Page 53 of Only the Devil
The crickets hit a high-pitched screech and sweat stings my eyes, but I keep pounding. Watch the time. Track the heart rate. I woke up this morning and considered waking the naked woman sleeping beside me. The sheet thief had robbed all but the corner covering my feet, which I could blame as the reason for waking so hellishly early. But that would be misdirected blame. Fifteen years of pre-dawn reveille rewired my circadian rhythm beyond civilian repair.
I slap at a sharp sting on my neck and power through. The heat’s building, promising a record July sauna as I cut through a trail of starving mosquitoes, winding to the street that leads back to the business district.
A flash of Daisy spread before me has me picking up the pace, blood rushing as the visuals replay frame by frame. My pace falters as the memory hits—Daisy straddling me, her hands braced against my chest, that fierce look in her eyes. I shake my head and push harder up the hill. How the hell had I ever thought she wasn’t my type? How did I not want her the very first day I saw her?
Everything about her is fire and chaos—and now that I’ve had a taste, I’m ruined. God, when she straddled me last night—fuuuck. I love her energy. Her zest. Man, everything about last night I loved…I would’ve woken her this morning, but it was way too fucking early. But if I time my return right…maybe we can shower together.
With that thought, I pick up the pace, flying through intersections, earning a honk from one zippy car. Back at the apartment, I double-time it up the stairwell to our floor. Outside, I pull the key from my shoelace, unlock the door, and fling it open.
Silence greets me. A quick scan of the counter—the counter from last night—and it hits me: there’s no note.
Should I have left a note?
Maybe she’s still here. I kick the door closed.
“Daze? You here?”
Silence.
I pound up the stairs and take in the open bedroom door and the bed with the comforter pulled back neatly up to the pillows. Residual water droplets run down the shower glass.
Just missed her.
I locate my phone to shoot her a text. I type and delete three messages before settling on something simple.
* * *
Want to meet for lunch?
* * *
I’d suggest she meet me for coffee, but by the time I shower, she’ll be on her way to her cozy little window office.
I check the kitchen counter twice, then the bathroom mirror. Nothing. I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over her contact before shoving it back in my pocket. She’s probably just aiming to get a jump on things.
It’s odd she didn’t leave a note or anything. Then again, I didn’t leave a note. But it’s best she got out before I returned. Space gets crowded when we’re both getting ready at the same time. I’ll catch her at lunch. Touch base and make sure everything’s cool. And it will be. After last night, I’m pretty positive we’ll be scratching that itch again, ’cause she wanted it as bad as me.
When I enter the building, coffee in hand, I’m still earlier than the lobby receptionist. In my office, I sit back at the desk, turn on the computer, and envision the wall opposite the desk filled with monitors. It’ll work.
There’s a knock and Jillian Weaver appears with a man in trousers that belong with a suit, but he’s not wearing the jacket, and his belt’s off center below a belly that protrudes his waist. His sandy brown hair is trimmed, and he’s got a pen tucked inside the pocket of his white button-down shirt.
“Jake, I see you’re here. That’s fantastic. I can introduce you to Russell Thompson. Today’s his first day on security staff.”
She mentioned she interviewed others but didn’t mention she’d offered a job to anyone. I push up from the desk, hand extended, and Weaver says, “Do you mind taking him through everything, Jake? I’m late for a meeting with our health insurance rep.” She glances at her watch, presumably to emphasize her lateness.
Thompson says, “Go on. We’re good. Ryder can take me through everything.”
She smiles—relieved, I assume—gives me a nod, and departs, leaving the door open behind her.
Thompson scans the room, then me. “Ryder,” he says with a quick nod. “She shared your resume with me. Top notch stuff you’ve done there. It’s an honor.”
Given she didn’t mention Thompson to me, I only nod. “We’ve got one computer. I can run up and ask if they’re sending someone down?—”
He waves a hand dismissively, shutting me up. “One should be fine for the two of us.” He lifts the messenger bag strap over his head and lifts the flap. “My girlfriend made banana bread. Don’t know if you’ve had breakfast, but I brought it in for you.”
Sugar, butter, chocolate. Bet it’s scrumptious, but it’s not exactly the breakfast of champions.
“Thanks, but I already had a breakfast sandwich.”
