by Anne Malcom
He gave me a long and measured stare. “No.” One word. So final, so heavy it dropped past the surface that I keep so still, making waves the likes of which I’d never seen. “No, I won’t ask you to give up the world. But I can’t watch while that world self-destructs either.”
He stepped forward, clutching my face and kissing me long and hard before turning on his heel and walking out the door.
I flinched at the slam.
Then I stood there.
And cried.
And promised myself that, despite how much it seemed like it would, the pain of that wouldn’t kill me.
Six Months Later
I was stuffed in a closet.
Not my first choice of hiding places, considering that’s where all the dumb bimbos in horror movies hid and were subsequently shanked, but I was in a rush. Now I regretted throwing popcorn at the TV and ranting about how stupid they were. Maybe they weren’t stupid; heck, they could’ve been fucking brain surgeons. I considered myself reasonably smart, yet there I was. Terror had killed a disturbing amount of brain cells. Or maybe it was the glasses—okay, bottles—of wine I routinely had to accompany aforementioned B-grade horror movies.
Whatever it was might just be the key to my demise.
In a closet.
Great.
I guess I loved clothes enough, so it was rather poetic that I’d see my end in the place where the objects of my superficial obsession came to live.
My rapid breath was like ice in my lungs and my heart seemed to vibrate the flimsy wooden door of the closet. It was the kind with the wooden slats and gaps where the light seeped through. If I tried, I could press my face up to those slats and get a better view of what was going on. Though if I did, the man who had just killed someone in cold blood would likely see the violet-tinged eyes I’d always been so proud of, and then I’d be dead.
I stayed pressed back as far as I could, swarmed by fur coats and Burberry trenches while breathing so hard I thought the sound might travel across the street to the classy boutique I’d been planning on maxing my credit card out in after this. Maybe that’s where my girls would go shopping for my funeral outfit if I didn’t get my rhino breathing under control.
I pursed my lips, hoping to muffle the sound. Couldn’t do anything about the heart though; it kind of had to continue beating.
I really hoped it would.
“Boss, it’s taken care of,” a raspy voice declared from somewhere close. Close enough that I could see the shadow through the gap in the door. Close enough that I could smell the Old Spice on my would-be murderer’s skin.
I squeezed my eyes shut with a childlike hope that such a gesture would make me invisible to the world around me that was only blackness surrounded in Old Spice and the metallic twang of blood. But then even as child, I had known that didn’t work. Even as a child, I had kept my eyes wide open.
There was a pause, then a rustling of papers. “The manifest isn’t here,” the voice stated.
I tried my best to remain still, to not throw up, which was what I really felt like doing. I’d come in for a routine interview to discover my interviewee with her throat slit. I had to stuff myself in a closet when I found out the murderer hadn’t fled the scene yet.
Hiding would have most of my friends gazing at me in disapproval. I knew it wasn’t what my biker family would have done. They would’ve most likely taken down the murderer with as much effort as it took me to max out my credit card, looking like they could grace a GQ shoot while they were at it. But I was not tall, muscly and menacing, nor did I sport any kind of weapon on my person. Well, apart from a bottle of pepper spray I was pretty sure was expired.
I could take care of myself relatively well, but taking on the guy who had slit someone’s throat?
No.
Hence the closet.
“I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not here,” the voice continued, simmering with frustration.
Footsteps started getting closer.
I relinquished my grip on the childlike hope of invisibility and opened my eyes, watching the shadows move past the slats in the closet door. I caught a glimpse of sandy hair and a moustache. My hand tightened around my pepper spray. I was so not getting killed. Hopefully expired pepper spray and sheer determination would make that a reality.
The steps grew closer, close enough for the sound to jar at my teeth. I glanced down to see cheap shiny shoes peeking through the slats, pointing at the very closet I was doing my best to stay alive in.
I didn’t look up and meet the eyes that would be the last I saw on this earth if my self-defense moves and fight instinct didn’t kick in.
Fear curdled in my stomach as I realized I would be staring my own death in the face in a matter of seconds. I’d heard about some of the horrors my best friends had been subjected to—hell, I’d even been involved in a drive-by shooting. But all that had happened in the safety of Amber, my home, with my family around. My adopted family, sure, but family nonetheless. Only my badass family was miles away and no one would protect me now.
Only me.
I gritted my teeth and blinked away those chocolate eyes that simmered in the air, in goodbye before they melted back into the memories I’d banished them to.
The door rattled.
“Shit, I think I’ve got company, boss,” the voice muttered.
My stomach dropped.
It took a split second to realize that voice was not talking about me, and then my whole body sagged in relief as the shadow left the crack of the door, the sounds of footsteps signaling hope for my survival. The scent of Old Spice lingered, though.
I didn’t let myself move a muscle, nor poke my head out to check if he was gone. Another horror movie trope. I was not succumbing to all of them. I’d camp out in this closet and make a bed out of Burberry if I had to.
I turned rigid at footsteps again on the floor, though they didn’t echo as the heels on the murderer’s dress shoes had. This was a low thump, similar to combat or motorcycle boots.
I had a thing for shoes.
Plus I had ample experience with the thump of motorcycle boots. The soundtrack to my youth, along with Metallica, AC/DC and Harley pipes. I was more of a Bach kind of girl, but of course I never played that at club parties.
The footsteps stopped, encountering what I guessed was a body.
“Fuck,” a masculine voice muttered.
I paused at the sound. This masculine voice was obviously surprised to encounter a dead body, and was therefore not likely to be responsible for it. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt me if I popped out of the closet; even if this was a swanky area of L.A, in a swanky building, it was still L.A.
I knew I couldn’t stay in there forever, but I found myself attached to the small space and the illusion of safety it offered. And the fact that I was out of view of the seriously gory dead body. I wasn’t exactly squeamish, but seeing someone’s neck bone exposed had me grateful I’d skipped lunch.
There was a short silence. “Yeah, Kelt? We’ve got a problem. Big one. Better get the cops over here now.”
My body jerked? Kelt?
No. It couldn’t be. Although the accent of the man speaking had my stomach tingling. Surely it was a coincidence. There were a lot of people who had accents that weren’t connected to him.
I had bigger things to think about right then anyway. My breathing evened at the mention of the cops, and I found myself assured that I wouldn’t be getting murdered. At least a girl could dream.
I had been cursing the fact that my thirtieth birthday was haunting me with its proximity, but now I’d welcome that day coming, despite the promise of crow’s-feet. That’s what Botox was for.
Courage, Lucy. You’ve been through worse than this.
Inner me was right. I had been through worse than this. I’d grown up around worse. And better. And I was stronger and tougher than this, to be cowering in a closet.
I gingerly opened the door. “Please don’t murder me. P
lease don’t murder me,” I whispered under my breath.
I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the light; the closet had been almost pitch black. My heels echoed on the wooden floor as I stepped onto it. Once the black spots had left my vision, I threw my hands in the air, palms out.
“Don’t shoot me,” I requested, my voice low and even. The tone people used when they were approaching slightly menacing-looking dogs who hadn’t decided whether they were going to maul the person or lick them. I reasoned the same tone was to be used when surprising someone handling a firearm who’d just discovered a dead body.
“It’s been a really shitty Wednesday, and a bullet wound would not make it any better,” I joked weakly as I came to a stop only slightly outside the closet.
The man in front of me had jerked at my emergence from the closet and was pointing a gun at me, phone still at his ear. His stance was tight.
I quickly ran my gaze over his body. He wasn’t tall, but he was big, a wall of muscle. He wore faded jeans and motorcycle boots—I was right—paired with a tight black tee and leather jacket. Half his face was obscured by a shaggy beard. His hair was equally shaggy. He worked the shit out of shaggy.
Piercing blue eyes held me in place.
I hoped this dog would lick me. Or bite me. Either thought had the six months of chastity I’d not been enjoying bringing forth my baser instincts—at a murder scene, of all places—before I banished them.
“I know this looks bad, and my hiding in a closet has nothing to do with that.” I nodded to the body he was standing next to. “Well, it has something to do with that, considering the reason I was in that closet was because I found that and didn’t really want to end up like that too,” I corrected quickly.
The man continued to stare.
I blinked.
Do not cry. Do not become another stereotype.
“Please don’t shoot me,” I repeated. “I’m only here because I’m meant to be doing a story on jewelry. I love sparkly things and makeup. You should see my bathroom vanity—it’s a testament to my love of cosmetics and jewels. My friends were actually thinking of holding an intervention, because I have a slight obsession with highlighters. I think it was because they wanted some shine for themselves. No one loves makeup more than my sister, the instigator for said intervention, apart from me.” I sucked in a strangled breath.
The piercing blue eyes were regarding me blankly, but I swear the corner of the guy’s lips twitched. I realized I was babbling.
“But I would rather not die for it. Shoes, maybe,” I added with another attempt to lighten the mood. Or save my ass.
The shaggy guy’s jaw did another small twitch, though it hardened as his focus seemed to move from me to the phone still at his ear. He lowered his gun immediately.
“What’s your name?” he barked.
I jumped at his rough tone. I was used to men speaking in grunts and the like where I came from, but my nerves were slightly frayed. “Lucy,” I said in a small voice, lowering my arms.
People usually didn’t bother with pleasantries with someone they were going to shoot.
“You hear that?” he asked the person on the phone. There was another pause and something moved in his eyes, which weren’t leaving mine even though his attention was on the call. “See you soon.”
The phone left his ear and his face gentled a smidgeon, giving me his undivided attention. “You gonna throw up?” he queried.
I shook my head. Weird thing to ask, but he had the gun so he could ask the questions.
“Faint?” he continued.
Another head shake.
“Cry?” he said with disdain.
He seemed like the prospect of my tears would be more unsettling to him than the dead body inches from his toe.
“Not at this juncture,” I told him firmly.
I’d wait until I was safe in my apartment, half a bottle of vino deep, before I’d let my tears fall.
“Good,” he muttered, nodding in what looked like approval. “You see who did this?” he asked.
I gulped. “I got a peek and a sniff. He’s an Old Spice type of guy,” I told him with a wrinkled nose.
The man’s frame tensed. “How long were you in there?” He nodded to the closet.
I pondered. It felt like hours, days. “Ten minutes. Give or take,” I said after a moment.
“Fuck,” he muttered again, glancing around the decadent apartment. They rested on an open window leading out to a balcony and what looked like a fire escape. He strode over and stuck his head out, looking down.
I guessed he was deducing where the murderer had escaped from. He obviously decided not to give chase because he straightened and walked back to the body, kneeling next to it.
I screwed up my nose again, stepping away from it slightly so my hip rested on the sofa. I gave it some of my weight. All I wanted to do was collapse onto it.
There was a long silence. “You’re not a cop,” I pointed out.
“No,” he agreed, not looking up from the body.
“But you have a gun.” I nodded to his hand, which was resting at his side.
“Yep,” he clipped again.
“Interesting,” I mused. “Bounty hunter?”
He moved his head so I could see his raised brow and nonverbal ‘no.’
I shrugged. “Cat sitter?” I guessed again.
A curt head shake.
I chewed my lip. His accent was familiar, and things were starting to fall into place.
Disturbingly.
L.A. was huge, so the chances of him being who I thought he was were small. I hoped. I had managed to navigate my way around the city without bumping into him. For the four months I’d been here I’d managed it. No way I would come into contact with him under these circumstances. It would be too freaky. Even the universe wasn’t that much of a bitch.
“Security,” he finally grunted, straightening and crossing his arms.
My heart skipped a beat. “For whom?”
Ice blue eyes flickered down to the body by answer.
“She doesn’t need security, at least not anymore,” I explained. “You work for a company?” I asked as my head pounded.
He nodded. “Greenstone,” he clipped.
Yes, the universe was that much of a bitch.
I nodded. “Of course,” I exclaimed, throwing up my hands. “Of course, you do.”
Yep, this day effing sucked.
The cops arrived first. Which meant I was going over my story with two detectives. Not your garden-variety rookies; this was a high-profile case, after all.
A murder scene went from desolate and full of death to chaotic and overflowing with life in a disturbingly small amount of time. The room was soon stifling with the amount of people taking photos, standing around and dusting surfaces.
“You said you were here for an interview, is that right, Ms. Walker?” Detective Max asked.
Max was not his last name. The dark-haired, not-unattractive detective had insisted I call him by his first. That was after his eyes had flickered over my skintight black dress and the leg it showed. Not entirely professional, but then it was something else to focus on besides the fact that he was interviewing me about the murder I’d discovered.
I nodded distractedly while maintaining eye contact, yet my mind was on the air. The way it was wired. I knew that was insane to feel him in the air, but I knew. The low rumble of an accented voice added to my certainty, as well as the reaction my body had to it.
“And how is it you entered the building?” Max continued.
I didn’t look his way, though I knew he was approaching. Maybe if I didn’t look at him, he wouldn’t exist, and I wouldn’t have to deal with my first glimpse of him in six months. Five feet away from a woman with her throat slashed.
“I was let in by the doorman. He was expecting me,” I answered, my nose screwing up in question as to how the murderer had gotten past the doorman. Did he know him? Slip past him when he was distracted carrying a soc
ialite’s many shopping bags from the trunk of her Mercedes?
The questions bounced in my mind, coupled with a yearning to get them answered.
I blinked as the attention of two hard-faced cops stared at me, waiting for more.
I sucked in a breath. He was close. Almost there. The air was cleaner, somehow passed through me easier, just from his presence. That was insane, I knew, but it was my body’s reaction.
“The door was open when I got here. I thought she’d left it open for me, so I just came in.” I paused. “Lucinda Cross is known for… eccentric behavior at interviews. She’s an artist, you see, so I thought she’d left the door open so she didn’t have to go through formalities like knocking and such.”
Detective Max opened his mouth, but an accented voice, much angrier and lower than the cop’s professional tone, beat him to it.
“Lucy,” he growled.
And then I wasn’t sitting on the sofa in front of the two police officers. I was in his arms, pressed against his hard body and smelling his crisp scent. I didn’t even get a moment to register the abrupt change, nor the fact that it was the body I’d been craving like processed sugars for six months, because he held me at arm’s length after giving me a single squeeze against his body.
“Are you okay?” he barked, eyes and hands roaming over me as if searching for a rogue knife wound the police and paramedics had missed.
“Excuse me, we’re in the middle of an interview,” Max snapped.
Keltan didn’t look up. “Don’t give a fuck what you’re in the middle of, mate. It’s on pause while I make sure she’s okay,” he bit out.
The cop’s lips thinned. “She’s been checked out by paramedics.”
Keltan chose then to raise his chocolate irises to meet the muddy brown of the officers. “But the paramedics aren’t me,” he told him, exuding authority like he was the one with the badge. They stared at each other for a beat, like lions circling, silently deciding which one would be the alpha.
Detective Max sighed, running his hands over his messy brown hair in a gesture of frustration. “I’ll give you a moment with your boyfriend, Ms. Walker,” he conceded, still giving Keltan a hard look. “Then we have to finish the interview.”