Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Poppy

"Well, if it isn't my favorite new person," a voice booms down the hall.

Harper and I turn our heads in unison, only to spot Kent strutting towards us like he's auditioning for a spot on a ridiculously sexy – and possibly cringy – calendar. Hammer and drill in hand, sweaty and grinning like he just won a lottery.

"Howdy, Kent," Harper purrs, practically sashaying her way down my spanking new hallway.

For the love of all things holy, can someone please make it a sin for her to keep saying "Howdy" to every man in Texas?I mentally plead with the universe, praying for divine intervention.

I watch in sheer amazement as Harper works her magic, swaying her hips like she's orchestrating a symphony of seduction.

How the heck does she do it?

If I tried to move my hips like that, I'd probably trip over my own feet.

My eyes look beyond Kent, hoping that if I don't witness him and Harper interact again, it might never really happen.

I shoot a sly glance at my less-than-enthusiastic movers who, compared to the 'Magic Mike' special over yonder, appear as if they're about to stage a full-blown mutiny. With a deft move, I swing open the door to my brand-new penthouse, practically ushering them inside before promptly shutting the door behind me.

The emptiness of the apartment sends an eerie chill down my spine. This is it; I escaped. I did it. I've been alone for the past few years, but now I truly am alone. No memories, no walls of my childhood home to make me feel less alone. This is officially my blank page, a space where I will make writing my new chapters.

I want to be giddy, giggle, and jump for joy, but this new beginning is bittersweet. I can continue living my life; my parents and brother can't.

A voice behind me breaks my daze, "Where do you want the boxes?"

I turn to face one of the movers and clear my throat, pushing down the lump of unease suddenly lodged there.

"Um," I begin, "All the boxes are color-coded and labeled. The primary bedroom is over here," I gesture, walking past him, still feeling like a stranger in my domain. Truth be told, I never actually set foot in this place before buying it. It was a sight-unseen purchase, but I've studied the video the realtor sent me more thoroughly than I ever studied for the SATs.

I point to various corners and rooms: " The Kitchen is here, the pantry is there. The guest bedroom is this way." I indicate the hallway to the left, where I plan for Harper to crash when she's in town. "And the third bedroom is going to be my office."

"Lovely," He grunts.

Ok, Mr. Sunshine, I'll ignore that rude tone since you have to put up with my neighbors.

Once he's out of earshot, I quickly retrieve my extra-large flash cards and label maker from my bag. In a bit of a rush, I start placing a label next to each room just to ensure that any potential confusion on their part is swiftly quelled. Everything has to be neat and organized, safely in its zone.

I sense Harper's presence entering the space. I turn to her and find her eyes locked onto me. "Are we in first grade or your new apartment?" she teases with a raised eyebrow.

I shrug, feigning innocence, "Just helping the movers out. They might not know the layout."

She strides over and peels the "Pantry" label off the wall. "This isn't a sex dungeon, honey. It's a pantry. One plus one. Simple. They're probably annoyed because they have to watch Kent and his friends strut around in an honest-to-god furnace outside, well, remaining smoking hot. I want to lick the sweat dripping off of Kent's abs; they are probably pissed that they want to take a lick too."

"So, it's official then," I muse, "we're on a first-name basis with the neighbors."

A mischievous glint lights up Harper's eyes, "Oh, we'll be way more than just on a first-name basis, Poppy."

***

In the following hour, Harper and I find ourselves engaged in the laborious task of relocating boxes to their respective rooms. "How difficult is it to read a simple label?" Harper growls in exasperation.

"That's it, we're all done, lady." One of the movers states with an utterly expressionless face.

Done what?

Done messing up the boxes? He means he figured out the correct room locations, right?

"Done?" I echo as my eyes scan his proximity to my door. The scene before me tells a different story: furniture strewn across the living room in a chaotic arrangement of mismatched pieces. Nothing has been assembled. And, to add a layer of absurdity, boxes are still misplaced in all the wrong rooms.

"You mean you're taking a lunch break now."

The mover's response lacks any remorse, "No." He casually reaches for his tool bag, leaving me wondering why on earth he even needs a tool bag if the intention was never to put anything together.

"You brought the furniture up; you have to assemble it."Meanwhile, Harper and I must continue our game of Tetris, trying to navigate the sea of boxes you can't place in the correctly labeled room!

His retort comes as a grunt, conveying enthusiasm that rivals a sloth's reaction to rain. "Our job is to pack and unload. That's it."

While I didn't expect them to rearrange my underwear drawer, I certainly didn't anticipate them leaving my bed frame in a DIY puzzle mode.

I am not a DIY kind of girl. I tried to hammer a screw into the wall once. Not realizing you don't hammer screws. Harper never lets me live that down. I missed the screw and made a golfball size hole in the drywall.

Can you imagine how I would reassemble my bed? I'd be better off trying to Duct Tape the frame together than being trusted with a tool kit.

Harper strides past me. Her hands assertively land on her hips, and if my hunch is right, I can practically hear her inner ferocity roaring into life. The movers saunter toward the exit, with Harper giving chase like a lioness protecting her territory.

"You'd better come back here and do what we paid you for!"

Yes, I did pay for them to assemble the furniture. I remember highlighting that in the contract.

Suddenly, a wave of unease washes over me, teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack. It's as if everything around me is spiraling out of control, echoing past experiences where my voice went unheard, where I was ignored and taken advantage of, then simply erased.

My heartbeat quickens, racing like a thoroughbred at the starting gate.

As if to punctuate the mayhem, the mover nonchalantly brushes past the hallway strewn with boxes, uttering a parting jab of "Fuck off, lady."

My eyes bulge so wide that it's a miracle they stay in their sockets.

"Say that to my face!" Harper retorts as she charges after.

This hallway is about to become a war zone! Lunging forward, I grasp onto Harper's bicep and try to jerk back.

"What did you just say?" A commanding voice from the neighboring apartment shouts, the music cuts off, and everything goes radio silent.

The newcomer's deep baritone jolts me like an electric shock, snapping my attention back into focus. It's a voice that cuts through the tension, demanding acknowledgment—the opposite of what my voice has been for the past years.

This isn't just someone speaking; it's someone asserting their authority.

Reacting instinctually, I grip Harper's arm a tad too tightly, eliciting a wince that tells me I may have overdone it.

A tall figure steps into view in an almost choreographed move—the man with the arm sling. "I know I misheard you. I know," he strides slowly like a predator stepping out to pounce on some poor animal at a watering hole. Each step makes my heart slow into a deep thump that makes me shake.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"You did not just speak that way to a lady." He begins, his voice radiating confidence that could rival a lion's roar. Moving past us, he stands like a shield between us and the retreating movers.

"Oh, I love Texas; It's like a real-life cowboy standoff," Harper mutters as her body relaxes.

I respond with a well-placed elbow to her ribs. Now is not the time. I'm practically falling down a hole of panic.

My "charming" movers size up the man. The elevator chimes its arrival, and the two scramble into it.

Inhaling deeply, the man flexes his muscles, his back resembling a choreographed routine from a bodybuilding competition. I've read about backs like his in romance novels and seen them grace the screens of superhero films, but to witness a muscled back like this in person is a sensory overload of epic proportions.

And then, in a cinematic moment, he pivots, and it feels like time has decided to take a coffee break. My heart races as his gaze looks past Harper to my shaking form behind her.

"Do you want me to get them?" He asks as if it would be simple to drag two grown men out of the elevator and toss them at our feet.

"Hell, yes," Harper replies.

"No." I squeak. "Just let them go. I'll try using Duck Tape to assemble everything."

His eyes bounce from Harper to me. I expect them to go back to my supermodel best friends, but they remain on me, looking me up and down.

I feel hot, feverish, panicky, and…strangely relaxed under his glare. It's the way his eyes zoom in on me. It's…well, I can't find words to describe it, only feelings. I feel like a thirsty seed that was just drenched with water, refreshed and renewed like I can grow again and poke my head out of the soil that has been covering me.

I want to grow again because I like how he's looking at me, like the sun warming my cold roots.

"I won't let them hurt you," he says, his voice steady.

Suddenly, his statement makes me want to cry because he knows. He can see what I've hidden from Harper. From everyone.

I've been hurt. Badly.

Those who know you best are blind; they can't see the change. Strangers, though, they see the scars clearly. In fact, it's the scars they notice first.

He flexes his muscles subtly as he speaks, a quiet display of strength. With a confident nod, his unwavering gaze locks with mine, an unspoken promise of protection. More than his words, the assurance in his eyes begins to unravel the tight knot of fear that Andrew tied deep inside me.

This stranger sees me. I'm not erased.

His eyes carry the shade of a cloudy gray day, and for a brief moment, all thoughts collide and merge as I struggle not to swoon. I might even require CPR at this point, not to mention I'm inexplicably parched, dizzy, and teetering on the edge of fainting.

But hold on – why am I swaying? And does the hallway suddenly possess an affinity for the cha-cha? The world has taken a topsy-turvy turn, and the one doing the falling isn't the dashing hero; it's me.

Fantastic.

And then, in the blink of an eye, darkness descends.