Page 6 of Things We Hide from the Light
TWO
AVOIDANCE TACTICS
Lina
Iclosed my new front door on all six feet one inches of wounded, broody Nash Morgan.
“Don’t even think about it,” I muttered to myself.
Usually, I didn’t mind taking a risk, playing with a little fire. And that was exactly what getting to know Studly Do-Right, as the ladies of Knockemout had dubbed him, would be. But I had more urgent things to do than flirting away the sadness that Nash wore like a cloak.
Wounded and broody, I thought again as I lugged my files across the room.
I wasn’t surprised that I was attracted. While I preferred the enjoy ’em and leave ’em lifestyle, there was nothing I loved more than a challenge. And getting under that facade, digging into what put those shadows in his sad hero eyes would be exactly that.
But Nash struck me as the settling-down type, and I was allergic to relationships.
Once you showed an interest in someone, they started thinking it meant they had the right to tell you what to do and how to do it, two of my least favorite things. I liked good times, the thrill of the chase. I enjoyed playing with the pieces of a puzzle until I had the full picture, then moving on to the next one. And in between, I liked walking into my place, full of my things, and ordering food I liked without having to argue with anyone about what to watch on TV.
I dumped the box on the tiny dining room table and surveyed my new domain.
The apartment had potential. I could see why Knox had invested in the building. He’d never been one to miss potential under the surface of hot mess. High ceilings, battered wood floors, big windows overlooking the street.
The main living space was furnished with a faded floral couch facing an empty brick wall, the small but sturdy round dining table with three chairs, and some kind of shelving system built out of old crates under the front windows.
The kitchen, which was closed off into a tiny, drywalled box, was about two decades out of date. Not a problem since I didn’t cook. The counters were a garish yellow laminate that had long outlived their heyday, if they’d ever had one. But there was a microwave and a fridge big enough to store takeout and a six-pack, so it would work just fine for me.
The bedroom was empty, but it had a sizable closet, which unlike the kitchenwasa requirement for me and my clothes-whorish tendencies. The attached bathroom was charmingly vintage with a claw-foot tub and an absolutely useless pedestal sink that would hold zero percent of my makeup and skincare collection.
I blew out a breath. Depending on how comfortable the couch was, I might be able to hold off on making a decisionabout a bed. I didn’t know how much longer I’d be here, how long it would take me to find what I was looking for.
I hoped to hell it wouldn’t be long now.
I flopped down on the couch, praying for it to be comfortable.
It was not.
“Why are you punishing me?” I asked the ceiling. “I’m not a horrible person. I stop for pedestrians. I donate to that farm sanctuary. I eat my vegetables. What more do you want?”
The universe didn’t respond.
I heaved a sigh and thought about my town house in Atlanta. I was used to roughing it on the job. Returning from an extended stay in a two-star motel always made me appreciate my expensive sheets, my overstuffed designer couch, and my meticulously organized wardrobe.
This particular extended stay, however, was becoming ridiculous.
And the longer I stayed in town without a break or a clue or a light at the end of the tunnel, the antsier I got. On paper, maybe it looked like I was an impulsive wild child. In reality, I was simply following the plan I’d made a long time ago. I was patient and logical, and the risks I took were—almost always—calculated.
But weeks on end in a tiny town thirty-eight minutes from the closest Sephora without the slightest indication that I was on the right track were starting to wear on me. Hence the conversation with the ceiling.
I was bored and frustrated, a dangerous combination, because it made it impossible to ignore the niggling doubt in my head that maybe I didn’t enjoy this line of work as much as I once did. The doubt that had magically sprouted when things had gone south during the last job. Something else I didn’t want to think about.
“Okay, universe,” I said to the ceiling again. “I needone thingto go my way. Just one. Like a shoe sale or, I don’t know, how about one break in this case before I lose my mind?”
This time, the universe answered me with a phone call.
The universe was a jerk.
“Hi, Mom,” I said with twin pulls of annoyance and affection.
