A thump has me lifting my head off the pillow.
I lived in the apartment over the bar. It wasn’t ideal, but it was convenient, and it was a free place to live that was included in the sale.
In the years I’d been here, I’d never not felt safe, but the robbery had changed all that. Now I gave some thought to getting a dog—maybe a big German Shepard. Or maybe I should seriously consider getting a gun.
When no other sounds carry to me, I relax back.
This wasn’t a bad side of town—the exact opposite, in fact. But it was a touristy area with several bars and restaurants that kept the crowds around until late into the night, especially when the local college was on spring break.
The only serious crime we had, other than the occasional bar fight, was vandalism. At least, that was until the ring of robberies started happening last summer.
I glance at the baseball bat I keep by the door.
Its effectiveness in the face of a shotgun was nil.
Dammit. I hate the fact that I now had to consider getting a gun. I hated guns. Why would I ever want to shoot one? But the helpless feeling I’d felt when those men had busted in made me rethink everything.
I couldn’t be a naïve fool.
And I didn’t want to be weak.
Another sound carries to me. It sounds like a creaking, and it sounds like it came from downstairs. I glance at the clock. 1am.
There’s an interior staircase between the two levels, with a door at the top and at the bottom. At night, I kept both of them locked.
Still, there’s also a fire escape off the kitchen to the alley below. That door is locked, but there’s a window that could be broken into, and it always gave me an uneasy feeling.
I get out of bed and pad soundlessly to it now, inching the curtain back to peer out. I don’t see anything. No one on the fire escape and no cars in the alley below.
I hear another sound, get my bat, and creep down the stairs.
Maybe I’m an idiot, but I won’t get another wink of sleep until I know I’m being silly. Maybe it’s just the furnace or the pipes making noise. After all, the building is almost a hundred and fifty years old.
When I reach the bottom, I unlock the lower door and peer out.
Nothing. I slip through and peer toward the street into the main bar. Nothing.
A car drives past outside, and a group of people walk past, talking, looking for where they had parked their car.
I head to the back of the building, where the small kitchen is, and stop short when I pass the open door of the small office where I have a safe and a desk where I did the paperwork.
The light is on, and I hear another creak.
Lifting the bat, I edge around the doorframe.
A man sits at my desk.
I freeze in fear.
Sully sits at the desk as if he belongs there, fingers flipping through the leather-bound ledger I used to keep track of expenses.
A bottle of our top-shelf whiskey sits beside a half-full rocks glass.
“I wondered how long it’d take you,” he says, lifting his eyes from the book. His voice is smooth and unhurried. The glint in his eyes is dangerous and misses nothing, shifting to the bat. “Is that seriously all you have to defend yourself? A Louisville Slugger?” He tsks. “I’m gonna have to get you an upgrade.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“In Durango or in this office?” he counters, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.
