Kathy Altman - Staying at Joe's

Which would be more impressive if it weren’t so obvious that the job—the money—meant everything to her. And he was dying to know why. What was the something she needed so desperately? Or was it a someone?

He shifted, relieving the pressure on his knees. How many times did he have to tell himself—?

Suddenly a wolf spider with a body the size of a goddamned golf ball popped out from under the carpet. Joe yelled and fell back on his ass. He stared at the spider as it scuttled toward the door, then over at Allison, whose eyes were rounder than the fried eggs he’d forced himself to eat for breakfast.

He started to laugh, and she started to laugh, and at the sight of her dirt-smudged face lit with unrestrained humor, the late morning sun gilding her hair and gleaming on her pale skin, he realized that he had screwed himself. Big time.

Because at that precise moment, what he wanted most in the world was the freedom to pull her into his arms, kiss her breathless, inhale her sweetness and absorb her heat. And that freedom was the last thing she’d ever grant him.

He jerked to his feet. “I have paperwork. We can finish this later.” He motioned with his chin at the nearest wall. “Next step is tearing down the paneling. Feel up to tackling that yourself?”

She rose more slowly, her face adopting the polite and professional mask she’d always worn for T&P clients. She nodded. “My trusty hammer and I won’t let you down.”

“Don’t forget your goggles,” he said, and got the hell out of there.

* * *

HE HOVERED AT the edge of the tree line, his gaze sharp on the open window. Surprisingly the meathead who’d convinced himself he could run a motel had had the sense to ventilate the room while painting it. Kind of a shame, really. ’Cause with all those fumes trapped in that tiny space, one flicker of flame was all it would take to burn the whole place down.

Whoosh. And a hellish history would be...history.

He shivered, glad that despite the bright morning sun he was wearing his hoodie. Not that he had much choice. If he had to make a run for it he’d just as soon nobody got a good look at him. An inhale rewarded him with a whiff of the lake—seaweed roasting on summer rocks. An answering ache in his stomach. He distracted himself by concentrating on the task at hand.

Pay attention.

Meathead must have finished painting because he’d moved on to the next room—and he had a partner now. Pulling up carpet—how much help could that skinny blonde be? Didn’t matter. What did matter was that his chances of being caught had just doubled. Uneasiness sparked at the base of his spine. He worked up a mouthful of saliva and spit.

He’d come too far, waited too long to back out now.

Keeping his eyes on that fifth window, he loped toward the only door on the back side of the building. Locked, of course. Meathead was smarter than he looked. But not smart enough to install a keycard lock, like the ones on the guest room doors. With the help of a torque wrench and a paperclip, he was in.

He carefully closed the door behind him, shoved back the hood of his sweatshirt and looked around. Three times, now, he’d broken into this dump. Still, he took a moment to bask in his accomplishment, to enjoy his triumph over the new owner and his cheap-ass locks.

At least, that’s what he let himself believe. The real reason for his hesitation was too complicated—too painful—to think about.

At the end of a long, narrow counter was a once-white stove, now yellowed with age, pushed into the corner. On the other side of a faded strip of linoleum crouched an undersize refrigerator. Beside it stood a small sink and a square of countertop big enough to support all four feet of a stainless steel toaster, the gleaming mass of which mocked the rest of the kitchen.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and curled his fingers into his palms, fighting the desperate need to bash, to bellow, to burn the whole godforsaken pile down to the goddamned ground. One shaking hand went to the pouch at his belly, pressed against the slim bulk of the lighter he kept there.

Not yet. He didn’t understand why, but he just knew he had to wait.

He opened his eyes, inhaled, yanked open the refrigerator door. Milk, cheese, apples, salad stuff. And the ever-present beer. He rubbed at the sudden tightness in the center of his chest.

The dude needed to shop. And he’d eaten the rest of the eggs, damn him. But he still had potatoes. And ketchup.

His belly let loose a pleading gurgle as he contemplated hash browns and toast. But he couldn’t risk taking the time to cook again, let alone wash up. With a grunt he grabbed an apple and hit the cabinets next. Not much he could take that wouldn’t be missed. Finally he eyed the loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter and sighed. Peanut butter and jelly it would have to be. Again.

He was drying the knife he’d used when the buzzer in the hallway sounded. Shit. Luckily the pocket doors were closed, but he should have thought to check them before.

Someone mumbling. It was Meathead. And he sounded pissed.

Soundlessly he set the knife on the counter, wrapped a paper towel around his sandwich and backed quietly down the hall and into the bathroom. He wedged himself into the narrow space behind the door, the backs of his legs mashed up against the toilet. Meathead would definitely see him if he poked his head in—or if he had to use the john.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

A muted rumble as the pocket doors slid along the track. Footsteps pounded on the linoleum. A frustrated sigh, the slam of a cabinet door, the soft rush of water as Meathead held a glass under the faucet.

The thick smell of peanut butter rose up around him, and his belly begged loudly for a bite. He held his breath. A clack as the water glass was put on the counter, more muttering, then footsteps coming closer, and closer.

Even as he fought to hold his breath, to keep quiet, the memories crowded in. Ugly, aching, relentless snatches of the past. Sweat dribbled from his scalp and into his ear. A rushing sound, punctuated by the echoing thud of his heart. He pressed his left fist to his mouth while the fingers of his right hand curled into the sandwich. If Meathead found him, he wouldn’t get another chance. He’d have to run, lay low and wait a hell of a long while before coming back.

A soft sound, near the floor. His stomach went into free fall. He looked down and saw a little orange tabby looking back up at him and almost pissed himself as his muscles loosened. The dude had a cat? Since when?

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