“I’ll take a beer if you have one?” He nods while standing in the middle of my living room, despite his request to sit down. I head for the fridge and pull out one of my light beers. “Sorry if I interrupted your night. I apologize to your significant other as well…” He trails off making me pause as he continues glancing around the apartment. That’s an odd way of asking if I have someone over.
“It’s just me tonight,” I answer and bite my bottom lip in regret. Why did I say that? I should’ve lied and said,yes, my stupidly sexy mobster hookup is in my bed, but he won’t mind waiting a few minutes for me to give him head. Right.
I push aside those idiotic thoughts. This man is a detective. I’ve seen him around the courthouse even if we haven’t worked on any cases together yet.
“What do you need…sorry, who are you?” I ask when I go to offer him the beer bottle.
While I wait for him to give me his name, I watch as if in slow motion as he reaches for the gun in his holster.
Why would he…I glance behind me, toward the bedroom, wondering if that son of a bitch managed to sneak into my apartment, and the detective feels threatened. When I don’t see anyone, my confusion blurs into fear.
This cop is pulling his gun onme.
I don’t hesitate another second before I act, lunging to slam the beer bottle against the top of his head. It breaks in half. The liquid spills all over his face, and the detective staggers back two steps but doesn’t lower his gun.
While he’s off balance, I take off running to my bedroom and head for my gun. I hear his footsteps come down the hallway.My hands shake so badly that I know I’m going to be too slow when I pull it out of the drawer. Still, I hurry, flipping off the safety, spinning around, and dropping to a crouch. I don’t have time to check if the bullets were removed yet again.
The detective fires his gun, and I pull the trigger, firing one loud shot, then another toward the doorway.
The gun wasn’t empty. Thank god. And he missed me, shooting over my head.
One or both of my bullets catch the detective in the center of his chest. Still, he lifts his gun toward me again. “You little bitch…” he says just before I fire two more.
Finally, he stumbles backward the way he did when I hit him in the head with the bottle. There’s no wall behind him, so he crashes into the hallway, landing on his ass. Hurrying over, I slam my bedroom door shut on his shoe that’s in the way, then lock it.
Fuck!Now I’m trapped in my bedroom without my damn phone! I really need to get a landline to keep by the bed in case of emergencies.
Then, I remember my laptop is still in here from when I worked late last night.
Grabbing it off the nightstand where I left it, I sit down on the bed and flip it open with my gun lying within reach next to my thigh.
Now what?
My options are sending an email, text message, or Facetiming someone. How the hell do I just make a call on this damn thing?
Opening up my text messages, I intend to beg the first name at the top of the list to send help. But when I see a number without a name near the top, I click on it instead. I’m not entirely sure why I choose him out of all my contacts, but I do.
For whatever reason, I don’t think Tristan had anything to do with the detective who wanted to kill me. Which means, he was possibly telling the truth about the shooting in the alley.
It occurs to me a moment after I send the text asking Tristan if he can come over that I’m headed down a road I never thought I’d be on. But I can’t risk trusting anyone at the station or in the DA’s office if I call 9-1-1, since they might be compromised like the cop lying in my hallway.
I could’ve messaged Bryan. He’s a VICE detective and would be a better option than a mobster. But…what if he knows the man in my hallway was coming over tonight, or he doesn’t believe my version of what happened?
Oh shit. What if the detective in the hallway is calling for backup?
I hesitate for a second before taking my gun with me to the door. I quietly unlock it, then yank it open, keeping my gun lowered to where I last saw him. He hasn’t moved, which is good and bad.
I kick his shoe with my toe to try and get a reaction or a groan out of him, but there’s nothing but silence. When I finally stick my head out enough to see his face, I realize I didn’t need to worry about him calling for backup. He’s staring up at the ceiling, unblinking…dead. His gun is still clenched in one hand while the other rests over the bleeding wound on his abdomen.
A man is dead, and I killed him!
Slamming the door again and locking it, I run back to the laptop and see three dots in the chat window as if Tristan is typing a reply, taking his sweet-ass time.
Hurry!I send to him.
Is this a trap, or are you just missing my tongue?
Oh my God.
