But if that didn’t go the way I planned, I needed a place to stay until things blew over.
I glanced at my fancy walk-in shower with the four shower heads I had paid to have put in myself. I might miss that more than anything else.
I stepped back into my bedroom, checking the security feeds. There was nothing, no one. The world was dead at this time of night. If you could even call it night when it was closer to morning.
I could squeeze in one quick shower. Wash off the stress stink, the sweat from all the walking and running around, the lingering traces of desire from the little makeout session.
Turning the screen so I could see it from the shower, I cut the water on, stripped out of my clothes, and stepped under the spray.
For just a moment, it felt like it was physically possible to wash it all away: the sleeplessness, the shock, frustration, anger, worry, adrenaline, and, yes,interest.
But as soon as I was toweling off, it all came rushing back.
Then I saw it.
A flash of something moving at my side.
I turned, my hairbrush in my hand, to see the back of someone rushing up the stairs past one of my cameras.
“Fuck.”
The brush dropped down on the counter as I secured the tuck of my towel. Then ran like hell across my apartment to my storage cabinet.
Before remembering I’d already taken that gun with me to the warehouse. And had to leave it there.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hissed under my breath as my heartbeat tripped over itself.
I raced back to my closet, hating that to do so, I had to lose sight of the monitor. I had no idea if it was just one guy, if there were a dozen others coming with him, if I should be trying to stand my ground… or trying to exit through a window, going down a fire ladder in my goddamn towel.
“Come on, come on,” I hissed as I shoved hanging clothes and shoe boxes out of my way to access the hidden crawlspace behind them.
It wasn’t big enough to store anything—except, of course, an extra gun or two.
I thrust my arm in, feeling the cobwebs stick to my still-damp skin. My fingers scraped gritty ground before I finally felt the cool metal on my fingertips.
I pulled it out, checked the magazine, and got back to my feet.
I was too aware of the thrumming sensation in my pulse points, of the sloshing in my stomach, and the cold prickle of fear that I tried not to let overwhelm me.
Fear was a part of my job.
Being aware of it was an asset, not a flaw of some sort. It helped you know where you stood. And what was at risk.
I stepped out of the closet, arms raised, gun pointed.
Seeing the door still closed, I looked over at my screen. But two of my cameras were now turned up.
Great.
Just fantastic.
If there’d been any hope that it was a friend, colleague, or someone not here to, you know, torture and kill me, it deflated at the images of the ceiling in those feeds.
People with good intentions didn’t turn your cameras up.
My heartbeat whooshed in my ears so hard it was impossible to hear past it.
That was how I missed the telltale scraping sounds. Until the doorknob turned.
