A glance at the girl tells me she’s a deep sleeper. I wish I could sleep this way. Careless and free. I sleep with one eye open. It comes with the job.
And now that I’ve found a woman in here, I won’t sleep at all.
I don’t do Trust. It’s a big word and, as far as I’m concerned, should be capitalized.
Having read the note in my pocket, I have a pretty good idea of how she got here, and I look forward to speaking with Mr. or Mrs. Homer about this. I paid them to take care of the property, not run a rental ski resort out of my fucking safe house.
2
The girl stirs. Finally! I might’ve shot myself in the head from sheer boredom. I couldn’t leave her in my house, and I couldn’t leave my house, so I contemplated both suicide and homicide. The only thing that kept me from pulling the trigger while she slept was one thing: I don’t execute civilians for free. My paranoid side questioned the civilian premise, while my crazy side wondered how I could take advantage of her misfortune. Getting stuck with a hitman would definitely be considered a misfortune by many.
Yawning, the girl stretches, one slender hand falling over the couch, the other rubbing her eyes. She makes a massive effort to open them and check her wrist. Groaning—likely because there’s no watch on the wrist—she rolls and falls off the couch.
Yup, just thumps face-first on the carpet. Good thing my sister picked out a thick, fluffy carpet. Is this something women do? Just roll off the couch onto the floor? I wouldn’t know. I never spent a morning with a woman, and I definitely don’t sleep with my sister.
Tapping around her, she grabs her glasses and sticks them on her face, but doesn’t make an effort to get up. She pulls theblanket from the couch and sits on the carpet, looking around for a watch or whatever the fuck.
Pretty feline-green eyes behind black-framed glasses notice me, widen. The girl screams, scrambles to get up, but the tight space between table and couch doesn’t allow for much movement. When she figures that out, she crawls toward the window and looks back as if I’m gonna chase her. I could’ve taken all her nine feline lives by now. Damn.
The girl stands, hands out, palms up. I’m not sure what this is. A “don’t approach me” gesture or some sort of kung fu stance.
“Mr. Homer?” she asks.
“Yes.” I smile. I’m genuinely happy she brought up Mr. Homer. I’m gonna have a fucking ball with this girl for the duration of her stay.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” She eyes me suspiciously. “How long have you been sitting there?”
“I just came in.”
She smiles but wrings her hands, obviously uneasy. “I fell asleep.” She points. “On the couch.”
That’s okay, baby girl. I’m gonna get you up in the bed within twenty-four hours.Goals. I have them. In response, I nod. I mean, I don’t know what the fuck else to say. She seems chatty, so I let her chat. Women love it when men listen while they talk.
“Um, okay. You brought the spare key?”
“For whom?”
She sits, fixes her abundant hair, her glasses, the ring on her right thumb, and I note no other rings. Once done fidgeting, she folds her hands in her lap. “I don’t know for whom. That’s what you said you’d bring this morning.”
Ah. Mr. Homer intends to stop by this morning. Good to know, but I can’t give him shit for renting my cabin in front of the guest. That would make me a very bad host, and I intendto be the best host ever. A rental-with-multiple-orgasms kind of host. A one-she’s-not-gonna-forget-for-the-duration-of-her-civilian-life host.
“I made you coffee,” I say.
She smiles so wide, you’d think I offered her a rock on her finger. “Ooooo, gracias, Mr. Homer. Super.” She claps, then bends, looking around for something again.
“It’s ten in the morning, dear. What are you looking for?”
“My phone.”
I took that shit away. Didn’t go through it ’cause of passwords and all that crap, but I’ll get Sokol on it once I set up my laptop. The girl gets up and walks toward the kitchen.
I snatch her wrist.
She freezes, looks down at me with fear in her eyes, but says nothing and doesn’t tug her hand away. I swipe my thumb over the inside of her wrist. Soft, almost innocent. Nobody is innocent.
“Bring me a cup, would you?”
“Sure,” she whispers.
