Rock Chick Renegade (Rock Chick #4)(3)

“Well, finish it,” I demanded when he didn’t say anything.

“I get the feelin’ I’ll see you again,” he told me.

Oh crap.

I didn’t figure that was good at all.

He pulled my gun out of his jeans, released the clip and with a casual, over arm throw, he tossed it well away. Then he leaned in, shoved the gun in the waistband of my cords, right in front, by my hipbone.

Then he turned, walked away, threw a muscled thigh over his Harley and roared off.

I stared until I couldn’t see him anymore.

Then I pulled my gun out, lifted up my sweater and checked to see if there was a mark where his hand slid against me.

I did this because it still burned.

* * * * *

I parked Hazel (my vintage, red Camaro) in the garage behind my house, scanning my mirrors while the door came down just to be certain I was safe. These days there was no telling.

I got out of Hazel and did the routine of walking the fifteen feet from the garage to the backdoor. Eyes open, gun at the ready (I had an extra clip in my glove compartment), listening and praying no one was out to get me.

I unlocked the door and walked through the shared back room of my duplex where Nick and I kept our washer and dryer, an extra freezer, tools, old paint cans and the kitty litter which Boo, my cat, could access through the cat flap in my backdoor.

I unlocked that door, unarmed the alarm and flipped the light switch to my retro kitchen. Pink metal cabinets, pink fridge, pink oven door, huge black and white diamond tiles patterning the floor. One wall was brick, the rest painted steel gray. It was cool as shit but not on purpose, only that it had been there so long, it had come back into fashion. I’d bought a high, fifties-style black Formica-topped table with gleaming stainless steel sides and kickass retro stools with black leather swivel seats because the kitchen demanded it.

Boo approached from the other door and began immediately to tell me about his day.

My cat was black with dense, soft fur and yellow eyes. He was too fat, unbelievably proud and he was the only clumsy cat I’d ever known. Boo pretended he meant to fall over and miss his leaps from furniture to table or whatever, but he was just not coordinated. At all.

“Meow, meow, meow. Meow meow. Meoow,” Boo told me, obviously having a full day and feeling I needed to be kept apprised of every second of it.

I threw my gun and bag on the table and swiped him off the floor.

“Meow!” Boo protested.

“Shut up, Boo. Mommy’s had a very bad day. She did something stupid, then got cornered by a hot guy and now she’s pretty much f**ked.”

“Meow,” Boo replied, thinking his news was more important than mine.

To shut him up I gave him kitty treats, feeding him from fingers to fangs.

This made him happy until I stopped giving him treats and he complained, “Meow.”

“That’s it,” I told him, “only three or the vet is going to yell at me again.”

“Meow,” Boo didn’t care what the vet thought.

“Whatever,” I wasn’t in the mood to argue with Boo.

I dropped my cat, walked into the hall and pulled off my boots.

Nick owned the whole of the duplex; he let me stay in my side for half the mortgage, kind of. Even though I was now twenty-six (nearly twenty-seven), he didn’t like me paying for anything, even my rent. So, I put it in a bank account each month and gave him a check on New Year’s Day every year. He tore up the check so the money just sat there earning interest.

Sometimes you just didn’t argue with Nick.

The duplexes were weird. They weren’t in the greatest part of town, though I thought it was pretty or, at least, part of it was. It was officially Baker Historical District but the not-so-good part.

We were on Elati and had a park in front of our house but there was a subsidized high-rise apartment building on one side of the park and a low-rent apartment building across the park opposite it.

Our house was historically registered and Nick kept it in great condition, regardless of the ‘hood. He’d redone his side, knocked out walls, put in a bedroom and tore out his pink kitchen.

I had not redone my side.

So my side was a lot like a loft. Nick had put in a new bathroom for me and I’d carpeted the whole place in a thick, soft gray. The front room had huge arched windows, a brick wall, the other walls painted a soft lilac and it was enormous. It fit all my fancy furniture including the dove gray velvet chaise lounge that sat by the front window, my sweep-lined lilac couch which flanked a gleaming, square pub set with midnight blue, leather-studded pads on the benches and a blue-gray overstuffed chair and ottoman. My antique, oval, walnut dining table was at the inside wall. The half-circle-backed chairs I’d had re-upholstered in the same dove gray velvet as the lounge.

There was a closet that separated the living room from the bedroom, though, you could only loosely call it a “bedroom”. It was really a king-sized mattress set on a platform opened to the hall which sat four feet above the floor. I had to climb up three narrow stairs to get to it. There was storage underneath it and big areas cut in around the side walls of the bed that were above the lowered ceiling of the hall and closet. This was where I kept books, candles and a television set. This was my refuge. A little, feminine cave with fancy cream sheets, a fluffy green and cream patterned comforter and an overwhelming array of pillows from standard, to European, to bedrolls, to toss.