Chapter 4: The Apartment and the Landlady

The hallway was dirty and dim, the old sensor light casting a sickly yellow glow.

The air smelled of mildew and fried onions, and somewhere above, a TV blared a Judge Judy rerun—the remote probably held together with duct tape. The wallpaper peeled in wide strips, exposing water stains beneath.

Just as I was about to unlock my door, a shadow lunged at Natalie from the corner.

She shrieked—a brown toy poodle had torn her pant leg.

The little dog yapped and snapped, jaws clamped on the frayed hem, shaking like it was fighting a mountain lion. Natalie stumbled back, hands up defensively.

She hid behind me. I kicked the dog away and yelled at it.

The poodle bounced right back, teeth flashing, barking like it owned the floor. I gritted my teeth, ready to punt it again.

Heavy footsteps pounded the stairs. An old woman with a mess of permed hair rushed up.

She shot me a glare, then barked, "How dare you kick my baby? I’ll throw you out right now if you try that again!"

Her name’s Mrs. Peterson—my landlady. She’s the queen of the building, shuffling in house slippers and a neon tracksuit, lips painted cartoon red.

I didn’t dare talk back. If I lost this place, I’d never find a cheaper one.

I forced a smile and apologized.

"Mrs. Peterson, I’d never hurt your Muffin. But you really should keep him leashed—if he bites someone, that’s trouble..."

Mrs. Peterson jabbed a finger at me, spittle flying.

"If he bites someone, I’ll pay! But if you so much as touch my precious baby, you’re out on the street!"

Her eyes slid over Natalie, then she spat hard on the ground.

"I don’t want your kind of trouble in my building. She looks like she’s fresh outta county. Keep her away from my floor, you hear?"

She hugged Muffin tight and stomped off, hips swaying.

I gave Natalie an awkward smile and led her inside.

Though the building was old, I’d fixed up the apartment: wallpaper, ambient lights, even a carpet.

It wasn’t much—cheap IKEA furniture, thrift store lamps, a rug over the worst stains. I wanted it to feel like somewhere you could relax, at least for a night.

I found her a set of pajamas and pointed to the guest room.

"Take a shower and wash away the bad luck. You’ll sleep there tonight."

Natalie thanked me, took the clothes, and went to the bathroom.

I lit a scented candle, dimmed the lights, put on a sentimental old Otis Redding song.

A little Otis on the Bluetooth, the kind of mood music I’d seen in a hundred old movies. I made sure the couch pillows were fluffed and the living room was tidy.

Poured two glasses of champagne and waited for her to come out.

Everyone has needs.

After years in prison, most women can’t resist this kind of atmosphere. Once they’re a little tipsy, they throw themselves at me.

This trick has never failed, and I was sure it would work on Natalie too.

I’d even set the thermostat up a few degrees to make it cozy, knowing she’d feel safe and warm. I rehearsed my best comforting lines in my head, ready for her to melt into my arms.

Soon, the bathroom door opened.

Natalie, fresh from the shower, made me stare.

The pajamas were tight, silky, perfectly showing off her figure.

In the dim light, her skin looked dazzlingly white.

She sat beside me, giving a shy smile.

The scents of candle wax, shampoo, and her own fragrance mixed together, making me feel like I was about to combust.

I raised my glass to her:

"Congratulations on starting a new life."

Her eyes sparkled as she downed her drink in one go.

After a few rounds, I slid closer. When our arms touched, I trembled all over.

I put my arm around her shoulders, gazed into her eyes, and leaned in for a kiss.

But to my surprise, Natalie pushed me away.

Her cheeks flushed, and she dashed into the bedroom, covering her face.

I cursed under my breath, punching the sofa.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Natalie’s face, her body, her scent—they played over and over in my mind.

This delicacy—Natalie—I had to taste it for myself.

I tossed and turned, sheets tangled, every small noise in the apartment setting my teeth on edge. I stared up at the cracked ceiling, fantasizing about how I’d make her mine.