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He maneuvered me out the door and into the warm night air. He gave the parking attendant his ticket and ten dollars.
“So,” I said to him. “What’s up?”
“I’ve been watching you dance in this little dress for the last half hour, and you probably want to rephrase that question.”
“Are we going to another club?”
“No. We’re going home.” He looked down at my shoes while we waited for the car to be brought around. “Don’t your feet hurt in those shoes?”
“Fortunately, I lost the feeling in my feet an hour ago.”
I woke up in Hooker’s guest bedroom with the sun pouring in on me. I was still wearing the little dress. I was alone. And I was pretty sure I hadn’t done anything romantic before I fell asleep. Hooker had refused to drive me back to Bill’s. He said it wasn’t safe. I guess he could be right, but it didn’t feel safe here either.
I rolled out of bed and padded barefoot across the room to the window. I looked down and had a moment of vertigo. The ground was w-a-a-ay down there. Now here’s the thing…I don’t love high. Hurtling around a race track at 120 mph, in a metal enclosure resting on four wheels, feels natural to me. Being shot up thirty-two floors in an elevator does not. And the thought of dropping thirty-two floors turns everything in my intestines to liquid.
I carefully backed up and made my way out of the room, down a short hall, and into a large living-dining area. An entire wall of the living room and dining room was glass. I could see a balcony beyond the glass. And beyond the balcony was air. And a seagull flying backward.
The kitchen opened off the dining area. Hooker was lounging against a kitchen counter with a mug of coffee in his hand.
The kitchen was very white with splashes of cobalt blue. The living room and dining room mirrored the white-and-blue color scheme. Very contemporary. Very expensive looking.
“Why is that seagull flying backward?” I asked Hooker.
“Wind. We’ve got a front blowing through.”
And then I noticed it. The sway of the building.
There was a loud crash, and I turned to the window in time to see a seagull bounce off the glass and drop like a rock onto the patio.
“Omigod!” I said.
Hooker didn’t blink. “Happens all the time. Poor dumb buggers.”
“We should do something. Will he be okay? Maybe we should take him to a vet.”
Hooker walked over and looked out. “He might be okay. Oops. Nope, he’s not okay.” Hooker drew the curtains. “Vulture food.”
“You’re kidding! How awful.”
“It’s the chain of life. Perfectly natural.”
“I’m not used to being this far off the ground,” I said. “I don’t really love being up this high.” Alexandra Barnaby, master of the understatement.
Hooker sipped some coffee. “It didn’t bother you last night. Last night you loved everything. You tried to get me to take my clothes off.”
“I did not!”
“Okay, I’m busted. You didn’t. Actually, I volunteered but you’d already passed out.”
I cautiously crept to the kitchen and poured myself a mug of coffee.
“Why are you walking like that?” Hooker wanted to know.
“It’s spooky being up here. People weren’t meant to live way up here. I feel…insecure.”
“If God didn’t intend for people to live up here he wouldn’t have invented reinforced concrete.”
“I’m not much of a drinker. My tongue feels like it’s stuck to the top of my mouth.”
