Elliott Miller is your average 23 year-old, only with a lost father and a resentful mother. When he goes back to his hometown to make amends, he inadvertently gets dragged into the activities of an illicit criminal group.
Enter Marcel Nixon, 25, wh...
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I lay down on the bed of my new bedroom and stared up at the ceiling, reflecting on the tremendous changes that took place within the span of the last few days.
In one day, I'd gone from living in a studio apartment, smack-dab in the middle of Manhattan, to moving into a big house in a peaceful neighborhood away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. It was bizarre to think about it.
I'd been pulled out of my routine, told my life was in danger, and thrown into a suburban safehouse with a guy who looked like he walked out of a Calvin Klein billboard but moved like he dodged bullets for breakfast. I felt like a few mixed emotions were justified here.
I got up from the bed, stretched, and trudged to the window. Outside, the world looked unsettlingly normal. Quiet neighborhood, trimmed hedges, kids riding bikes in the distance, a dog barking somewhere down the street. It seemed painfully ordinary compared to what was going on in my life right now.
A soft knock on the doorframe pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts.
"Hey."
I sat up halfway, and there he was- tall, broad-shouldered, still clothed in that black t-shirt and black jeans combo. He leaned casually against the door, like he wasn't the exact source of most of my confusion and even some of my inappropriate thoughts.
His green eyes were fixed on me, unreadable, just like the rest of him. When I didn't say anything, he cleared his throat and shifted slightly, maybe catching on to the fact that my eyes had begun to narrow in on him.
I flushed and looked away.
"Uh, yeah. Hi. Sorry. Zoned out."
He huffed a small, almost amused sound. Not quite a laugh, but enough to kick my embarrassment up another notch. Where was that confidence I had earlier, in the bookstore? Gone. Vaporized.
"Do you need anything?" he asked. His voice was so seductively low.
"No. I mean... no, I'm good. Thanks." I hesitated.
He turned to leave the room but I stopped him.
"Actually, wait! Do you have a name? Or do I invent one in my head?"
He turned fully now, arms crossed, sizing me up like he was deciding whether to share state secrets or his Netflix password.
"Marcel."
I tilted my head. "And the last?"
He gave a small shrug. "Irrelevant."
"Well, Marcel," I said, exaggerating the name just a bit to test how it felt coming out of my mouth, "I'm hungry."
Okay, I wasn't really hungry but I couldn't just say his name and trail off like a gaping fish.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly catching on. "You're hungry."
