Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(4)

“Oh, yes,” I say, stepping aside. “I do appreciate it. If you can’t get it, I’ll have to get help from the office.”

“They’re closed.” He reaches for the lock and cuts me a sideways look. “So let’s hope I can work some magic, or you’ll have to buy a new one at the corner store.”

“Closed? That’s not good.” I stuff the plastic sleeve into my front pocket. “I hate the idea of leaving the unit unlocked while I go to the store.” I wouldn’t want someone to steal my box of panties, I silently add. It’s a depressing thought and I watch Trouble struggle with the lock, hoping for his magic, only to find myself unsuccessfully trying to figure out what the tattoo on the palm of his hand is. I’ve always found the idea of being passionate enough about something to ink your body with it fascinating, and I wonder if I will ever feel that strongly about anything.

Trouble finds his magic, pops the lock into place, and turns to me. “All set, but you might want to get some WD-40 in case it sticks again. Actually, a new lock is probably a safer bet.”

It is new, but I say, “Yes. Good idea. Thanks.”

We stare at each other. Why are we standing here staring at each other? And why is he here? Does he have a unit of his own? Do I care? I mean, he helped me, but then, wasn’t Ted Bundy a good-looking guy who played hero to unsuspecting women like me? Of course, I doubt a man like this one needs to stalk women in storage units to kill them. They’d fall willingly at his feet.

The light flickers again and jolts some sense into me. Move. I need to move and be smart. Being alone in this hallway with a stranger is not safe. I bend down and pick up my box.

“Where’s that going? I can take it—”

“No!” I reply a bit too emphatically. “I’m good. Thanks for the help.” I rush down the hallway and, dang it, the stupid box is heavy and I have to stop and shift the weight. Finally, though, I’m across the vacant parking lot, standing beside my new ten-year-old white Camry, thankfully parked under a streetlight.

I shove my haul into the backseat and quickly open the driver’s door. Unable to fight the urge, I turn to look back at the building, and I suck in a breath when I find Trouble standing at the doorway through which I’d departed, staring at me. And once again, I, too, just stand there and do nothing but stare at him. I’m not frightened, though maybe I should be, but I think . . . I think he’s making sure I got to my car okay. I think I want to go back to the building, thank him for his help, and find out his real name. But that would be inviting real trouble. I almost laugh at the silly play on words but they hold too much truth to dismiss them, and I force myself to turn away from my locksmith hero. Trouble is exactly what that man makes me want to invite.

I slide into my car and lock the door but don’t drive away. I sit in the darkness with this sense of being afraid, and not of the man I’ve left behind. Of always running and never being daring enough for a man like Trouble. Of always being so cautious that I’m never more than I am right now.

Ella was right. I have to take risks. I have to make things happen, or life will slip away. I pull the plastic pouch out of my pocket and work the paper free again, searching for an address to punch into my GPS.

I’m going to the bus station. I’m going to find out what’s in that locker.

? ? ?

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I’ve parked in the deserted bus station parking lot and there are a number of reasons I’m staring at the locker key and not moving. First and foremost, this is my last chance to find a way to earn my $700 back, and how likely is it that the prize is in a bus station locker of all things? The location feels like it’s home to some nefarious secret I may be better off not knowing. However, sitting in this car and diving into the old memories and emotions Ella has inadvertently stirred up with her “fear” comments holds zero appeal. I didn’t leave Los Angeles over fear. I left because I chose to start a new life. I left because . . . damn it. He was still there, but it wasn’t about fear. It wasn’t me being a coward. I simply chose to be smart. To leave a situation that could have turned dangerous. Again. It could have turned dangerous again.

Needing out of my own head, I pop open the door and step outside into a gust of the typical San Francisco evening winds, which send a chill down my spine and inspire me to grab the lightweight jacket I keep handy in the backseat. I slip it on and decide to leave my purse in the car, lock the door, and stuff my keys and cell phone in my pocket, while the locker key is in my other hand, ready for fast use so I can get the heck out of here.

Crossing the parking lot, I assess the whole three cars parked here and there and decide it must be a slow time for travel. Entering the building, there are rows of worn blue empty seats in the middle of the room and lining the walls, and some sort of unmanned check-in counter to the far right. Spying the lockers directly ahead, I charge forward and find the number I’m looking for rather quickly, but I’m ridiculously nervous. I inhale and then try to stick the key in the hole, only to discover my stupid hand is shaking, a bad reaction to adrenaline I’ve had since I was a kid and need to fix before law school. I just really need this locker to be worth $700. I steady my hand, turn the lock, open the steel door, and stare down at an envelope. I am not encouraged.

Sighing, I reach for it and open the seal, retrieving a note card from inside that is typed with only a short note.