The address turned out to be an apartment twenty minutes from campus. Four stories of luxury apartments and a doorman who was giving her the most judgmental look she'd seen in ages. The girls who'd poked fun of her in middle school could have learned a thing or two from this guy.

"Sherman Brewer, he invited me over," Juniper repeated for the fourth time. "If you could just buzz him or call him or however you contact the residents, he'll tell you the same thing." A harsh wind whipped past her bare calves. The capris which had seemed a great idea at the beginning of a late summer day were now a torture device of her own making.

"No unauthorized personnel in the building," the doorman said. The droll voice didn't hide the little way he smirked. Clearly he was enjoying being an ass just because he could.

The door behind him opened suddenly and a familiar head of unruly hair poked out. "Hey, Juniper, you made it. Come on in," Sherman called to her.

The doorman was finally forced to stand to the side out of her way. It may have been childish but Juniper didn't hide her upturned nose or the gesture she made at his back on the way by.

Warmth flooded her inside the lobby. The nerves on her legs defrosted. "Is he always that bad?"

"Nah, he's been a little extra on edge lately. A celebrity moved into the building and apparently he had a bit of a stalker problem," Sherman explained quickly. "It's his job to keep them out."

"And I look like a stalker?" Juniper scoffed.

"They can look like anyone, Juniper," he said.

He led her to a set of narrow stairs and up to the third story. "I already ordered, I hope you're okay with pickles." Sherman held the door open, letting her into a modestly sized apartment. The outside expansiveness apparently did not fully translate to a spacious interior.

Though the size was nothing awe inspiring every piece of furniture looked so carefully selected and well put together. The leather couches, the antique styled coffee table, the massive television. Juniper whistled low as she made a slow circuit around the living room.

"Are you secretly a trust fund kid?" she asked once she'd finish her self-guided tour.

Sherman shook his head, gesturing for a space for her shoes and then one of the two couches. "Just very lucky I guess you could say." He slid in beside her on the couch with a reasonable distance between them. "Good family, plenty of opportunities, smart saving, you know the drill."

"I know the drill, this is not the drill," Juniper said. The leather clung to her bare calves, prepared to take the top layer of her skin if she dared to lean into it any further. Talk about mass exfoliation.

Another casual shrug from Sherman as he looked around. It almost looked as if he was seeing the understated wealth splashed across the room for the first time. He winced. "Maybe this was too much, too obvious," he murmured.

"Too obvious?" Juniper repeated.

Before she could push for more or let him answer, an intercom by the door lit up. "That'll be the food. Bathroom is there, feel free to look around," he called over his shoulder as he rushed out.

Snooping was not one of Juniper's favorite pastimes. There wasn't a driving need in her to seek out people's secrets just because they wouldn't tell her. But he'd said feel free to explore and that she didn't want to pass up. Rich people always had that one odd thing in their house that they insisted was totally normal and a basic part of home decor.

That was something Juniper wanted to see.

At her parent's home, that thing was a full sized cotton candy machine that they never used.

Juniper made a second quick circle of the living room before poking around the kitchen. It looked mostly unused except for the coffee maker. She even ran a finger along the edge of the stove to check for grease and she was pretty sure her finger left behind more oil than any of his cooking had.

The bathroom she skipped entirely, sights fixed on the bedroom door across the narrow hallway. The door was wide open giving her an immediate view of his large bed and window with the closed curtains. If the door wasn't even closed surely he meant she was free to explore that room too.

Feeling a bit like a bookish princess in the wrong wing of the castle, Juniper slid into the empty room. The hardwood floors were cold underfoot. Not a single one creaked on her way by. This would have been a rebellious teen's dream flooring. All of the walls were bare except for an empty whiteboard set alongside one wall.

That was the only thing that looked like it got any use in the entire apartment. Small flecks of dried marker erasings littered the floor by the base. A fresh pack of unopened markers took up the center space on an empty desk shoved into the corner.

Juniper paused when she reached the desk. There, in the far back almost hidden completely by the desk chair, was a guitar case. Stickers ran the entire length of the side facing her. Each one a different band.

It was the sticker at the center that caught her eye. Lime green text surrounded by a pale pink outline. The word Regiment stood out like a sore thumb.

"I don't really play, it's for show," Sherman said from behind her. His footsteps had been silent as he approached. A rebel teen and a burglar's dream floor.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to keep a huge instrument for show," she said, turning to face him. Her heart was hammering in her chest, caught somewhere between surprise and a thin tendril of fear.

This was beginning to feel like the opening to a crime show. Stupid college girl goes to the apartment of a man she just met. Juniper edged along the side of the wall trying to keep distance between them. His loud sigh made her jump.

"Juniper, do I look like a crazy murderer?" he asked.

"They can look like anyone, Sherman," she said, echoing his words from earlier.

"Low blow," he muttered. Then he turned his back on her and moved back to the living room. One of the leather couches creaked under him as he settled in. "I have the food by the way and I am more than happy to eat half of yours to prove it's not poisoned."

It took her a few minutes to reemerge from the bedroom and take a seat on the couch opposite him. "Why the guitar?"

Sherman passed her a paper bag with a burger and fries tucked inside. "Just something I wanted to keep hold of," he answered. His own paper bag crinkled as he pulled out two burgers and a healthy side of fries. Then he passed her one of the two drinks.

"Do you play?" Juniper finally asked. She was pleasantly surprised to find the burger was made just the way she liked it. For some reason it made her more inclined to believe he wasn't a murderer. Surely no one out for blood would have such great taste. "Oh, is that why you won't sing? You're an instrument guy and not a singer guy?"

That seemed to amuse him. "Why won't you just let this go?" After another bite he shrugged. "I don't play as often as I used to."

"You are infuriatingly vague," she muttered.

"Who even says infuriatingly?" Sherman asked with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"English majors, I'm guessing," she answered with a matching smirk. "Well if you're not going to give me answers, turn on something to watch. At least I can trust television to have a plot for me."

Sherman rolled his eyes and flipped on the bigger than it should have been television. A news channel was finishing up a story as it flickered on. The newswoman had her fingers clasped together on the wide desk with the like green band logo for Regiment behind her on the green screen.

Juniper was beginning to suspect they were haunting her.

"When asked for a quote on the location of their lead guitarist, Warren Palin, lead singer Declan Karth had this to say," she said, swiveling her chair to give the screen behind her center stage.

The full band photo from behind her zoomed in to a man behind a microphone, dark blonde hair brushed back in a neat swoop. The flickering bars of the waveform showing his recorded bars overlapped the image. "Warren is taking some much needed time off. I can't say when he'll be back exactly but I promise, this isn't the end of Regiment." The audio ended and the photo slowly receded back behind the newswoman.

"No further news of the lead guitarist's whereabouts have been divulged as of now. Speculation continues over whether the rumors of legal trouble have any bearing on his disappearance," she said in perfect television reporter tone and pace.

The image behind her zoomed in again, this time focusing on a face Juniper had seen far too frequently as of late. A face with unruly hair that wasn't jammed under the hat he'd been wearing everywhere until this moment. Slowly, she turned her head to the side to stare at Sherman.

If his face had been pale at the party it was completely desaturated now. The plastic cup in his hand was crushed and soda dripped down his hand and onto the leather couch cushions.

"Well... shit," he muttered.