RUSH (City Lights, #3)(29)

“They seem to make an appearance once every month or so. But so long as he takes the Azapram immediately, his suffering is minimal.”

I nodded solemnly and took the paper. “I’ll stay up on it. I promise.”

Lucien made to leave, and at the front door, he took my hand in his and patted it gently.

“I’m ever so pleased that you are here. For the first time, Noah will have constant support. Given time, he can’t help but warm to you and then perhaps…” His blue eyes shone as his words trailed. “I can’t help but feel a sense of hope for my Noah. Thank you, Charlotte, for being here.”

I know Lucien didn’t mean to, but I felt the weight of the pressure put on me by his hopeful smile and heartfelt words. I wanted to tell him that I “didn’t exist” for Noah until he needed me to, and that the idea of him warming to me seemed as far-fetched as unicorns suddenly prancing through the townhouse.

But Lucien was looking at me with such kindness.

I plastered on a smile. “I’m sure we’ll get along great.”





Chapter Ten


Charlotte

My first day on the job I woke up to an alarm clock, not to roommates having sex on the other side of paper-thin walls. The shower—my shower—was unoccupied, and when I made coffee in the kitchen upstairs, I had time to myself to savor it in peace. I sat and listened to the street noises outside, thinking the whole of New York City was open to me in a way it hadn’t been before. I wasn’t rolling in dough, by any stretch, but for the first time in a long time I could grab drinks with friends or see a movie without stressing over the dent those small expenses would put in my bank account.

I glanced down at my clothes: jeans and an old t-shirt. Not much in the way of style, but then I’d spent most of my days in a work uniform. I didn’t know what my style was. Now that I had a bit of discretionary spending, I thought I’d find out. But first, I had a job to do, and I meant to do it well.

Lucien had told me that since his rehab in White Plains, Noah’s sleep patterns were irregular. I sipped my coffee and listened for movement upstairs that would tell me it was okay to go up and gather the laundry. Silence. No creaking floorboards or anything else. I was to order and pick up Noah’s breakfast before nine o’clock. I figured I’d wait until I made that delivery to start on his clothes.

I made a simple breakfast for myself—eggs and bacon—then went out to retrieve Noah’s order. Every other Monday, it came from a little café on 75th. Just a Danish and a latte. I made the walk under brilliant spring sunshine, a bounce in my step, and a smile on my face that I wasn’t rushing around, waiting tables and praying for good tips.

I returned to the house with the breakfast and went up to the third floor. The door was ajar, but the room beyond was dark. I peeked my head in. Noah was sitting where he’d been the day before—at the table and chairs near the window—in exactly the same position: hunched over an audio book player, ear buds in. Thick, heavy curtains were drawn shut, keeping the room dim.

The scene was so identical to yesterday, I almost wondered if Noah had moved at all. But his clothing was different: black pants instead of gray, and a white t-shirt. Is this his entire life now? Just reading. Not even reading, listening to someone else read.

“Noah?” I called from the door. “Breakfast.”

He waved a hand without turning and I brought him the pastry and coffee. He didn’t look up when I approached, but then he couldn’t look; would never look at me. I set the coffee and little white bag on the table.

“On your right,” I said in slightly louder than a normal voice.

“Fine, thanks,” he muttered, his head down, eyes closed.

“I’m going to start laundry, if that works for you.”

He pushed a button on his device, and sat back. He cocked his head toward me, his gaze landing on my chin. This, I would soon learn, was his equivalent of eye contact.

“Are you going to check with me before you carry out all of your duties?” he asked. “Or can you manage to…you know…just do them?”

I crossed my arms, trying my best not to let his sarcasm get to me. “Since I’d be in and out of your room, I wanted to see if it was a good time for you.”

“I’ve got nothing but time,” Noah muttered.

I also figured by now that his non-answers were probably going to be all I could expect, so I set about doing the laundry.

The bedroom as a whole was dim, but the walk-in was pitch black. I stood for a moment, thinking that this was Noah’s world, permanently. He would never be able to find the light switch on the wall and flip it on, as I did then. I’d be pissed too. More than pissed. Devastated.

I gathered up the clothes strewn all over, not knowing precisely what was clean and what was dirty, but I’d rather have chewed tinfoil than ask Noah. He wouldn’t know anyway, I realized, and wondered how, aside from texture, he knew what he was putting on when he got dressed.

I washed, dried and folded his clothes, and when I came back an hour and a half later, Noah was still seated at the chair, the remnants of his breakfast on the table before him.

I went back to the closet but instead of putting the clothes back randomly, I devised a quick system to pair up the scores of athletic pants with t-shirts that matched. Pleased yet hesitant, I returned to his side. He was listening intently to his book, with his forehead resting on his hand.