Everything about this place screamed expensive. The design and craftsmanship showed attention to detail. Nothing was worn, scuffed or broken. It was almost sterile.
You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I liked things a little rough around the edges. Not that my apartment reflected it.
The company I kept, on the other hand…
I stepped out of the elevator and down toward her door.
Why was it was already open? She knew I was coming, but it seemed uncharacteristic for someone like Sable Kohl. Someone always on guard, always careful, always hyper vigilant.
I hurried my steps until I reached the doorway.
Stopped and stared.
Why was Woody Taylor-Francis holding a knife to her? Why was he here at all?
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked again.
Woody turned around, his knife hand dropping to his side.
Sable stepped away from him, over to where a piano stool lay upended. She picked it up and held it in front of her as if it would serve as a weapon. She really was too cute.
"What amIdoing here?" Woody asked. "What areyoudoing here?"
"I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding," Sable said. Her voice only wavered a little. Did she know how much of a badass she really was?
"I'd say you're right." I stepped over to her and took the stool out of her hand before placing it back in front of the piano.
"Would someone care to explain?" I crossed my hands over my chest and looked from one to the other.
"He came here to kill me," Sable said.
I slowly turned my face to glare at him. "Youwhat?"
"You heard her," he said stubbornly. "She killed my father."
"Sable, will you excuse us for a minute or two?" I jerked my head toward the door and strode away, leaving Woody to follow.
"What the fuck is going on?" I said once we were outside in the corridor.
"Like I said—" he started.
"Have you lost your mind?" I snapped.
"I'm perfectly within my right mind," he insisted. "Isn't this what we do? We take care of people the police haven't. How many times have we…"
I snapped my face toward him, cutting off his words.
"We shouldn't be talking about this in the middle of a corridor." I sucked in a deep breath so I didn't lose my shit at my friend being so close to my woman. If he thought I wouldn't kill him…
"You seem very sure she's guilty."
"You…" He looked confused. "You must be too, or you wouldn't be here. If I knew you were coming to take care of her, I wouldn't have."
"I'm not here to 'take care of her,'" I said. He was losing it if he thought that. "I'm here to take her out to dinner."
"But she…" He gestured toward her.
"As far as I know, she's the victim here. Unless you have evidence otherwise?"
