so clearly that I found myself turning the handle and slipping inside.

  The place was a fucking wreck. There was shit broken and strewn everywhere. I walked around broken glass and other objects, moving slow on the creaky wooden floorboards, but there was no sign of the willowy man in the living room, sun room, kitchen, or their bedroom. Wary, I stepped into my Nikes and grabbed my white T-shirt, but hesitated before slinking back to the door. Unless this Charles was a fucking wizard, there was no way he’d left this apartment.

  I knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, man. You alright?” He didn’t respond, and worry upgraded to fear. “Look sweetheart, I know you probably hate me, but gimme a sign of life or I’m calling the cops. I’m not leaving you alone—”

  “Mind your fucking business, dickhead.”

  My mouth twitched into a smile, but it quickly faded. The sass in that Brooklyn accent was still top notch, but there was a higher thread in it that sounded like pain. I shrugged off my mother’s home training and looked into the bathroom.

  “Damn, baby. What happened?”

  Charles was hunched over the sink, letting water run over his hand, which was bleeding profusely. “I’m not—” His breath hitched, and he bit down on his lip before muffling out, “your baby.”

  “You’re bleeding a fuckton. Did you… I mean, did you—”

  “I didn’t do it to myself,” he growled. “I knocked over the bookshelf by accident, and broke this porcelain dancer figurine. It’s… it was something my grandmother gave me before she died, and I fucking broke it by accident.”

  His voice cracked on the end, and I felt like a monster. Like somehow, him breaking it was my fault.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe you can fix it or whatever.” I glanced down at his hands again. “But you might need stitches, man. You should—"

  “Just leave!”

  My hands tightened around the side of the door, and I retreated a step. He was right. I was partially why he was in this state. I had no business here. No right. But…

  “Look, you have any reason in the world to fucking hate me, but you’re shaking really bad, and you’re bleeding a lot. Just let me help you, and I’ll go.”

  Charles kept biting his lower lip, brows bunched together. A beat passed, and he nodded jerkily. When he moved his trembling hands from the water, I saw why. Both his damn hands were bleeding. I hissed at the sight. “First aid kit?”

  He jerked his chin at the medicine cabinet, and I quickly raided it. He didn’t have a full kit the way I did, but there was gauze, tape, bandaids, and Neosporin, so that would work. I eyeballed all the blood, looked at his face, then asked, “Gloves?”

  Charles’ eyes narrowed defensively, and I held up my own hands.

  “Hey, we don’t know each other from a hole in the wall. Safety first, lindo. I’d do the same with, y’know, an eight-year-old on the—okay, maybe not. But like, any other—”

  “Just shut the fuck up.” His jaw clenched, and he cut his eyes away to stare at the window. He looked so angry, but he said in the same strained tone, “Under the sink.”

  I quit talking and found a mostly empty box of rubber gloves, slapped them on, and went to work. I was good at pretty much everything I did in life, but taking care of injuries was one of my ultra-important skills. Considering I’d come up in boxing clubs since I was a kid, and had had more than my fair share of injuries gained in legal and illegal rings, it was a necessity.

  Charles kept his eyes on the window the whole time I carefully tended to each cut. They didn’t look as deep as I’d assumed, so I found myself sneaking glances at him from time to time. The look on his face made my entire heart hurt. He was biting his lower lip and every now and then, a tear tracked down his cheek. He pressed his lips together tighter as if to keep from sobbing.

  Guilt filled me, and an intense need to somehow make this better. Not just that, but I wanted to pull him against my chest and squeeze him. Rub his back while he cried and run my fingers through those wild glossy curls, even if he cursed me the entire time. Intense feelings of compassion weren’t exactly rare for me, but usually self-preservation won out over just about everything else, and there was a good ass chance he would go full alley cat on me if I touched him wrong.

  I knew that, but I couldn’t stop staring at him. Even after I’d finished and he jerked his gaze back to me, I didn’t turn away. I kept tracing his features, the big lips and huge dark eyes framed by thick lashes, his high cheekbones and thick arched eyebrows. Even with his skin blotchy, nose red, and eyes swollen from crying, he was one of the most striking people I’d ever seen.

  I waited for him to tell me to leave, but when his lips parted he ended up suck
ing in an aborted sob.

  “I don’t think they’re cut too bad,” I said. “It just looked like a lot.”

  “Good. You can leave now.”

  I nodded, but didn’t move. The need to do something kept bubbling up in my chest, and I continued to search him for a sign as to what could even be done.

  “Look—”

  “No,” he whispered. “Just stop. I don’t want to hear you.”

  “Listen,” I pleaded. “I’ll fuck off if you want me to, but I swear to God I had no idea he wasn’t single. I’ve been living here for five months and never seen you once. And what you saw on the bed? That was as far as we got. First time I ever touched him. I can’t speak for what else he did while you were gone, but all me and him did was kiss.”

  Charles shook his head slowly, but he didn’t look incredulous. Just angry and tired. He didn’t even wipe the frequent single tears sliding down his face.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I would never fuck up someone’s—”

  “No,” Charles said. “You—why do you care? You’re—” He looked me over, sniffling. “You’re… upset.”

  “I just don’t like hurting people.”

  Charles’ gaze snapped up to meet mine and for just a minute, the hostility faded. He leaned against the sink and didn’t cringe when I slowly put one hand on the counter beside him and lifted the other to gently wipe away one of his tears. He inhaled sharply, but didn’t shove me away.

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” he whispered. “There’s nothing.”

  “I can help you clean up,” I said. “Since you have battle wounds?”

  A choked sound escaped him that almost sounded like a laugh.

  “Order you a pizza from Brothers? A sandwich from Hot Bagels?” I waited for a twitch, a glint in those damp eyes, a sign that he liked something. “Cookies from the Cookie Jar?”

  For some fucked up reason, this caused him to cry again. I was either the worst at being sweet, or he had no idea how to respond to kindness right now. I wanted to touch him so bad. It was the only real way I knew how to console someone. In my family, physical contact was the ultimate form of affection, but…

  “A hug?” I swiped another tear off his cheek. “Or you could hit me. I’m a fighter. I can take a punch or five.”

  Charles’ eyes slid over me at that, taking stock of my broad shoulders, the thick muscles padding my frame, and probably all the tattoos and old scars that he could see since I was standing there with no shirt on. When that gaze returned to my face, there was a slight difference. An acknowledgement that he was really seeing me, and even if he hated it, he liked what he saw. That look, that change in the temperature around two men who had noticed each other, was what had first tipped me off that I wasn’t exclusively attracted to women.

  I stepped closer as my body responded to his awareness. “You could use me,” I said quietly. “Stress release. Ragey rebound fuck. Whatever you wanna call it.”

  His lip curled, but his body shifted. I wondered if it was instinctual. He was looking at me like he wanted to hit me even as he widened his stance so I could press him against the sink.

  “You must really think you’re something,” he whispered. “But at least I now see why you’re being so nice.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Sure.”

  There was contempt in Charles’ voice, but he was breathing faster. It was him who shifted just enough for my crotch to press against his own. He might have hated me, but his body was interested.

  “I’m good at three things.” I pressed against him lightly and nearly melted when he released a liquid sounding groan. “Fighting, dancing, and fucking. Right now, I think you have more use for the first and last.” If I shared that my dancing skills were usually used for stripping and burlesque, he might have more interest, but we didn’t need to go there right now. “You wanna swing on me to get one back? I can take it. But if you want me to fuck you until you forget that douchebag’s name? I can do that too. Just tell me how you want me.”

  A shiver tore through Charles’ lanky body. He arched against me, hands reaching up to dig into my shoulders, but I didn’t move another inch. He was still sneering even as his face flushed and his eyes dilated, and I knew went to wait for my move.

  “I want you…” He licked his lips, heart pounding against my chest. “To get the fuck out of my apartment.”

  I backed up instantly. His fingers slid along my shoulders before falling away.

  “I can do that too.”

  There was a flash of something in his face that might have been regret, or disappointment, but I didn’t know him well enough to read him. All I knew was that I’d been given the “hands off” notice, and that was all I needed to know.

  “Take care of yourself, man. That piece of shit doesn’t deserve you.” I backed out of the bathroom. “And I still might get you those cookies.”

  “Fuck your cookies.”

  “I’d rather fuck you. I wish I’d met you first.” He stared at me, and I crinkled my fingers in a wave. “See you around.”

  When he didn’t respond, I turned, grabbed my shirt, and strode to the door. In the living room, I caught sight of the porcelain figurine he’d referenced on the floor. Because I was a major sucker for a pretty face and tears, I scooped up the pieces in my T-shirt and took it with me. Gluing porcelain dancers was about to become another one of my skills.

  I closed the door behind me after flipping the automatic lock, and headed downstairs. It wasn’t until I was unlocking my own door, the door that stood directly next to his, that I realized I hadn’t warned him that I lived downstairs in the same two-family house.

  North Shore ch 3

  Chapter Three

  Charles

  The doorbell yanked me out of nightmares that had teeth. No matter how deeply I slept, how much I drank to put myself into an even deeper sleep, the nightmares stalked me.

  Dreams of Landon yelling at me, me begging Landon to come back, me deteriorating into a dark place I hadn’t been in for about five years now, and nightmares about being trapped on that goddamn cruise ship again. Being trapped on it with Landon. Landon trying to throw me off the boat. Us both being arrested for brawling in the ship’s ballroom.

  Yeah, my dreams weren’t welcoming. At all. I had no idea why I kept trying to succumb to a sleep more awful than my reality, but I couldn’t stop. Two days since my flight had landed at JFK, and I hadn’t even left my apartment to restock the barren refrigerator or go to the Verizon store. I’d drank the last of the vodka, ate Lunchables, and slept.

  Until now. Because now someone was ringing the bell.

  Groaning, I dragged myself up from the bed and staggered to the front door. My feet crunched over the random broken objects that still lay all over the hardwood floors, but I ignored them. At least it wasn’t glass. I couldn’t handle any further injuries. Not because I was super wounded—the cuts on my hands were already healing—but because it would remind me too much of… him.

  The man with the tattoos.

  Scowling, I stumbled down the stairs, opened the door leading to the foyer, but hesitated before opening the door separating the foyer from the rest of the world. What if it was Landon? I’d made sure to keep his keys. But…

  “Charles? Is that you? I can see your hair.”

  Caleb’s concerned voice was like a warm soothing blanket thrown all over my anxiety and fear. Pathetically, I felt myself coming undone all over again. When I yanked the door open, I practically jumped on him and proceeded to cry all over his soft polo shirt.

  “What’s happened?” Caleb demanded, holding me gently to his chest. “Your phone’s been going to voice mail for two days, and I started to get paranoid. Did he hurt you?”

  I shook my head, realized I was making a mess of him, and took a step back. “Um… not physically?”

  Caleb looked me over carefully, those steady gray eyes searching for signs of abuse, b
efore he sighed, a low angry sound. With pursed lips and clipped movements, he shut the outer door to the house. “Is he here?”

  Caleb only sounded angry when he talked about Landon. It was something that used to make me feel guilty because part of me, even the parts that had been hurt, had always felt obligated to make excuses for Landon. To defend him. Now… Caleb’s regal voice lowering with quiet rage comforted me.

  “I kicked him out,” I said, throay scratchy and raw from two days of sobbing and sleeping and not speaking. “It was bad. I made a huge scene. You would have been embarrassed.”

  “I’m sure he deserved whatever crippling humiliation you bestowed upon him,” Caleb said reassuringly. He smiled, putting his big hands on my shoulders, and squeezed. “Why don’t we—”

  A loud creak emanated from behind the door next to mine, and I jumped. I put a hand over my heart, glancing back at the door, then at Caleb. “Let’s go upstairs. My neighbors don’t need to hear all this shit.”

  Caleb nodded, sliding his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts, and followed me inside. “They didn’t hear it when it was happening?” he asked quietly, ever conscious of people noticing drama.

  “If they did, they didn’t say anything. Although… I’ve been gone so long, the two sisters who stayed on the first floor could have moved out by now. Some of the houses on this block are like revolving doors.”

  “Strange. This neighborhood has good rent.”

  Of course he would know that. He’d probably researched it two years ago after learning I’d be moving to the city’s forgotten borough. I didn’t blame him. Before moving across the Verrazano, I’d never even stepped foot on Staten Island. The entire island had seemed like a strange bastard step child that people tried not to notice or talk about. I’d cringed at the idea of moving because it was so defined by the reputation of being strangely suburban, conservative, and full of people who acted like they’d escaped the set of Jersey Shore, but the cheap rent and larger square footage had won out. And, in the end, I loved my neighborhood and my beautiful apartment with never-before-seen square footage.