Page 7 of Deadly Sights

Leaper jumps onto the headrest and stretches until half her body is on top of my head and her lower half rests on the chair. Her tail curls around to gently sway against my neck. It’s my cue not to leave until she’s good and ready to walk away first.

“Yeah, explain how that happened again?” Chelsea rises and digs through the drawer labeled ‘For Chelsea Only’ containing her favorite chocolate candies.

“One second he was talking about belonging to me, then he pointed out that you were looking for me. I turned my back on him for a second to tell you where I was. When I spun back, he’d disappeared.” I frown at the memory.

Usually, no one can move that stealthily without the kind of training drilled into me since I was eleven.

“Was he so sexy that you’ll overlook his disappearing act? I know you’ve had a long dry spell, but don’t settle for the first swinging dick that comes your way.”

“I mean he definitely made me reconsider my life’s choices for a hot second, but in the end, he was all talk.” I say this, yet the same tingling sensation I associate with him hasn’t left me, though it’s not as intense as it was in the club. “Anyway, I doubt I’ll see him again. He was nice eye candy while he lasted.”

“With your travel schedule, he probably wasn’t destined to last, anyway. Speaking of which, I see your bags are packed. Where are you headed this time?”

“London. I have a client who insists on an in-person meeting to update him on the new administration’s trade positions and how it will impact the goods they export to my markets.” What I tell Chelsea isn’t a complete lie. While in London, I’ll multi-task by doing my day job and my second job.

For my cover, I stick as close to the truth as possible. I’ve seen too many in my secondary profession get caught and killed because they weren’t as circumspect about their covers.

“I guess we should turn in. It’s already four in the morning, and I’m guessing your flight is early.” Chelsea rises and stretches before heading to her room.

“Alright, squatter, it’s time to move.” I touch Leaper’s paw, and the cat springs off my head as if I scalded her with hot water.

I do a last check of my apartment before going to bed. Sleep comes easily but not restfully. The tingling sensation in my waking hours intensifies in my unconscious state. Golden eyes gleam at me from the darkness.

When I reach out, they disappear, replaced by a hauntingly youthful voice saying, “I’ll be your forever family.”

I spin in every direction, seeking the source of that determined promise. Everywhere I turn, nothing but darkness confronts me. Still, I persist. The impression that I need to find the owner of that voice drives me when everything else is a void.

The words repeat, though the cadence changes. Deepening. Full of finality. Layered with sensuality. My heart beats in anticipation of a vow on the verge of fulfillment. When next I see the twin golden spheres, I race toward them but never close the distance. As I close my hand, desperate to grab onto something, my alarm blares, shocking me out of my dream.

I inventory my body, relieved yesterday’s headache hasn’t resurfaced as it usually does after a vivid dream that felt more like a memory from a past I can’t recall than a random series of images and sensations.

My relief doesn’t last long. My instincts tell me something is awry. Leaper is not in sight. She is a creature of habit, insisting on her breakfast the instant my alarm goes off. I search her favorite hiding places in my room, but she isn’t in any of them.

When I reach the kitchen, she’s already face-deep in her food bowl. My senses go on high alert. Chelsea and Leaper don’t fuck with each other. Chelsea would never feed my cat even as a favor, and my girl is still snoring to an imaginary orchestra in her room. I rush to my walk-in closet to the panic room I built when I purchased the apartment.

Inside, I pull up the video surveillance from last night. My blood freezes at what’s playing out in front of me. I stop the screen in shock. I’m supposed to be a light sleeper. How thehell did I not wake up when this motherfucker broke into my apartment? Better question, how the hell did he bypass all my security?

I hit play again, seething at the audacity this asshole has. What makes matters worse is when he stares directly into the hidden camera in my bedroom, he doesn’t try to hide his face. Instead, he smirks and salutes the camera, acknowledging that I will see him. I see red at the clarity of his face, and that sinner’s smile causes the same reaction in my body as it did last night.

I continue to watch as he goes from room to room, rifling through my things. When he disappears into my walk-in, I pause the video and search for what he could have been doing. I don’t have long to look. A wig is missing from its mannequin head. It’s the auburn one with a side part and luscious, cascading waist-length curls. If that isn’t enough, he reorganized all my wigs. They now line the shelves by color, shade, length, and style. I admit, the new system has a pleasing esthetic that puts my style grouping to shame.

Deeper into my closet, laid out on the island is a pair of four-inch leather ankle boots, a maroon turtle neck, plaid peacoat, cashmere slacks, my missing wig, necklaces, rings, earrings, and a note. I snatch it from the countertop and read it.

I don’t want you to stress about what to wear for your upcoming trip. Here’s everything you’ll need.

I don’t know what makes me more furious, that he was in my home, picked out an outfit for me that totally slays, or that I want to wear the damn clothes despite hating he selected them. Then I realize he chose everything except my underwear.

Should I spite him and myself by wearing something else, or look stylish as fuck? I finger the soft material of the pants that will hug my curves where I need it and hang loose where I don’t. Like my wigs, he didn’t leave my wardrobe unscathed from his discerning eye. My clothes now are in groupings by season, witheach having its own color wheel. Dammit, I don’t need him to style me! But thanks to his meddling, either decision I make, he will be the cause.

Fuck it.

I open my underwear drawer to find he’s struck again, organizing the chaos I usually hide away. Another note rests on top of my neatly arranged panties.

These can never do justice to the beauty of your body, but if you must wear them, I’m fond of the pink and brown pair.

My skin heats at his compliment. It should be creepy. He’s taken stock of my bras and panties. So, why am I turned on? I shake my head, hoping these rogue thoughts will fall out. The man disappeared on me to somehow stalk me?

He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. I may not know his name, but I’ll find him. I return to my surveillance room to see where else he spent time in my home. As I watch him feed Leaper, there is no sense of gratitude in me.

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