Page 59 of Some Like 'Em Burly
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Jem falls asleep so easily, she reminds me of my old man. One minute she’s fussing around the bed, plumping the pillow and asking me for the millionth time if I want to share. The answer, as I explain to her gently, isyes, of course I want to sleep besideher, but if I stretch out on that tiny single bed, I’ll reduce it to a pile of lumber. She laughs, and it takes some of the bitterness away.
The next minute, Jem’s tucked up and breathing softly, the blankets clutched beneath her chin, while traffic rumbles past outside the window and the streetlamp glows steadily through the curtains.
I watch her for a long time from my spot on the floor. She built me a kind of nest on the rug, with a spare blanket and a wadded up clean towel for my head, and I stretch out gingerly, careful not to knock any furniture. I’ve changed into the sweatpants from my backpack, and my limbs feel weirdly unencumbered after a full day of leathers, but my mind is crystal clear.
Sure, it’s warm and dry and I’ve slept in plenty of worse places—but this isn’t gonna be a good night’s sleep for me.
But then, it wouldn’t be anyway. I’m on duty, and I need to stay alert. Really, I’m just lying down to work the kinks out of my back.
Hours pass, and shadows shift across the ceiling. Even in the half-darkness, I pick out at least three DIY projects for me to do tomorrow before leaving Jem’s apartment, and I make a mental list of supplies I’ll need to run out for. It’s restful thinking, meditative and calm, so my breathing is steady when a floorboard creaks outside the front door.
I go still, ears pricking.
A person shifts their weight out there. Something metal scratches against the lock, like a key held by a clumsy hand—but after a few failed tries, the key slides into the door and turns.
I’m already up, darting across the room on silent feet, positioning myself so I’m behind the door when it swings open. The motion disturbs the air, sending the softest breeze acrossJem’s apartment, and when a man steps inside, I don’t need a light on to recognize this guy.
Peter.That’s what she called him, right? The creep from the market. Jem’s sometime ex.
Peter. Peter the prick.
My fingers twitch around my knife handle, and I gust out a long-suffering sigh before setting the blade on top of Jem’s bookcase. Won’t be needing that—and I won’t be the reason my girl has to scrub blood out of her floor.
The soft noise makes Peter spin around to face me, but he’s too slow in the darkness, his eyes not yet adjusted to the gloom. It’s the easiest thing in the world to grip him by the throat and hoist him into the air, kicking and struggling, holding him away from the bookcase so he doesn’t knock over Jem’s stuff. My hair may be pressed against the ceiling, but there are whole inches of empty air beneath this guy.
“Here we are again.” My tone is pleasant, but my grip is so harsh on his throat that Peter’s eyes bulge. Already, his face is an ugly crimson color, and his kicks are getting wilder, more desperate. He claws at my hand. “And I was so sure we understood each other after our chat earlier. That’s a shame.”
A soft noise drifts over from the bed, followed by the rustle of bed covers. Jem flicks on the lamp on her nightstand, then gapes at the scene in the middle of her rug.
“Sweatshirt,” I grit out, my tone harsher than it should be, but I don’t want Peter the prick to see a single inch of Jem’s bare skin. Not when she’s wearing that skimpy top and those tiny shorts; not when I’m at risk of committing murder. She’smine.
Jem dives for a sweatshirt draped over the end of her bed, shoving it on over her head. I can breathe properly once her body’s swamped in fabric, safely hidden from prying eyes—not that Peter’s in any position to perv. He’s too busy gasping for breath and turning purple.
“He has a key,” I tell Jem, shaking her intruder like the key might jiggle loose. “Did you give him one?”
“N-no.” Jem is bleary-eyed when she swings her legs out of bed, tip-toeing closer. “Of course not. We only went on a few dates, and then I called it off.”
The hem of her sweatshirt hangs halfway down Jem’s bare thighs. It’s still too much skin on show, but it’ll have to do.
“Check his pockets.”
Jem wrinkles her nose, but steps forward and does it, pulling out a sleek leather wallet, an iPhone, a small stack of business cards, and—a small, brassy key.
“Try it.”
Peter smacks at my arm again, trying to break my hold, but it’s useless. He watches, bug-eyed, as Jem crosses to the door and lets herself out of the apartment.
Our breathing is the only sound in the small room—Peter’s gasping, mine steady. The key slides into the lock easily, and the door swings open.
“Oh,” Jem says, clearly shaken as she comes back inside. She stares down at the key in her hand, looking faintly sick. “Oh, god. I knew it.”
“We’ll change the locks tomorrow,” I tell her, wishing more than anything that I could comfort her right now rather than deal with this piece of human garbage. But then again, maybe thisishow I comfort her. Right? She was scared, so she came to Spartan Shield Corp. Decision made, I turn to the man dangling in my grip.
“Not that you’ll be coming back,” I say.
Peter tries to shake his head, desperate to agree with me. He’d say anything, do anything, to get me to release his throat.
