Part I: Prologue

Denver read the screen on her cell phone for what felt like the fiftieth time. 3:04PM

She sighed again and resisted the urge to reach into the glove compartment for her cigarettes. No, she told herself, you said you were cutting back, remember? With the New Year, new job, and (hopefully) this new house, things were looking up and she was making strides to improve her life. She knew she couldn't quit smoking at the drop of a hat, but cutting back to half a pack a day had seemed a reasonable compromise in her mind at the time.

Where the hell was the damn owner? He had told her to meet him here at 2:30 for the interview. She looked up and down the quiet residential street again, but no cars drove by. Being a Sunday afternoon, the only noise she heard came from a house a couple doors down. The garage door was wide open, and a man had a radio blaring heavy metal music as he worked under the hood of his vintage muscle car.

Finally, a noisy red jeep rounded the corner. That had to be him. She removed her sunglasses and hung them on the front of her scoop blouse before she stepped out of her car.

He parked behind her on the street and Denver waited expectantly for him on the sidewalk in front of the house she had her heart set on.

When he stepped out of the jeep she lost her smile. No, it wasn't him. She sighed again and leaned her back against the side of her car so that she could gaze admiringly at the house.

The guy from the jeep walked around her. She assumed he was visiting someone on the block and expected him to stroll up to one of the neighboring houses. Instead, he walked up the paved pathway of the same house she was parked in front of. He rang the bell and waited. What the hell?

Confused, Denver pushed herself off her car and went towards the stranger. "Are you here to see Gene?" she asked.

He turned away from the door and faced her. "Yeah, I'm here for an interview about renting one of the rooms."

She nodded in understanding. "So am I, but it looks like he's running late."

The tall blond checked his watch. "Only by a few minutes," he said. "But I can't judge. I'm late too. He told me to meet him here at 3 o'clock."

"Gene asked me to be here at 2:30."

Now it was his turn to nod. "Maybe he wanted to thoroughly interview each one of us." He paused. "How many others do you think there are?"

Denver hadn't even considered that. Her stomach sank a little at the thought of competition and she leaned against her car like before. "I have no clue. I hope not too many. I'm really counting on this place."

"I wouldn't be surprised if there are a lot of people lined up for this little house." He looked up and down the lengthy block of houses. "It's a nice area. Quiet, too."

Silence settled in, and being perfect strangers, the air felt awkward.

He reached deep inside the pockets of his brown pants and produced a roll of sour candy. "Want some?" he offered.

"No thanks," she declined.

He pulled back the sleeve on his baggy beige shirt to get a look at his watch. "It's almost 3:30. How long have you been waiting here?"

"Over an hour."

"How long do you plan on waiting around?"

"As long as it takes," she declared.

His hand raked through his messy blond hair. "You're a trooper. I wish I had that luxury, but I can't stay past 4 o'clock. I have another interview I need to get to after this."

Denver didn't have the chance to say anything else because a black BMW came racing down the street just then. When it deftly backed into the driveway for a neat parking job, she smiled. It was about damn time.

The man they had both been waiting for emerged from the vehicle with his hands up. "My apologies," Gene said with his hands high in the air. "My wife dumped the kids on me, and I couldn't get away. Come on in," he waved as he approached the front door with his keys jingling.

"Please, won't you both have a seat?" Gene said once they were inside the kitchen.

Only two chairs accompanied the small, square checkered table. They sat and waited as Gene patted multiple pockets before he found his glasses. "Ah, here we go." He rifled through two separate, thin stacks of papers. "I have your applications here – Denver Conley and Conrad Bledsoe – and I've spoken with each of your references over the phone." His eyes studied the documents in his hands as he spoke. "You've both passed background, security, and financial checks. Now," he removed his glasses to gaze them both over, "this is the fun part. I have to determine if you're fit to rent my property. I used to live here with my first wife. I got it in the divorce, but quite frankly, I can't stand being here which is why I'd rather rent it out. So, why should I let you live here?"

Conrad nervously tapped out his fingers on the table. "Well, I don't have any pets."

"Yes, I know," Gene said, "it was on your application. On yours, too," he said to Denver.

"You said you'd talked to my references," Conrad began, "my former landlord was one of mine, and he could tell you that I was a responsible tenant. My rent was never late, and I left the apartment in the same condition I found it."

"Feel free to chime in, Miss Conley," Gene said.

"You wouldn't have to worry about me bringing over my friends for crazy parties. We only trash fancy hotel rooms," Denver spoke blithely.

Conrad cracked a smile, but it took Gene a few seconds to catch onto her joke.

"Speaking of which," Gene said, "do either of you use, exchange, or profit from illegal drugs?"

Denver and Conrad shared a laugh, assuming he was making a joke of his own.

Gene's stone-cold, icy stare said otherwise.

"Wait, seriously?" Conrad asked.

"The last people who rented this house were meth addicts who eventually got caught by the police for dealing."

"I swear I don't do drugs," Denver promised. "I'll even get tested if that's what it takes to get me moved into this house. I smoke, but I'm trying to quit."

"Marijuana?" Gene guessed.

"Cigarettes," she clarified.

"And I can't do drugs. I work with kids," Conrad said. "I get randomly tested for drugs practically every month."

Gene scratched around his mustache. "I'd prefer to rent out this house to older tenants instead of a couple of kids in their early 20s, but you both seem like straight shooters. Could you commit to the minimum of a one-year lease?"

"Yeah," Conrad said.

"Of course," said Denver.

"All right, get me those safety deposit checks as soon as possible, and we'll sign those leases next weekend."

Author's Note: New story. Woohoo! This one has been on my brain for years.