“Hi, Jason,” I say. “What’s up?”
“You have a visitor. Should I send him up?” He sounds confused—I never have new visitors.
“Is he six foot three and two-sixty?” I ask wanting to be sure it’s Jake.
“Um, I’m a doorman, not a doctor.”
He’s earlier than I expected, but maybe he’s just as excited as I am. I resist the urge to clap. “Sorry, send him right up. And thank you, Jason.”
“No problem. Let me know how you enjoy it!”
I raise my eyebrows at this. Jason and I have a friendly relationship over the phone wherein I call and ask for packages and he leaves them outside my door after ringing the doorbell, but we certainly aren’t at the stage where I’d tell him dirty details from any intimate encounter I had.
The door rings and my heart starts pounding. I flex my fingers wide and take deep, calming breaths. I move slowly toward the door, pushing hard through the anxiety that is threatening to drag me under. “I’m coming,” I call, in case he’s worried that I’m not home. Ha, I’m always home. He murmurs something that I can’t quite hear.
The doorknob looms large and my wet palms have a hard time turning it, but I do, slowly. “It’s Jake,” I tell myself. “He’s sweet. Kind. He will not hurt you. He will not hurt you.” I repeat it over and over as I turn the knob, as I take each breath, as I open the door.
And when it’s wide enough for me to see outside, I scream. I scream and scream and scream. My breath seizes and oxygen becomes a memory. Stumbling forward, I hit my head on the door and then black out.
CHAPTER TEN
JAKE
I hear the scream from the elevator and I know it’s Natalie. The metal box doesn’t move fast enough for me and I pull at the doors the minute they crack open, dropping the bags full of Chinese onto the floor. The screams stop abruptly, propelling me forward at an even faster pace. My Beretta is in my right hand, and I’m down the hall in two strides with the barrel shoved against the intruder’s white greasepainted face. His fake red smile and nose look macabre against the black metal of my gun.
He shrieks and raises his hands. “Don’t shoot, man. I’m just a messenger,” he blubbers. The gun slides against the greasy paint. I start to question him, but the smell of urine fills the air and he starts crying. Nothing worse than a crying clown. I shove his face against the wall, stepping wide to avoid the pool of piss. With my left hand pressed into the middle of his back, I pull a zip tie out of my back pocket and whip it around his wrists, pushing up his gaudy purple sleeves to gain access.
Quickly, I secure him and then let him go. He slides to the floor, leaving a track of white greasepaint and red lipstick streaking down the wall. Just inside the apartment’s entry, I hear whimpering and I steel myself against what I might see. There’s no blood, but Natalie is curled into a ball. Her knees are tucked against her body and her hands are clenched to her head.
“Shit,” I mutter softly. Kneeling down, I pat her slowly, feeling for any broken bones. She shudders under my touch. Her skin is clammy from shock. Concerned she doesn’t want to be touched but not wanting to leave her on the floor in the entryway, I opt for the lesser of two evils and pick her up. She feels slight, not substantial enough to fight this by herself. I hold her tightly against me, trying to send her whatever strength she can draw from me. I carry her into the one room new to me—her bedroom.
I’m nearly struck blind by the assault of pinkness. Thank Christ the walls at least are white. There are the hot pink chairs with no arms that flank a window with pale pink floor-to-ceiling curtains drawn shut. They manage to block out all of the afternoon sun. It’s dim and cool in here.
I sweep the pink floral comforter back and tuck her under the pile of down and blankets. Despite the warmth, she continues to shake. The good thing is that she’s conscious and I don’t feel any wounds on her skull. Probably fear shut her down for a moment, but she’s awake now, just very afraid.
“Natalie, honey.” I kneel down with shh noises, but she can’t hear me—or doesn’t want to. She needs to warm up. I could strip down and climb in bed with her, but I’ve got the dipshit in the hallway to deal with. Plus, I doubt that a woman who suffers from severe agoraphobia would be okay with waking up to find a stranger in bed with her.
Leaning over, I brush aside the light brown hair and press a soft kiss against her temple. She stills and her hand reaches out to wrap around my wrist. The touch of her palm against my skin sends an electric shock through me, and for about five seconds, my heart beats double-time.
“You came,” she whispers, her words a stutter on her shortened breath.
Shit indeed.
“Yeah.” I squeeze her hand. “I got you.”
She snuffles and tucks her head under the covers, as if for refuge. With another squeeze to reassure her I’m still here, I look around for her phone. I wish I had someone to come and sit with her while I go interrogate the piece of trash outside.
“Natalie, sweetheart, I’m going out to talk to the clown. You stay here.”
There’s a slight movement under the covers, which I take to be agreement. I bend down and press another kiss to the crown of her head, the only part of her that is still visible. Then I draw the comforter up and over so that she’s completely engulfed. If that’s what makes her feel better, then so be it.
Out on the counter, I spot her phone. In the Favorites, there are five choices.
Editing goddess
Dr T
Big daddy
Papa
Mom
I make an educated guess that Oliver is big daddy. I tap the contact and the phone rings. Oliver picks it up on the second ring. “Natalie?” He sounds slightly breathless, as if I’ve interrupted a sex session or a workout, but I don’t really give a shit which one.
“This is Jake Tanner. Someone sent a clown to your cousin’s place. She must have opened the door thinking it was me and got this joker instead.”
“A clown? Like a real live clown or an asshole from the Internet?”
“He could be both, but yeah, he’s got the white face, a stupid wig, and a fake red smile.”
He curses. “She’s fucking terrified of clowns. I’ll be down in a second. Don’t move.”
Ignoring him, I walk out to the hall and pull out the Beretta I’d tucked into the back of my jeans. With my prosthetic, I grab the back of his purple coat and haul him upright so he can see the barrel of my gun. “Sit up.”
“Don’t shoot,” he cries again and tries to raise his arms. He forgets they are bound behind his back and the motion tips him over. I don’t even bother to set him right again. He whimpers as he lands in the puddle of his urine.
The doorway at the end of the hall bangs open. Oliver obviously took the stairs. He’s on us before I can begin questioning.
“Who’s this piece of shit?” He nudges the clown with his sneakered toe. He’s clad in workout shorts and a side-vented T-shirt. I mentally cross off sex session.
“Don’t know. I was bringing Natalie dinner and heard her scream. Ran down here and found this piece of shit standing outside her door.”
“Why does it smell like piss?” One nostril curls in disgust.
I point to the wet stain on the clown’s pants.