Under Wraps (15 page)

“I’m just nervous about shooting,” I spat, annoyed. “Is it going to make fire again? What if the casing hits me in the eye this time? Has anyone ever died from the back end of a gun? What if I shoot you?”

Hayes ignored me, but his arms seemed to close a little tighter over me. His hands clamped over mine again, and his thumb stroked mine as he guided my finger to the trigger. “Okay?” he whispered.

I nodded weakly, unsure if the sensation roiling through my body was fear or an intense desire to spend more time pressed up against his firm, warmblooded body.

“Take your stance,” he said, and I felt his leg between mine, pushing against my thigh until my feet were shoulder width apart.

“Ready.”

I took a miniscule step back, and Parker made up the distance so his hips were pushed flush against mine once more.

“Aim.”

The word was soft, moist, tender against my earlobe.

“Fire!”

I squeezed the trigger, and my eyes shut simultaneously. The gun recoiled hard, but Parker had me, one arm extended and holding the gun, the other clamped around my waist.

“Are you okay?” He looked down at me, his eyes a breathtaking blue. All I could do was nod spastically.

“That was better,” he said softly.

I stood up straight, squinting down the aisle toward the target. “Where did I hit him? Can we see it?”

“Actually …” Parker stepped around me and pointed at the dirt. “You shot the ground.”

“Crap!”

Parker looked away, grinning. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it; it’s just going to take some time. Let’s keep working.”

Parker spent the rest of the night coaxing my ceiling-and-floor aim to meet in the middle—or, at the very least, to hit the target—and I spent the whole night being folded into his arms and recoiling into his tight chest.

I may never like guns, but I was learning to love Parker’s instruction.

“Okay,” Parker said, taking the gun and unloading the magazine. “That’s enough for tonight. You’re doing a lot better.”

My arms felt like jelly and shots kept exploding in my head. “Are you less worried about my safety now?”

Parker jabbed at a button, and the paper target came sailing toward us. He held it up to me, and I could see four tiny gunshot holes near the bottom right corner of the paper.

“Not exactly,” he said.

I squinted. “I got it on the paper though. That’s got to count for something, right?”

Parker chuckled, his smile chocolate-chip-cookie warm and relaxed. “Yeah. Whatever you say, Lawson.”

Chapter Eleven

It was dark by the time we left the shooting range, and my stomach rumbled angrily as Parker pushed the key into the ignition. I blushed, feeling the heat rise to my ears.

“Sorry,” I said, as a flint of panic washed over Parker’s face. “I guess I’m just a little bit hungry.”

“Man.” Parker’s eyes dropped to my stomach. “I thought you were growing a baby dinosaur in there.”

“Geez, Parker. You’re a real gem. I can’t believe a woman hasn’t snapped you up yet.” I crossed my arms and sunk into my car seat. “Let’s just go.”

Parker shrugged, turning the key, a hint of smile playing on his lips. “You know what they say: The Lone Ranger rides—”

“Alone?” I finished.

“Come on,” Parker said, backing out of the lot, “you’re buying me a pizza.”

“Is that so?”

Parker ignored me, his grin knee-melting and annoyingly smug. “Yup. Training fee. You should have read the fine print.”

I dug into my purse and handed Parker a twenty-dollar bill. “How about you buy your own pizza and we call it a night. I’m exhausted.” And frankly, not so sure I could spend another hour alone with Parker Hayes without jumping those alternately frustrating and super-hot bones.

“Don’t worry,” Parker said as he maneuvered the car through traffic. “We’ll eat it at your house. You have cable, right?”

My stomach dropped into my groin, and I clamped my knees together.

This was
not
going to be good.

Twenty minutes later I was balancing a pizza box on my thighs and directing Parker to my apartment. My blood was pulsing, and as astoundingly hot or not Parker Hayes may have been, I had just determined to move him firmly to the Never in a Thousand Years pile. Especially since he really did make me buy the pizza (and a six-pack of beer, to boot). I was slumped in my seat, ticking off Hayes’s annoying attributes—sexist, demonist, thinks every woman wants him—when I heard him mutter, “Holy shit.”

My head snapped up, and I squinted at the glare from the police lights flashing red and blue into our car.

“Is that your building?”

I nodded, my mouth hanging open, my stomach immediately souring. “Uh-huh. I wonder what happened?”

There was a line of squad cars snaking into the street, and the police were filing in and out of my building, radios squawking.

“Nina,” I whispered, gulping. “I have to get in there. Something could have happened to Nina or Vlad.” I began to stand, my hand on the door handle, the pizza box burning a warm trail as it slid down my legs.

“Wait.” Parker’s voice was stern, his hand soft on my knee. “Let me find out what happened first.” Parker turned to me, his grip tightening on my thigh, his eyes firm and dark. “You wait right here.”

“No, no, I can’t wait.” I kicked the car door open and followed Parker, zigzagging into the line of squad cars, weaving around the officers.

Parker found an officer, and I found them both, angling myself closer to Parker. “What happened? I live here,” I demanded.

“Break-in.” Parker said, looking down at me.

I looked at the other officer, who nodded. “Break-in,” he agreed.

I gripped my heart and blew out a long sigh. “That’s not too bad.” I looked at both the officers, at their hard eyes, both their mouths set in stern, thin lines. “Is there something else?” I asked in a whisper.

Parker took my arm just above the elbow and eyed me. “Do you know a Thomas Howard?”

“He broke in? He wouldn’t break in. He lives here,” I said.

“The break-in was 6B.”

“That’s me.” I thumped my chest. “I’m 6B. Mr. Howard is 9B. He wouldn’t rob me. He’s a nice old man. Kind of a dirty old man, but really nice.” I blinked. “Right?”

Parker lowered his voice. “Lawson, Mr. Howard is dead.”

I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach, and immediately, my eyes began to water. “No, no, no.” I wagged my head, sniffling, barely noticing Parker’s arm as it slid behind my back, steadying me.

“We just talked to him—Vlad and I—yesterday, in the hall. He was fine. He’s fine. How could he be dead?” In an instant, I thought of Vlad, last night, thought of Nina warning him about indulging in human victims, the way he looked so disdainfully on humankind. There was a sharp pain in my stomach. “What happened to him?” I whispered, terrified.

“Mr. Howard called in a disturbance—the break-in—at your place. When the police arrived, there was no one in your apartment and they found Mr. Howard on the back stairs. His neck was broken. It looks like he fell.”

“We think he may have been trailing the intruder, perhaps lost his footing and fell.”

“He fell?” My voice was small, and for the first time I noticed the cold night air as it washed over me. “And he died?” I caught Parker’s eye and he nodded. I swallowed. “You’re sure?” I whispered.

“Yeah, they’re sure. There were no other”—Parker cleared his throat, lowered his voice—“circumstances.”

A small prickle of relief rushed through me, until I thought again of Mr. Howard, of his toothy smile and him snuggling up to all his women. Parker moved his arm to my shoulder, and I instinctively snuggled into him. “Oh, that poor man. That’s awful.”

Parker led me away when the ambulance pulled up, and he settled me back on the front seat of his car. “Wait here. The other officers just need to finish up a few things. We should be able to go up to your place shortly.”

I nodded, still sniffling, and when Parker came back and gathered me and the pizza together, I didn’t protest, handing him my keys and letting him lead me to my cracked-open front door.

He rubbed his hand over the splintered door frame and looked at me sympathetically. “We’ll fix this door and get you a new lock tonight.”

I nodded and shrugged out of my jacket, pulling open the coat closet. “I just can’t shake the heebie-jeebie feeling,” I muttered. I reached into the closet for a hanger when a pair of yellow-green eyes blinked at me from the depths of the darkness and I screamed, my own voice sounding tinny and sharp.

“What the—?” In an instant Parker was crouched beside me, gun drawn.

“Don’t shoot Steve, don’t shoot Steve!” Steve jumped off a stack of board games, dropping a golf club and raising his small troll hands, palms up.

I put my hand on Parker’s and slowly pressed the gun down to his side. “It’s okay, Parker. Don’t shoot. Yet.”

Parker furrowed his brow and leaned into me, lowering his voice. “Who’s the dwarf?”

I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Oh, Parker. Now you’ve done it.”

Parker’s eyes widened as he stared from me to Steve. “Uh, little person, sorry. Do you know him?”

I could see the lichen on Steve’s thick arms tremble as his eyes darkened, his lips going thin and taut over his yellow, snaggled teeth. His fingers curled into tight little fists.

“Steve is a troll. Steve is not a dwarf,” he spat angrily, his eyes glaring fire.

“I’m really sorry—Steve, is it?”

Steve nodded slowly, his little troll body coiled in anger. I pulled Parker by the elbow and hissed into his ear. “Trolls are especially sensitive to being called dwarves. There has always been a vicious rivalry between the two. Trolls do intellectual work, dwarves do menial labor.”

Parker raised an eyebrow. “Intellectual work?” he whispered, looking from Steve to myself.

“They live under bridges and allow passage to travelers who can answer trivia questions. Haven’t you ever left the Bay Area?”

Parker’s brow furrowed and he shrugged. “I am so not getting this.”

“The only thing worse than calling a troll a dwarf is calling him an elf.”

Steve’s nostrils flared and the stench of blue cheese and old gym socks intensified. “Steve is not an elf! Steve does not even like Christmas! Steve is
all
troll.”

“I know, Steve—I was just illustrating a point. What the hell are you doing in my closet anyway? You scared the crap out of me!” I clutched my chest, my heart still beating furiously against my palm.

Parker looked incredulously from me to Steve. “You know this … guy … well?”

Steve dropped the golf club and inched himself between Parker and me. “Steve was protecting Sophie.” He looked over his shoulder, eyeing Parker disdainfully. “Steve and Sophie are an item.”

I stood back, edging away from Steve. “No, we are not an item. Steve stalks me at the UDA.”

“Steve works at the UDA,” Steve corrected.

“Steve, how long have you been hiding in my coat closet?”

“Not hiding. Protecting.”

Parker wrinkled his nose and stepped back. “It kind of smells like you were rotting in there.”

Steve glared up at him. “Steve’s scent is distinct.”

“I’ll say.”

“How long, Steve?” I wanted to know.

Steve shrugged. “Since Sophie left. Steve lost sight of her. Steve should never lose sight of Sophie.”

Parker leaned in to me. “What is he again?” he whispered.

“Troll,” I murmured.

Steve reached up and laced his fingers through mine. “Lover.”

I shook them off. “Not.” I paused. “How did you even get in here?”

Steve grinned, rolling up on his toes. “Steve has ways.”

I glared at him, and he sighed. “Steve fits through the bathroom window.”

“So this”—Parker pointed to the shards of wood hanging from the door frame—“wasn’t you? You didn’t break into Sophie’s apartment?”

Steve wagged his head.

“Then you must have seen who did. Or heard it. Did you? Did you see anything? Did you see who chased Mr. Howard?” I knelt down to be eye to eye with Steve.

Steve’s gray cheeks flush a deeper gray. “Steve took a little nap.” He grinned. “He was dreaming about Sophie.”

I pointed to the open door. “Get out, Steve! And stop following me. And don’t
ever
break into my apartment again!”

Steve eyed me and flared his nostrils at Parker. “Steve will go this time, but Steve will be always around. Steve will make this up to Sophie.” He pointed a stubby finger at Parker’s kneecaps. “And you, breather, you’d better watch your step. Steve has his eye on you.”

Parker raised his eyebrows as Steve waddled out the front door. I sighed, made sure Steve was actually gone, and closed the door after him.

“Interesting friend you’ve got there,” Parker said, a half smile playing on his lips. “Parker thinks he might have some competition.”

My stomach fluttered despite the stench of gunpowder and sleeping troll hanging in the air. “Right. Now, what about that pizza?”

Parker went for the pizza box he dropped on the counter as I turned around, scanning my apartment. I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“Everything looks the same in here. I mean”—I picked up Steve’s golf club and tossed it back into the closet—“it doesn’t look like anything was stolen.”

“We think Mr. Howard scared the intruder before he actually had a chance to get in.”

I shuddered, glancing around at my IKEA furniture, my collection of overdue library books, the hand-me-down pillows from Grandma’s old couch. “What would anyone want to break in here for?”

Parker shrugged, heading into the kitchen and helping himself to napkins and plates.

I swallowed, feeling my muscles tense. I stared at the carpet. “Do you think it was an intruder, or do you think it was Mr. Sampson?”

Parker slid a piece of pizza onto a plate and handed it to me. “You should eat something.”

I rested the plate on the table.

“You think it was Sampson, don’t you?”

Parker turned his back to me, rattling around in my drawers. “Do you have a bottle opener?”

“Answer me.”

Parker’s rattling stopped and he turned, his blue eyes sharp. “I think it was Sampson. And I’m not entirely convinced that Mr. Howard fell on his own. I think Pete Sampson really wants to find you.” Parker slid the plate back toward me. “You really should eat something.”