Page 71 of Man Vs. Woman
Serena
“What the…?”
I sit up on the bed, bleary-eyed, and look around the bedroom, trying to listen and see where that damn noise is coming from. For a moment, I think I’m back at Colt’s bedroom, but then I realize on my own. And alone.
What a shame.
Blinking in the darkness, I reach for the lamp on the bed stand and flick the switch up. The moment the dim light floods my bedroom, the noise comes again.
Someone’s knocking at my door.
Godammit. Why now?
I was just dreaming ofmyman. And yes, it was exactly that kind of dream, the kind where you wake up and have to flick your panties into the laundry basket. My brain sure was busy doing an inventory of all the things we’ve done together...and of all the things we still haven’t done. And there are a lot of them, let me tell you.
Sigh. But now I’m awake, so let’s see what the fuss is about.
There’s no light coming from the windows, which means its still night. I check my cell phone—still four in the morning—and happily swing my legs off the bed and put my slippers on. On my way out of the bedroom, I grab my robe and tie it off at the waist. I’m careful to let the knot loose enough, already anticipating who I’m going to find at the door.
Maybe being woken up like this isn’t that bad, if my unexpected visitor is who I think it is.
I gotta say...I wasn’t expecting for Colt to swing by without letting me know first. But I’m definitely not complaining, that much I can tell you. I mean, what kind of woman would complain if a towering sex god decided to pay her a visit during the middle of the night? Notthiswoman.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I purr as I pull the door open, a teasing smile on my lips.
The only answer I get is a silent one.
There’s no one on the hallway.
“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath, looking down the hallway and trying to see if I can hear anyone walking away. But no, the whole building seems as silent as a graveyard. You could say that this was some random kid pulling a prank on me, but...I live at Clarendon Tower, one of the most exclusive buildings in the city. It’s not like rowdy kids are roaming the hallways during the night, smoking cigarettes and throwing rocks at the doors.
So... who then?
I’m about to close the door and get back in when I notice something at my feet. A beige envelope, large enough to hold a stack of documents. Tightening the knot on my robe, I bend over and pick it up from the floor. When I turn it around in my hands, I see my name scribbled on the front in bold capital letters.
Not a good omen, that’s for sure.
Maybe it’s the red ink in which my name is written, or maybe it’s the fact that some random asshole thought it important to deliver me this at such a late hour.
Either way, I have to see what’s inside.
Grabbing a knife from the kitchen, I lay the envelope on the counter and carefully use the blade to open the damn thing up without ripping the paper apart. When I do, I turn it around and empty it on top of the counter.
Dozens of pictures fall from inside the envelope, a few of them tumbling down to the floor. They’re square with white frames, the kind you’d get if you were to use one of those old Polaroids. Going down on one knee, I pick up the ones that fell on the floor, and I immediately feel a deep cold taking over my bones as I see what the pictures are of.
They’re pictures of Colt.
He’s wearing a pristine tailored suit, and even from afar I can see that he’s wearing the Rolex he likes to use from time to time. Standing on the dining room of some restaurant I can’t name, he has his back straight as he shakes hands with a man seating at the table.
Hiram.
“What the fuck?”
I turn the picture around and, lo and behold, there’s a message for me there. Scribbled in red, of course. Like a fucking murder note. Thank you, random neighborhood psycho—I always appreciate being creeped out this late in the night.
Think you know Colt McCoy?the note reads, and those words are enough to make my heart start galloping. Slowly, I go up to my feet and start rummaging through the rest of the pictures.
The setting varies at times—sometimes it’s a restaurant, sometimes it’s a bar—but the two men in the pictures remain the same.
