“If he can get a real Mark Five he might give in to the pressure to build the apartment on the soundstage,” Peter said.
She hadnoidea what a Mark Five was, and she almost laughed. Instead, she just blinked at Peter and said something ridiculous like, “Yes, of course, he does want a real…Mark Five.”
Peter opened the door and held it for her. “Shall we?”
The manager was doing at leastsomeof the math, and realized he hadn’t given them his name or number. “It’s Bob Watkins. Eight-one-eight…” As he recited his phone number, Shay called out “Thank you!” She pretended to put it into her phone even as she went out the door. Peter was right behind her, and somehow they managed to make it down and across the street to his truck before they started to laugh.
“You’re a little too good at that,” he told her, his eyes giving off a huge amount of sparkle. “I think I might be scared.”
“It’s really just writing a scene on the fly,” she told him. “And believe me, once he pissed me off…”
Peter sobered as they stood on the sidewalk next to his truck. “That was…unbelievable. What he did was illegal. And it’s pretty damn easy to prove that he was lying.Threemonths’ security?”
“But who wants to push to live in a building wherethat guyhas a master key to your apartment?” Shayla shook her head. “In a way, it’s better to find it out up front. You know,beforeyou move in and he ties a rope with a lynching noose on the stair rail for your kid to stumble across?”
“Fuck,” he said. And the way he was standing there, legs slightly spread in a stance that was more than a little combative, as if he were ready to slay the dragons of injustice, made her smile.
“Come on,” she said. “Susan Smith’s law office is surely open by now. Let’s visit her, see what she knows about Fiona and Maddie’s friendship, then check in at home, see if Maddie’s been there, maybe take a break to have lunch and write thatPeter and Lisa,Chapter Two. The sooner we have something to send to Maddie, the sooner we’ll get anotherstill safetext message—or even an invitation to talk. I was thinking, regardless, that it might make sense for Hans to text her, see if she’ll talk tohim—”
Peter lunged at her. He moved so quickly, she honestly didn’t see it coming. One second, he was standing there, nodding in agreement, and the next he’d grabbed her, pulling her in hard against his chest as he dragged her with him behind his truck.
There was another truck—big and black—on the street, pulling away with a squeal of tires, a roar of an engine, and the harsh sound of voices shouting—something aboutNavy motherfucker—the other words indiscernible but the rage unmistakable.
Shayla shrieked her surprise as she tripped—over her own feet or maybe Peter’s—and this time instead of keeping her from going down, he went to the sidewalk with her, somehow managing to turn with a weird-soundingclang, so that she landed on his chest and front instead of on the hard concrete.
And yeah, her knee was lined up pretty perfectly with his crotch, and he made that unmistakable noise, deep in his throat, that she’d heard Carter and her various other exes make when she’d accidentally whacked them in the balls. She had given him, without a doubt, a direct hit.
Carter would tightly shut his eyes and curl into a bit of a ball himself, moaning for ice. But then, when she got it, he’d mutterDon’t touch meas she apologized.
Peter’s eyes, however, were wide open and mere inches from her own as he focused on her. “Are you okay? Did you get hit? Are you hurt?”
Hurt? Hit? “No,” she said, still dazed by suddenly being tackled. This current body-to-body contact wasn’t helping to clear her head. He was warm and solid, with those giant arms still wrapped tightly around her. “What…?”
As she pulled back slightly—his face was too close to have any kind of a conversation that didn’t include the phraseKiss me, fool, an utterance that would be amistake—she realized that he was covered—covered—in some kind of hideously disgusting brown slop.
Had they fallen into horse manure, or God, the place in the neighborhood where the homeless population emptied their bowels, because, yeah, it smelled like that kind of nasty, too. Except she would’ve made note of it earlier, upon getting out of Peter’s truck—they were lying there right beside the very door she’d emerged from.
As she pushed herself even further up and off of him, she saw a metal bucket—that was what she’d heard make thatclangas it hit the sidewalk. It was lying on its side, and was clearly the source of the nastiness.
“Oh, my God,” she said as Peter started to hold out a hand to help her up, but stopped when he realized that doing so would transfer that whatever-it-was onto her. She was miraculously clean, probably because he’d made himself into a rather large shield to protect her. “Did those men in that truck throw that at us? Whowasthat? Oh, my God! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, I don’t know who they were, I didn’t really see much,” Peter told her. “It was a black truck, large, relatively new, maybe a Ford, but I can’t say for sure. At least two occupants in the cab, but whoever threw this was riding in the back.”
“Navy motherfucker,” Shayla echoed the few words she’d heard.
He nodded as he glanced down the street. “Yeah, I heard that, too. Whoever they are, they’re long gone.”
The bucket was not a little one—it was floor-mopping size—and as they both got back onto their feet, Shayla could tell from the way he’d been splattered that it had hit him squarely in the back. God, the shit—literal shit—was in his beautiful hair, and had gone down his collar. But despite that, he was looking at her carefully, as if double-checking that she truly was unharmed.
There was only oneNavy motherfuckerbetween the two of them, but while they may have been aiming at Peter, they’d missed. Shay realized that if he hadn’t gallantly thrown himself between her and the bucket, it would’ve hit her, right in the head. Even empty, that would’ve hurt. Butfull…?
Instead, she was almost completely unscathed. Her knee was a little sore—the one that had hit the street instead of Peter’s male anatomy. Although, she discovered that she did have quite a bit of dookey on the back of her sweater, which she quickly slipped out of, turned inside out, and then used to wipe off a few stray patches of ick that smudged her pants. “Are you sure you’re all right? That must’ve hit you hard.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m okay. But the smell is kinda…I might throw up. I’m gonna apologize for that in advance.”
“I kicked you in the gentleman’s accessories,” she reminded him. “That can’t be helping.”
“I’ll live,” he said as he started to undress, right there on the sidewalk. “Reach into my pocket and get my keys—and my phone and wallet while you’re at it—I don’t want to touch them. I’m riding in the back—you’re driving us home.”
