Deviant

Chapter 9

DEVIANT

Callie Hart

Copyright © 2014 Callie Hart

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places and characters are figments of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. The author recognises the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work.

CHAPTER NINE

 

 

SLOANE

 

 

I must be sick in the head.

Not only have I not spoken to the cops, but I'm on my way to the address Zeth sent me, and I've worn the shortest, slinkiest dress I own. I don't know why but his text felt like a dare. He didn't think I would do it, which made my rebellious streak stick its middle finger up. It's been a while since that happened. After the worst day at work, being interrogated about Carrie's disappearance—you were the last to see her, Dr. Romera. Are you positive she didn't mention anything about leaving—a fight with this guy is the very last thing I need. I'm not stupid, though; it's probably going to happen, so I'm primed for one, regardless.

I leave my car two streets over and make my way to the apartment building, wondering if I should have at least told Pippa where I was going. If I go missing and am never heard from again, at least that way she could report my last known location. But I can't. One, because I don't have my bloody cell phone anymore and I'm not a savant with numbers, and two, because she would probably carve me a new one for not listening to her.

I press the buzzer for 12C, wondering if Lacey is going to be here. I've brought my medical bag with me just in case she is, so I can inspect her wounds and change her dressings, plus a crap ton of antibiotics that she's definitely going to need. There's a crackle over the intercom, but no one speaks; the speaker blares as whoever is upstairs presses the entry key, and the door clicks open.

I climb four flights of stairs before I hear the rumble of music and laughter. Someone's having a party. A lone guy, suited up with his hands folded in front of him, stands at the end of the hallway, already watching me approach. Doesn't take long for me to realize the music is coming from the apartment I'm after, and the guy in the suit? He's standing watch over the door. What the hell?

"Can I help you, madam?" he asks me. His voice is smooth and low, his skin the color of warmed honey. With his shaved head and imposing six-and-half-foot stature, he's intimidating in the most gentle of ways. Like a stiletto blade—slender and beautifully made, but still as deadly as can be.

"I'm—Zeth told me to come." I'm majorly pissed that he would tell me to come while he's having some kind of blowout. It was probably his idea of damage control, make sure there are plenty of people around so I can't cause a scene about...well, everything.