#Superfan Read Online Free Page B

comfortably in climate-controlled homes, with sweet little old ladies feeding them tuna treats.
    One morning, while working on a new order, there’s a commotion in the hallway. For a second my heart jumps into my throat. The last time I heard a noise outside my apartment resulted in me finding Mrs. Spearman face-down beside her pastel-pink, out of date toilet. A little shiver of fear creeps across my skin, raising the fine hairs on the back of my arms and neck.
    “I swear to God, if someone’s dead …” I pause, looking up at the ceiling. “What is this evil power you’ve bestowed upon me, Lord?” I shake my fist at the ceiling, but as usual, He doesn’t respond. No one ever takes me seriously, so why should He?
    Another bang brings me to my feet. I’m smarter this time around, slipping my feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers. Mrs. Spearman hit her head on the toilet during her fall, and when I turned her over to perform CPR, I nearly lost my balance from the gash on her forehead. Memories of my blood-stained toes invade my mind, but I brush the unpleasant recollection aside and peek out the peephole into the hallway.
    A group of uniformed men and one plain-clothed blond stand in front of Mrs. Spearman’s old apartment. The weirdness of the aged glass in the peephole distorts their images, leaving me with an unclear picture of my possible new neighbors. Laughing and chatting, they file into the apartment with boxes tucked under their arms, leaving and returning again with a treadmill, elliptical, and an eventual weight bench. I vaguely wonder where my new neighbor will store all these things.
    They leave the door ajar and one returns to the hallway. He leaves my range of view and returns later, a larger, bulging box in his arms.
    The plain-clothed blond elbows past him and into the hall. I narrow my eyes, studying him. Cally rubs her fat self against my ankles. I yelp in surprise at the sudden rush of fur against my skin. The blond guy’s head snaps in my direction and I stumble backward, cursing my new pet for all she’s worth.
    “Cal, what the hell?”
    Amber eyes stare up at me, pleading and slightly menacing. “Mew.”
    I know this look. This is the “feed me before I eat your face” look.
    “Half a cup, Cal. You know the rules.” I wag a finger at her. “Half a cup in the morning, half a cup at night. You’re on a diet, fatass.”
    Huffing, I stroll into the kitchen area and find the bag of tuna treats in the top of a cabinet. “One treat, Cal. One.”
    I toss her a tuna treat and watch her inhale it in two seconds flat. Someone tentatively knocks on the door, and I nearly piss myself, because people don’t just knock on my door. Not without calling to warn me they’re visiting first.
    “I swear to God, if it’s the new neighbor.” I glare at Cally and hustle to the door.
    Sure enough, the blond from earlier is standing in the hallway, this time in full view.
    “You gotta be kidding me.” I bump my forehead against the wood, not once, not twice, but eight times before twisting the doorknob.
    Eight.

#chapterthree
    Heaving a great sigh, I stare up at the ceiling. “Why, Lord? Why?”
    With a smug smile, Eight leans on the doorway. He glances past me at the fat cat sitting on the armrest of the couch licking her paw. Once again, his sleeves are pushed up above his elbows. The bandage is gone, scabs and fading bruises taking its place. The tiny slivers of abrasions on his knuckles have also healed, leaving miniscule silvery scars on his tan hands.
    “Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world …”
    “Hey, Eight.”
    His smile leaves me breathless. “Hey, Six.”
    His accent is somewhat thicker than mine. Six sounds like sex when the Southern drawl rolls off his tongue, waking up a feeling inside me normally reserved for Ayden Vaughn or my vibrator. Not to mention he’s quoting Casablanca , which makes him more of a nine than an actual eight. And he smells good, like jasmine and