Chapter Text
Roommate Wanted
I work nights so you’ll hardly ever see me. The apartment is fully furnished, just could use a little more life.
$400/month in Pacific Hills, utilities included.
Inquiries can be made at xxx-xxx-xxxx
———
You hadn’t even been aware the Help Wanted section still existed. Surely only little old ladies and creeps still posted their Help Wanted ads to a newspaper instead of Facebook Marketplace or Craigslist. This has to be some kind of joke. Rent like this is impossible to find. And the location? Forget about it.
You only grabbed the newspaper as a distraction. You needed something in your hands to stop from fidgeting with your phone. Instead of doom scrolling onto an inevitable eviction email. Three payments past due, you know it’s coming. There had been a stack of newspapers waiting untouched in front of the coffee shop and with no other alternative, you seized the opportunity while you drowned your sorrows in an extra large pumpkin cold brew. The caffeine clarity would hit soon enough, and by then, maybe you’d have a plan for escape. A new apartment. A new job. But right now, you are currently sitting jobless and nearly homeless, staring at an advertisement for a roommate that seems to good to be true.
“They are probably a serial killer.”
You pull the newspaper away from the prying eyes of your best friend and resident barista, Luna.
“They are probably just desperate,” you mutter.
“Yea but posting in a newspaper?” She gives you a long look. “Please tell me you aren’t so desperate that you are thinking of actually responding to this creep?”
You stare down at the ad one more time. “Rent everywhere else is completely unaffordable,” you tell her. “Until I can get myself out of this debt hole, this could be good for me. This could actually help me save a little to get myself back on my feet.”
“At the cost of being murdered and chopped up into little pieces?”
Luna sits down beside you at the table. The coffee shop is slow tonight, but her manager still eyes her suspiciously from behind the counter. Luna doesn’t seem to care however.
“Jules and I have a perfectly available couch you can crash on for as long as you need,” she says as she reaches for your hand. “No potential serial killers included.”
“I don’t know, Luna… Jules always gave off ‘might be into murder’ vibes,” I tease with a playful smile. But her expression remains serious. “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to text them and see if I can scope out the situation. What’s the worst that could happen?”
The worst is that they don’t even respond. The text message sits unread for a few days before you cave in and try calling them instead. You must truly be desperate to actually brave a phone conversation with them that isn’t masked behind a digital screen. The last person you called on the phone was your mother, and that conversation hadn’t exactly ended on the best of terms.
The phone rings a few times before a groggy man finally answers.
“H-Hello?”
For a moment, you debate hanging up right away. There hadn’t been a name listed on the ad. It was naive to think the poster might have been a woman. A little old lady even. Naive to think it wasn’t just a creepy man looking for some desperate youth to take advantage of. You aren’t so old fashioned that you can’t be roommates with a guy but it is enough to make you reconsider this whole arrangement. Didn’t they teach you against this exact behavior in your self defense classes?
“Hi… um, I’m calling about your apartment ad,” you say anyway. “Is this a bad time?”
“Yes,” the man responds with a groan. “What time is it?”
You lift your phone away from your face to take a look. “Five fifteen,” you read. You figured it was a reasonable enough time, but maybe you caught him in the middle of an early dinner.
“Can you call back later?” He nearly growls.
“Uh, yea. Sorry.” You hang up quickly, feeling embarrassed for even bothering. You decide right then and there that you won’t try again. But that’s when the official eviction notice slips into your inbox. You have a week to move out, barely enough time to even pack up what little belongings you have. You could always take Luna up on her couch surfing offering but you had too much pride for that. You promised yourself it would never come to that. Between your odd end jobs, and debt collectors waiting like vultures for you to slip up, you need this apartment. Even if it’s too good to be true. So at nine o’clock, you try calling again.
This time, he sounds a bit more receptive when he answers.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me. Same girl that called before,” you say, feeling strangely nervous. Phone calls have never exactly been your forte.
“Right! Yes,” he replies and gives an exhaustive sigh. “I’m sorry if I came off like such an ass before. I just woke up.”
“At five?”
He laughs lightly. “You read the ad, right?”
You remember now. He works nights.
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” you sputter. “If you’re working right now I can-"
“No. This is perfect,” he says gently. “So, you are actually interested in moving in?”
“Kind of hard not to be,” you reply honestly. “That rent is unbelievable. Four hundred? You sure that wasn’t a mistake?”
“No mistake,” he reassures. “Though you are the only person who has called asking about it.”
“Probably because you posted it to a newspaper,” you mutter.
“Is that… bad?” He asks. And the genuine hesitation in his voice makes your guards come down just slightly.
“You would have been better off on Craigslist but I get it. Lots of creeps on the internet too.”
He is quiet for a moment. As if he were processing what you’ve said.
“Would you want to come take a look at the place first?” He finally asks.
“Sure. Yes,” you answer too quickly. “I mean, that would probably be for the best, you know if we are going to be living-“
“You okay?” He asks, cutting you off. “You seem nervous.”
“Phone calls,” you laugh, trying to brush it off. “I tried texting you first.”
“Texting?” He says, his tone wrought with confusion. “Oh! That. Uh, no. This is a landline.”
“A… landline?” You ask in disbelief. Your parents had a landline. But that was nearly a decade ago.
“I’m a little… old fashioned,” he answers. “But I can see about getting a better phone if you move in. Would make communicating easier.”
“Right.” You take a deep breath. “Yes, I’d like to see the place. Tomorrow?”
“Are you available after sunset? With my hours, it would be easier that way.”
You can hear Luna in the back of your mind telling you this is red flag city.
“Sure. That’s fine,” you agree anyway. You’d just make sure to bring Luna along as backup. And pepper spray.
“I’m Eddie by the way,” he says. “Eddie Munson.” You tell him your name as well; a delayed introduction. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
You say goodnight and hang up, wondering if you just signed your own death certificate.
———
“You’re what?” Luna snaps the moment you tell her your plans. “You are not seriously going there at night!”
“Correction,” you start. “We are going there. Tonight.”
“Like hell we are,” she bites back. “I’m looking this guy up.” She pulls her laptop closer, typing in his name.
Jules, her wife, is behind her, sorting dishes out of their dishwasher. “We really don’t mind if you stay with us until you are back on your feet,” she insists.
“You just got married,” you remind them. “I’m not intruding on your marital bliss. And this place is barely big enough for the two of you as it is.”
Luna leans back away from her laptop. “It was Eddie Munson, right?” She asks.
“Yea.” You look at her screen. The only result is for an obituary. From 1986.
“Maybe that’s his dad,” Jules offers as she comes around to look. She has a sympathetic look on her face.
“If it was his dad, that would put this guy in his forties,” Luna comments with a scowl.
"He didn't sound forty," you mutter.
“He has to be here somewhere," Luna goes on. "An Instagram. A Twitter. Something.” She continues scrolling, looking for any scrap of evidence that your potential roommate exists on the internet, and therefore the real world.
“He doesn’t even own a cell phone,” you remind her. “Why would he have social media?”
“Because everyone does!” She snaps. She closes her laptop in frustration. “You really still want to go there tonight?”
“It’s four hundred a month,” you remind her. “And if you come with me, you can tell me if the vibes are off or something.” Luna always did have a way of knowing people’s business within five seconds of meeting them. She calls it her ‘no bullshit intuition’.
Despite her reservations, a few hours later, at sundown, you are sitting in the passenger seat of Luna’s car as you drive to Eddie’s apartment. This part of town is a relic of old Hollywood glamor. It was big in the 80s. Up and coming actors and actresses rented out space in the area due to its proximity to local casting calls. Rock stars had summer homes up in the hills. Now it is a bit more suburbia but the charm still remains.
“Four hundred a month,” Luna repeats as she scopes out the lush landscapes of the gated homes you pass. “You sure he didn’t mean four thousand and miss a zero in the ad?”
“He confirmed it on the phone,” you tell her, though you can’t help feeling skeptical yourself. You check the address you’d written down one more time. “Should be right up here.”
Ahead of you is a line of cars blocking the road. Expensive cars. People skip up the sidewalk on either side of the road to approach a house at the end of the block, just past Eddie’s apartment building.
“Whoa. Must be some party,” Luna comments as she leans forward against the wheel to get a better look. Everyone is dressed for a night of excess, glitter and leather wrapped around model-type bodies. “Does a celebrity live up here?”
“Has to be,” you mutter. “Charlie Sheen or some Hugh Hefner type.” You eye a girl walking by in just heels and some type of lingerie ensemble. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
Luna looks over at you. “We are already here,” she says, glaring. “You were the one that was so set on doing this. So we are doing this. I’ll circle the block one more time to find someplace to park. You head in.” She looks out the passenger window. “That should be his building there. Just keep your mace at the ready.”
You give your purse a protective pat. “Already got it.”
You step out of the car and approach the apartment. It’s a small building, only about four floors, and Eddie said he lived in the “penthouse”. You can practically feel the blare of the bass coming from the party down the road. If this is a regular occurrence, you might become a night owl like Eddie as well. It would explain why he chose to work nights instead of days like a normal person. You head inside the building and at the top floor, you are met by a single door. 400. Eddie’s apartment. Shit, did the 400 mean his number and not the cost?
You knock twice and step back, placing your hand inside your purse in case you need to act fast. But when the door opens a moment later, your hand flutters away.
The man standing in front of you looks like he stepped right out of an 80s rock music video. His jeans are loose, hanging at his hips. His shirt is torn in a few places, revealing patches of pale skin beneath and ripples of toned muscle. Your gaze moves up, back to his face, where two dark eyes stare back at you beneath a smear of eye shadow and a curtain of long curly brown hair. His eyebrow is pierced, so are his ears, his nose, and his upper lip, now curling into an expectant smile. You realize you’ve probably been staring an uncomfortable amount of time and look away. Your cheeks feel warm.
“Right on time,” he says, unbothered by your perusal as he pulls away from the doorframe, making room for you to step inside.
You hesitate. “Eddie, I presume?”
His eyes sparkle. “The one and only. Glad you found the place okay.”
“Was a little difficult with the party happening down the street,” you remark. “Is that a common occurrence?”
Eddie winces slightly. “Unfortunately,” he replies. “But only on the weekends. I promise.” He steps back again and motions with his arm inside the apartment. “Please, come in.”
You reach back into your purse as you step into his home. It’s colder inside than it is outside. You shiver as you pull your sweater a bit more tightly around yourself. But otherwise, the space has a strangely warm feel. From the dark painted walls, to the low amber light from the lamps littering the living room, to the assortment of plush furniture scattered around, it feels… comfortable. You even eye a record player in the corner, beside a box stuffed full of old music.
“Where should we start the tour?“ Eddie asks, his tone a bit more cheerful than you are expecting. He clasps his hands together and you can’t help noticing the assortment of rings studding each one of his fingers.
“You sure know how to accessorize,” you say.
“I’m a fan of silver,” he comments as he follows your gaze to his hands. He flutters his fingers a bit, letting the silver jewelry catch the low light of the room. You even notice a few tattoos on his fingers. Faded symbols.
You shift your gaze away from him, feeling yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It’s just because he isn’t dressed like every other cookie cutter hipster you typically run into in this part of town. At least that’s what you tell yourself. “Do you smoke?”
“Shit,” he mutters. “Does it smell in here? I don’t even really notice it anymore.”
“It does a little,” you admit. You smelled the richness of the tobacco the moment you stepped inside. But somehow it gives the apartment the feeling of a museum; the fumes wafting up from a different era.
“I won’t smoke in the apartment when you move in,” he says. “There is a balcony I can use instead. Scouts honor.” He put his hand over his heart in a dramatic show of his promise.
“When I move in,” you repeat, rising an eyebrow slightly. “That’s pretty presumptuous.”
He laughs lightly. “Right. Tour first.”
He moves around you, leading you into the kitchen. “I don’t use it much,” he says. And you can tell by the spotless nature of the appliances. As if they are brand new. Except they, like much else in the apartment, look like artifacts from another time. Antique.
He moves down the hall. “My room is here to the right. And this one would be yours.” He opens the left door and urges you inside. The room is quite spacious, a queen size bed set in the center, a large closet to the left, and a full, floor to ceiling window covered in sheer curtains to the right. You can see the moonlight streaming in through the see-through fabric. The room itself is almost as big as your last two apartments combined.
“Wow,” you can’t help saying as you step inside. You run your hand along the velvety comforter laid across the bed. You could see yourself actually getting a good night’s sleep here. As long as the neighbors can keep their partying to a minimum. Through the walls, you can still hear the music bumping and the lights flashing from the mansion down the street.
“There’s only one bathroom though, unfortunately,” Eddie says as he remains, standing in the doorway.
“That won’t be a problem,” you tell him. “I shared a bathroom with four girls back in college.”
You turn to look at him and find him smiling at you, arms crossed over his chest.
“But you've never shared one with a man before?” He questions.
“No.” You swallow thickly.
He smiles. “Shouldn’t be an issue anyway. Like I said, I’m never here at night so we can be on a rotation with it.” You must be staring at him strangely because he quickly adds, “With showers.”
“Right. Yea. That would work.” You look past him to his bedroom across the hall. “Do you have to use black out curtains or something?”
His eyes darken just slightly. Or perhaps that’s just your imagination. “Something like that.”
You step around him, walking to his door. Your hand goes to the doorknob. “Can I see-“
His hand is on your wrist before you even hear him move. His grip is tight, nearly painful as he constructs your movement. Realizing he may be hurting you, he unlatches his grip instantly.
“My room is off limits,” he says. His tone is calm, despite the panic of his former grip. Almost apologetic. “That is my one stipulation if you do move in. You have free access to everything else in the apartment. This place would be yours as much as it is mine. But my room is the one place you cannot go. No matter the circumstances.”
“Even if the building is on fire?” You joke. But when you meet his gaze, you can see that he is quite serious. “Okay. Don’t go into your room. Got it.”
You can feel the distinctive rhythm of your heart pushing against your wrist where he’d once held onto you. You massage it mindlessly.
His shoulders relax. “I’m just kind of private that way,” he tries to explain. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You nod but can’t help the nervous blabber leaving your lips. “You sure you’re not some kind of serial killer?” you ask. “And there aren’t bodies in there?” You lean in a bit, trying to see if you can smell anything off. Like bleach. But all you can smell is the stale scent of his tobacco once again. “I mean I have nice skin but I’d rather keep it on my body, ya know?”
Eddie is quiet for a moment. He leans back against the wall, his gaze low.
“You are safe here,” he says, his voice low but almost wounded by the assertion, even if it had partially been a joke. “I don’t want you to ever feel you might be at risk living here with me." You stare across at him. The distance between you now feels much larger than the width of the narrow hallway. He shoves his hands into his pockets and gives out a long sigh. “I know this might not be ideal for you.”
“I’m not exactly in a position to be selective,” you say under your breath. You shiver against the cold air of the apartment and cling to your sweater as your only safety net against the chill. “Oh that’s right.” You reach into your purse. “I brought a list of references in case you want to make sure I’m not a serial killer.”
He chuckles softly. “Wasn’t really concerned but I appreciate it.”
Your hand slips over the piece of paper, the edge slices through your finger. A paper cut. You hiss and immediately plop your finger into your mouth to clean off the small droplet of blood.
“Are you alright?” He asks as he steps toward you. “Did you-“
His nostrils flare as he nearly stumbles back into the adjacent wall.
“Was just a paper cut,” you start to say before your eyes meet his across the hall. Panic seizes your body. You can’t move. His gaze is now impossibly dark; the whites of his eyes nearly gone. Two black holes stare back at you as his chest heaves with each struggled inhale. Like a predator lurking in the shadows, there is only a small sheen shimmering off his eyes as he looks at you from the forced distance.
But before you can say anything more, a pounding at the front door averts your attention. You reach for your phone and see three missed calls and a string of unanswered text messages from Luna.
“Shit. That’s probably my friend.” You say as you race back to the front door. “She’s a bit protective.”
You swing open the door and find Luna armed with her own mace, aimed right at your face.
“Jesus, Luna!”
“Fuck!” She exclaims, lowering her arm, and her self defense weapon along with it. “Why didn’t you answer your damn phone?” She shoots a glare over your shoulder at Eddie, who is still lingering in the hallway. “You don’t look dead.”
“Luna,” you growl.
“Glad my troubled youth didn’t wreck my appearance too terribly,” Eddie comments lightheartedly. You turn to look at him and find that he has returned to normal. His hands are in his pocket casually. Though his jaw still seems tense as if he were grinding his teeth. Perhaps you’d only imagined his strange reaction to your cut.
“Troubled youth,” Luna scoffs. “How old are you anyway? Like thirty?”
“I stopped counting awhile ago,” he says. He turns his gaze back onto you, his irises brightening back to a deep chocolate hue rather than their former black. “So what do you say? Want to move in?”
You are out of options. But your initial meeting with Eddie hasn’t exactly been free of red flags. His room off limits, his off hours, his reaction to your cut. You should listen to the part of your brain telling you to run. But there is another part that can’t help but want to get under his skin. To see why he had reacted like a cornered dog at the first sight of blood.
"It is four hundred, right?" you ask quietly.
He nods and flashes you a smile. And beneath his lips, you swear you see the peaks of his canines, a bit sharper than your own.
“I’ll move in.”