Scenes from the Hallway (Knitting in the City Book 8) Read online

An elbow against my ribs had me sending a glare to Stan. He cleared his throat, looking at where my hand still held hers, which had me looking at our joined hands, which had me realizing I was still holding Kat’s hand. But, so what? I liked her hand, and she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to take it back.

  “You knit?” I shifted a step closer to her, lowering my voice, and breathed in through my nose. Yep. Cake.

  “I—I do.” She nodded, her attention moving to my forehead, then my nose, then my lips. “I’m knitting a cape,” she admitted softly, like it was just us two in the hall.

  Gorgeous voice.

  “A cape? For yourself?” I didn’t know what I was saying, I just wanted her to keep talking. Plus, our hands were no longer moving. As soon as she figured that out, she might want to leave and I wasn’t finished admiring her yet.

  “No. For a friend’s dog.”

  A dog? “You’re making a cape for a dog?” If she had a dog, then basically she was the perfect woman.

  She hesitated, her smile slipping like she was feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Yes.”

  “This some super hero dog?” I teased, giving her a wider smile.

  She laughed again, melodic, sweet. “Well, my friend thinks so. But, no. The dog is old—thirteen—and I’ve already made her booties for his paws, but he gets cold easily. And, you know, older dogs have a hard time in the snow.”

  Thoughtful.

  “She likes dogs.” I sighed, saying this mostly to myself. Because of course she liked dogs.

  “I love dogs.” She nodded enthusiastically.

  “You should meet my dog.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “He’d love you.”

  She smiled—fucking sunshine and rainbows kind of smile—and I was just about to say something crazy, like, Come with me now and I will introduce you to my dog—but then Davis said, “I also love dogs.”

  Kat’s warm gaze cut to him and she blinked, like she was surprised he was there. And then she blinked a few more times, shaking her head as though to clear it and pulling her fingers from mine. In that moment, my hand had never felt emptier.

  Fucking Davis.

  “I think everyone should have a dog,” she said, removing herself a step and giving him a small smile. She looked to me and then away, real fast, her smile wavering, the pink of her cheeks turning red as she stammered. “But I don’t have a dog. I should get a dog. I can’t have a dog right now, my apartment doesn’t allow it, so maybe, someday, I’ll . . . have a dog.”

  She frowned, her eyes on her bag, and then her hair fell forward blocking her face from view, giving me the sense she was hiding.

  Wait. What just happened?

  “That’s why you gotta know people who have dogs.” I tried to sound casual as I sent Davis a shut the fuck up look. Kit-Kat-smells-like-cake and I had been having a moment before he’d cut in with his dumbass statement.

  Kat gave me just a flash of her gorgeous eyes before moving to walk around us, muttering, “I should get going so I can finish my dog cape.”

  A strange tightness settled in my chest, something like urgency or regret. I turned to track her with my eyes as she knocked on her friend’s door and was just about to ask if she took orders for dog capes when Davis—the shitbird—stepped in front of me.

  “If you need anything, anything at all, just let us know,” he said in a way that had her looking a little overwhelmed. Not taking the hint, he continued, moving into her personal space. “We’ll be out here for a few more minutes, and then we’ll be in to check the perimeter of the apartment, to make sure it’s safe. Don’t worry about a thing, we know what we’re doing.”

  She backed up at his advance and nodded, her small smile completely lacking in its earlier vibrancy. “Okay.”

  Now she was put off again. Maybe not hostile like before, but clearly unsettled by my co-worker’s aggressive attentiveness.

  He wasn’t finished. “And if you ever need anything,” he reached in his pocket, withdrawing a card, “you should call. We’re professionals.”

  Ugh. What a dumbass.

  What the fuck was his deal? I sneered at the back of his head, making a mental note to tell Quinn about Davis’s clown behavior and suggesting he be assigned elsewhere.

  After a super awkward moment where Stan and I shared a You believe this guy? look, the door opened, revealing the redhead with short hair and green eyes I now knew was Dr. Fielding.

  “Kat!” she reached for her friend, pulling her into the apartment, and then doing a double-take as her eyes moved over the three of us, adding, “And boys?”

  This one would be a real handful.

  “They’re here for Janie,” Kat said and then disappeared into the apartment. I bumped Davis out of the way, since he was still staring after Kat like a weirdo, and reached a hand out to Dr. Fielding.

  “Hi. Howya doing? I’m Dan, this is Stan,” I tossed a thumb over my shoulder, “And this is Davis. Quinn sent us to take a look at the perimeter. You won’t even know we’re here.”

  “Dan and Stan rhyme,” she grinned at me, then Stan, “so you two can come in. But Davis,” she sent him an apologetic smile, “you’ll need to stay out here unless you have someone named Mavis in your pocket.”

  I laughed at the woman’s strangeness and I heard Stan choke on a surprised laugh. Meanwhile, Davis didn’t seem to know what to make of her and just stared blankly.

  “Okay, sounds good.” I gave her a nod, my eyes straying to the hall and room behind her. “We’ll be in soon, just need to finish with a few details out here.”

  “You do that, Dan the Security Man.”

  Dr. Fielding’s tone drew my attention. The woman’s green eyes seemed to sparkle as they moved over me—down then up—and she gave me a saucy wink just before closing the door.

  Dan the Security Man? I stared at the pale-yellow door. This one was going to be trouble. I’d bet my Pats jersey on it.

  “She’s going to let me in, right?” Davis asked, sounding confused. “She was joking, right?”

  I ignored his questions, turning to face him and crossing my arms. “So . . . Kat. Who is she?”

  Davis glanced back to the door. “She’s real fucking pretty.”

  “I didn’t ask if she was pretty, dumbfuck, I asked who she was.”

  “You think she’s pretty?” Stan asked Davis.

  But before he could answer, I cut in. “What kind of question is that? You saw her, didn’t you? You were standing right here.”

  Stan shrugged. “Just not my type, I guess. Now Ms. Morris, there is a woman I wouldn’t mind—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence.” I sent Stan a warning look. Not a good idea to talk about Quinn’s special lady friend that way.

  “She is Kat Tanner.” Davis pointed to the apartment door and lifted his trusty tablet. “That’s what I was going to show you. She used to work with Ms. Morris.”

  “What? Where? At the Fairbanks building?” I glanced between the guys.

  “Yeah. She’s a secretary or something at the architect place where Ms. Morris worked. But that’s not all.” Davis handed me the tablet again and I took it, scrolling more carefully through her profile.

  Name: Kat Tanner, aka Kathleen Tyson.

  “Kathleen Tyson.” I looked to Stan. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  Stan checked his watch. “I donno.”

  “Huh . . .” I returned my attention to the info sheet, scanning the rest of details.

  Age: Twenty-two

  Family: Father – Zachariah Tyson; Mother – Rebekah Caravel-Tyson (maiden name Caravel); Uncle –Haim Tyson (deceased); Aunt – Maribel Tyson (maiden name Smythe) (deceased); Cousin – Caleb Tyson

  Employer: Foster Architects

  Arrests: None

  It went on to list her last known three addresses and I immediately recognized the third. “Wait a sec. Isn’t this one a women’s shelter?”

  Davis, apparently out of patience, snatched back the tablet
. “You don’t recognize the name?”

  I shrugged, eyeing him. He seemed agitated.

  “Like I said, seems familiar. Why? Who is she?”

  He huffed an impatient laugh. “That’s Kathleen Tyson. Kathleen Caravel Tyson.” Davis blinked at me, then at Stan, then at me again, gesturing to the closed door, rushing to say, “She’s the heiress to Caravel Pharmaceuticals.”

  Oh.

  “Oh.” I shrugged again, not really surprised she came from old money. I’d guessed as much earlier. “So what?”

  “So what?” Davis looked like he was going to jump out of his skin. “So what?”

  “Yeah. So what? So she has money?” Stan sounded bored. “I got a cousin who won the power ball in ‘06. He still has to take dump once a day.”

  “Not just money, Stan.” Davis made an odd squawking sound, a combination of a choke and a short shriek, his eyes bugging out of his head as he leaned close—like whatever he was about to say was a game changer—and whispered, “That woman is worth thirteen billion dollars.”

  I grimaced.

  Thirteen billion dollars?

  Yeesh. That sucked. And here I was thinking I stood a chance. Old money was one thing, but being a billionaire heiress was another.

  “That would buy a lot of dogs,” Stan said distractedly after a long moment.

  I scoffed. “No shit, Sherlock.”

  Davis laughed; it sounded a little hysterical. “That would buy a lot of everything.”

  “No. You don’t get what I’m saying. What I mean is, if she’s worth thirteen billion dollars, and she loves dogs . . .” Stan glanced between the two of us, as though to make sure we were both listening, “Then why doesn’t she have a dog?”

  Scene Two

  Fuck a Duck. . . in Vegas

  **Dan**

  Some months later

  Kat flattened her palm against my chest, pushing me against the wall, and then slid her fingers south.

  I swear, her hands had hands. Each time I caught a wrist, no lie, three more sprung out of nowhere. In my hair, unbuttoning my shirt, grabbing my ass, reaching for my belt. The woman had the agility of an octopus.

  Think of the nuns, Daniel. Think of Sister Mary Rosanne and her nose moles. All three of them.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  “I can’t.” I caught her wrist again. Yet I hesitated a split second too long. Her mouth covered mine and she moaned. I also moaned. She tasted great. So fucking great. And soft. And hot. And then I was cupping her jaw, tilting her head back, and kissing the hell out of her.

  But then I remembered: alcohol, absinthe, hash.

  Off limits. No touchy. Or else you’re a douche-baggy.

  I tore my mouth from hers and someone whimpered. It might have been me.

  I know, I know. I’m a terrible bastard. I’m going straight to hell. Pray for my soul. But not yet! Don’t pray for me quite yet. Just give me another ten minutes . . .

  She nuzzled my neck. “You want me, I know you do.”

  I could only groan in response. I did want her. I’d wanted her since the first time I saw her. But I wasn’t creep.

  “If you want me, take me,” Kat pleaded, doing this lithe, rocking thing with her body against my leg and hip like a pole dancer. I set my jaw.

  The nuns. Think of the nuns! Sister Francesca, Sister Theresa, Sister Madeline. They’re all dead and they’re all watching you. And they can see your hard-on. So let’s make it a hard-off, okay buddy?

  “Kat, honey, you need to stop. Think. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to do this.”

  She lifted her head and BAM, the ground shifted. I felt it in my chest, painful and sharp. All sobering thoughts of my parochial childhood fled, left me bare to her beauty. Raw to it.

  I sucked in a breath. J. H. Christ, she was stunning. Her lips were red and swollen. Her eyes were wide beneath absurdly thick, dark lashes. Whiskey eyes regarded me, heavy with lust. And trust. And too much alcohol.

  Her pupils were still dilated.

  “I don’t want to think,” she whispered, “I just want you inside me.” Her voice was velvet. Dark, sinful velvet. It made me think how my hands would look on her naked body. And that made me think of her naked body. And that made me think of . . .

  Fuck a duck. God hated me.

  I grabbed her wrists with both hands and tightened my grip. I’d been gentle up to now, but shit was getting real, and shit needed to stop.

  “Stop,” I growled, louder than I’d intended, and harsher. Much harsher. But so it goes when all your blood is below the belt and desperation to feel anything other than desire makes you crazy.

  She flinched, lifting her face from my neck, her movements finally ceasing. I was breathing heavy. Like I’d run ten miles with Quinn, and that asshole was fast.

  Kat blinked at me. She was trying to bring me into focus. Her mouth opened and closed a few times. I lost myself in her. Again. It was too damn easy to swim in her eyes.

  The moment went on and on. Her staring. Me breathing, lost to her. My hold grew lax.

  And then she stiffened, wincing, and wrenched her wrists away. She covered her mouth with shaking hands and took a step back, away from me. She looked horrified.

  Even though I’d spent the last fifteen minutes wishing (and not wishing) I was anywhere else, the terror in her eyes made me act without thinking.

  I took a step forward. “Kat-”

  “Oh my God.”

  I reached for her.

  “Don’t!” She held up one hand and covered her mouth tightly with the other.

  It was a terrible moment. I didn’t move. Her face had gone white. My heart stuttered as I assessed the situation. Was she pissed? With me? Embarrassed? I knew she was shy, but . . . She better fucking talk to me after this.

  But then she tilted to one side, tried to right herself, and had to fumble for the wall to stay on her feet. Real fear gripped me. She was sick. She wasn’t okay.

  I need her to be okay.

  “What? What’s wrong? What can I-?”

  Then the freaking lightbulb went off. She was about to puke.

  No time to think, I grabbed her, scooping her up in my arms as gently as possible, given the fact she was seconds away from foaming all over the carpet. And, you know, these clothes I was wearing.

  I ran to the bathroom. I placed her on the floor in front of the toilet. Her hands gripped the bowl. I lifted her hair. She trembled. She threw-up.

  I turned my face away, still gripping her hair, and gathered a deep breath. Holding it, I turned back to ensure she was safe.

  The sound of her heavy breathing and bracing gags filled the bathroom. Watching was difficult, and not just because witnessing another person vomit is on the bottom of my list of pastimes, right next to hearing news about Justin Bieber, and listening to Justin Bieber music, and thinking about Justin Bieber.

  That guy seems like a giant bag of dicks.

  Watching Kat throw-up wasn’t gross. I mean, it was gross, but it was also difficult. It reminded me of times that were not so good, when I’d been a kid and held my mother’s hair in a similar way while she got sick.

  But that was years ago.

  Here and now, Kat was in pain. I was helpless. I hated being helpless. I wasn’t used to it, not anymore.

  So I whispered stuff, like, “You’re okay,” and “I’ve got you.” All the while rubbing soft circles on her back.

  Apparently, even while she emptied her stomach, I wanted to touch her.

  I’d never had the opportunity to touch her before. We’d only just met a few months ago, while I was keeping an eye on Quinn’s piece of ass at the time, girlfriend a week later, and fiancé now—Janie Morris.

  Kat had been shy; not just with me but with everyone. Chief among the things this job has taught me is that it’s the quiet ones you have to watch. So I did. I’d watched her. I’d stand in the hallway of Janie and Elizabeth’s apartment, or in the kitchen of Sandra’s place, or sit on the bench in
Marie’s small studio. I’d watched and I’d listened and I’d told myself she was completely out of my league.

  She was a fucking billionaire heiress for Christ’s stake. And who was I? Dan the Security Man. It would never work. Out of my league? Try out of my universe.

  But still.

  I watched.

  I liked to give Quinn shit about it, but watching the girls had never been a hardship. Despite me knowing she was beyond my reach, it had turned into time spent troubleshooting how to ask Kat out without scaring her off.

  Reconnaissance.

  At present I, after what felt like forever, was pretty sure Kat was finished being sick. She’d rested her forehead on her forearm, which was resting on the toilet bowl. And she wasn’t gagging anymore. I gently pushed her hair to one side, trying to see her profile.

  “Hey, I’m going to get you water. Okay?”

  “Uhhhh. . .” she said in response, which I recognized was pre-hangover-speak for “yes”.

  I squeezed her shoulder then stood, crossed to the sink and filled a glass from the faucet.

  A mumbled, “I hate this,” met my ears.

  “Excuse me?”

  She shook her head, the movement was sloppy. “I hate this. I hate being drunk. I hate this.”

  I smiled at her—a small smile, because she didn’t need a dumbass toothy grin right now—and assessed her prostrate form. “I’ve never met a person who likes it.”

  “I promised myself I would never do it again.”

  “What’s that?” I shut off the faucet.

  “Praying to the porcelain gods.”

  My eyes flickered over her. “You used to do this a lot?”

  She moaned rather than responding. It was a pitiful sound and made me move next to her, pulling her backward and into my arms. Kat moaned again. I pressed the water glass into her hands then brushed her hair back, gathering it in my palm. She had nice hair, long and thick and fluffy looking. It was the color of dark chocolate.

  Her hair had wilted since our dash into the bathroom. I didn’t care, I still liked it. And, to me, she was still beautiful.

  Kat sipped the water, her eyes closed, and I held her. Her body was limp, pliant with exhaustion. I studied her profile. She was still pale, which was fine. People are pale after they throw-up. Pale and tired.