One Night

Chapter 7, ONE NIGHT

Chapter 7

Kate unlocked the door to her fifth-floor apartment. She was barefoot, carrying the overpriced shoes she was tempted to toss in the trash. At the time, she had considered them to be an investment, well worth the expense of $169, as they made her long, slender legs appear shapely and her ass a piece of art, as the shop girl had commented. She had agreed and spent the money, deciding that eating salad for a week was a worthwhile tradeoff.

Maybe she'd reconsider—tossing the shoes, that is. But then, she had a lot to reconsider after the date she'd set so many of her hopes on, which had turned into a disaster of epic proportions. She reminded herself, after hours at the police station and then stuck in a smelly interrogation room, filling out a report, that she was hopeless at picking men. Afterward, she'd demanded to see Detective Walker Pruett, who barely looked at her statement before leaving her locked in the same stinking interrogation room, with concrete walls, one-way glass, and bars on the window.

She tried to tell herself she wasn't attracted to such a pompous ass, but the truth was that the only reason she'd demanded to see the arrogant redheaded, green-eyed handsome devil was that he had left an impression on her, and she couldn't help wanting to get to know him better. Even though he spurred her blood and had her acting like a world-class bitch—which she wasn't—he was the only one in that entire mess who had come to her rescue. Yes, that arrogant, cocky detective had picked her up from the floor not once but twice, and how had she acted toward him? Like a spoiled child.

She pulled at the edge of Detective Pruett's sports coat, which she was still wearing even after having been driven home by a uniformed officer who'd dropped her off at the front door and pulled away before she even opened it. Served her right. It was sobering to reflect on her behavior. She hadn't set eyes on Detective Pruett again after he left her cooling her heels in the interview room—literally, since she had taken her shoes off after arriving at the station.

She could have left the coat, but in the chaos of the restaurant disaster, she hadn't thought to look for hers, and with her ruined strap, she felt half naked. She hadn't been interested in parading through an overcrowded police station, having to hold up a strap to keep herself together. She'd been irritated—no, mad that the cop had made her come in and then wait at a desk as if she were some criminal. She had been furious, but at the same time she hadn't been able to help noticing how the man's green eyes against the red of his hair made him unusually striking. She'd always gone for the pretty-boy type, which Detective Pruett was so far from, but something rough and rugged about him had her wanting him more than she had any man.

"Stop it!" she snapped at herself. Maybe Pruett was the type who expected to have his way in everything. It was in the way he talked, the way he walked. He seemed the type, a man who knew how to look after himself, not too tall but tall enough, the kind of guy whose eyes she could get lost in, the kind whose arms she knew could hold her. Of course she had noticed his hands: broad, large, capable, a working man's hands—and no ring.

"Jerk." She dropped her shoes at the door and her purse on the counter and slipped off his coat, resting it over the back of her gold sectional before stripping out of her ruined dress, leaving it in a pool in the hallway. She unfastened her black strapless bra, dropped it where she was, and stepped out of her matching lace underwear, leaving a trail of clothes as she flicked on the light to her bedroom and froze. There, written in red across the wall over her bed, in block letters, were the words You can't have him bitch.

She covered her breasts with her hands and screamed, then searched for something to put on. She spied the blanket at the foot of the bed and wrapped it around herself as she raced into the kitchen and fumbled in her purse for her cellphone. Detective Pruett's card slipped out. She'd grabbed it from his desk before being moved to one of the rooms reserved for hardened criminals. She was no longer mad—she was freaking out, looking around her apartment, taking everything in: the bookshelf, the closed curtains, the small living room with magazines and books stacked on the coffee table.

Think, think, has anything been moved? She couldn't remember how'd she'd left it, but the feeling of having been invaded made her back up against the fridge, listening to every creak as his phone rang. "Please pick up. Come on, Detective. Please be there."

She was still praying he would answer when his deep voice barked, "Pruett."

"Hello? This is Kate Sikes, from the police station. I got your card—I mean, I was at the restaurant..." Damn, she was rambling.

"Kate," he said, his voice warming. "You left with something of mine."

"Someone was in my apartment," she said. "I think it was that crazy woman who drove into the restaurant." Her voice was shaking.

"What do you mean, someone was in your place? Are they still there?"

"No, I don't know. I just got home and walked into my bedroom, and written across my wall above my bed is 'You can't have him, bitch.'" She couldn't believe it. She was looking over her shoulder with that creeped-out feeling she got whenever she felt as if someone was watching her.

"Give me your address," he snapped.

She heard him say something to someone in the background as she rattled off the address. She gripped the blanket around herself tighter, holding it up.

"Kate, are you there?" He was back on the line.

"Yeah, just hanging here," she said.

"Get out of your apartment now," he said. "I've got a unit on the way, and so am I."

She didn't need him to tell her twice. She crept down the hallway, her heart hammering as she pulled open the door and raced out, holding the phone and the blanket. She started for the stairs, but her apartment door slammed shut just as someone ripped her blanket away. She screamed and turned. "Oh shit, oh no!" she cried.

"What's going on?" Detective Pruett yelled on the other end.

"Oh no!" She held the phone away, staring at the blanket—it was just caught in the door—and she could hear the detective yelling, calling her name over and over as she grabbed the knob and turned. Damn door was locked!

She heard the door across the hall unlock, and she dropped the phone, using one hand to cover her breasts and the other to cover her private parts as the door opened and Mr. Harris, her retired schoolteacher neighbor, stood in the entrance of his apartment.

His eyes widened, and he said, "Oh my."

She stared at the phone, her phone, on the floor. She could hear Pruett yelling, "Kate, what the hell's going on? Kate!" She looked up to Mr. Harris, who was now holding a towel. Before he turned his head, he tossed it her way.

***