“Yeah,” my mouth answers before my brain agrees. “I need the address again.”

My voice is shaky and unsure, but they don’t seem to notice.

The man who answered the phone gives me an address, and I quickly type it into the navigation on my phone. It crashes twice, and I have to ask him to repeat himself, but he obliges and tells me to hurry, bragging proudly that there is more liquor there than I’ve ever seen in my life.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER I’m in the small lot adjoining a run-down brick building. The windows are large, and the three of them are covered in what looks like white tape or possibly garbage bags. The lot is full of cars; the BMW that I drove here sticks out like a sore thumb. The only car even close in resemblance is Hardin’s rental. It’s near the front, blocked in, meaning he’s been here longer than most of the others.

When I reach the door of the building, I take a deep breath to gather my strength. The stranger on the phone said it was the second door on the third floor. The shady building doesn’t seem large enough to have three floors, but as I climb the stairs, I’m proven wrong. Loud voices and the thick smell of marijuana hit me before I even reach the top of the staircase on the second floor.

Looking up, I have to wonder why Hardin would be here. Why would he come to this place to deal with his issues? As I reach the third floor, my heart is racing and my stomach is tied in knots as my mind flips through all of the possible things that could be happening behind the scarred and graffitied door number two.

I shake my head, clearing all the doubts. Why am I so paranoid and nervous? This is Hardin I’m talking about, my Hardin. Even mad and withdrawn, beyond cruel words he would never do anything to purposely hurt me. He is going through a hard time with all of his family issues, and he just needs me to stomp in there and take him home with me. I’m psyching myself out and getting worked up for nothing.

The door opens just before I reach up to knock, and a young guy wearing all black walks past me without stopping or closing the door behind him. Waves of smoke roll out into the hallway, and I have to fight the urge to cover my nose and mouth. I step across the threshold, coughing.

And stop in my tracks at the sight in front of me.

Shocked by the sight of a half-naked girl sitting on the floor, I look around the room and notice that nearly everyone is half-naked.

“Lose the top,” a young guy with a beard says to a bleach-blond girl. She rolls her eyes but quickly disposes of her shirt, leaving her in only a bra and panties.

Staring at the scene a little longer, I realize that they are playing some sort of card game that involves taking their clothes off. This realization is much better than the initial conclusion my mind went to, but only a little.

I’m slightly relieved that Hardin isn’t in the group of increasingly naked cardplayers, and I scan the crowded living room but don’t see him.

“You coming in, or what?” someone asks. I look around, searching for the source of the voice. “Close the door behind you and come in,” he says, stepping forward from behind someone at my left. “Have I met you before, Bambi?”

He chuckles, and I shift uncomfortably as his bloodshot eyes rake over my body, staying too long on my chest to be considered anything but vulgar. I don’t like his chosen nickname for me, but I can’t seem to find a way to tell him my real name. Given the sound of his voice, I’m sure he’s the person that answered Hardin’s phone.

I shake my head; all words have dissolved on my tongue.

“Mark,” he introduces himself, reaching for my hand, but I flinch away. Mark . . . I instantly recognize the name from Hardin’s letter and other stories about him. He’s friendly enough, but I know how he really is. I know what he did to all those girls. “This is my flat. Who invited you?”

At first I think he’s mad because of the question, but his face just reads bravado instead. His accent is thick, and he is attractive. Somewhat frightening, but attractive. His brown hair is sticking up at the front, and his facial hair is messy yet groomed, a “douche-bag, hipster look,” as Hardin calls it, but I find it decent. His arms are bare of any tattoos, but two piercings stick out below his bottom lip.

“I’m . . . uhm . . .” I struggle to get a grip on my nerves.

He laughs again and grabs hold of my hand. “Well, Bambi, let’s get you a drink to relax you.” He smiles. “You’re freaking me out.”

As he leads me to the kitchen, I’m beginning to wonder if Hardin is even here. Maybe he dropped the car here and his phone before going someplace else. Maybe he’s in the car. Why didn’t I check it? I should probably go down and do that; he was so tired he just might be napping—

Then my breath is knocked clear from my chest.

If anyone were to ask me how I feel right now, I’m not sure what I would say. I don’t think I’d have an answer. There’s pain and heartache and panic and rejection, but at the same time I feel numb. I feel nothing and everything at once, and it’s the worst sensation I have ever felt.

Leaning against the counter with a joint between his lips and a bottle of liquor in one hand is Hardin. But that’s not what makes my heart stop. What stole my breath is the woman sitting on the counter behind him, her bare legs wrapped around his waist, her body around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Scott! Give me the damn vodka. I need to make my new friend Bambi here a drink,” Mark yells.

Hardin’s bloodshot eyes turn to Mark, and Hardin smiles nastily, a dark look that I have never before seen from him. As he turns from Mark to me, to find out who Bambi is, I’m close enough to see his dilated pupils blow out, instantly wiping away that foreign expression.