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She appears from the hall and crosses into the living area and I get the chance to take her in, in a way that I hadn’t at the diner. She looks out of place in this house, with its walls that need painting and flooring that could use an update. Ali fumbles with the silk tie on her dress, pulling it tighter, wrapping it around her, forming it into a bow. She’s breathtaking. She could wear a paper sack and easily be the most beautiful woman in any room, and potentially, I remind myself, the most deadly.
I hand her the glass. She takes it from me only to set it on the bar. “I don’t really mix liquor and wine,” she smiles. “I’m a bit of a lightweight.”
Somehow I doubt that. My gut told me she wouldn’t touch it. I’m relieved. My paranoia shouldn’t have let me chance it. Too big a risk drugging a woman these days. No one’s going to believe you when you say you thought she might kill you in your own home. And yet, it happens every day.
“You have kids.” It’s not a question, the way she says it. More like a tight-lipped accusation.
“Three—two, now,” I say, not knowing how to answer. I never know how to answer that question. Telling the truth is heavy, but omitting Abby feels like pretending she never existed, and that stabs at my heart, so usually I end up tripping over my words instead, making things worse.
Her brow lifts. She’s waiting for me to say more. I won’t. Instead, I deflect. “How’d you know?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It could have been anything from the pink roller skates to the pile of shoes by the door or the fact that you have a stool in your bathroom.”
“A stool in my bathroom,” I say, raising my brow, suggestively. “Nice. If there ever is a place to have a stool, the bathroom would be it.”
“What?”
I lift my glass from the bar and bring it to my mouth.
“Oh God,” she swats at my arm as it dawns on her what I meant. The wine drips a little onto my white shirt. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a crappier joke. You’re terrible.”
She has no idea. I like that she’s quick. She glances around my living room before looking back at me. “The kids. They’re not here, are they?”
“No. Why?”
“We should get to it then.”
“Do you do this often?”
She takes the glass from my hand and places it on the bar, moving closer. “Do what often?”
“Go home with men you just met.”
“I don’t see how that is any of your business,” she says, leaning forward, her lips close to my ear.
God, she smells good. “It kind of is.”
She steps back and gives me a sideways glance. “Should I go?”
“No,” I step forward. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not my place to ask and—”
“Shhh.” She presses her finger to my lips, leaning into me until my back is pressed against the bar. I consider the gun in her purse. I pulled the clip and emptied the chamber. But there are lots of knives in my kitchen.
She pulls my shirt from my waistband and slowly unbuttons it, starting from the top. When she gets to the bottom, I stop her, gripping both her wrists. “What’s with the pistol in your purse?”
She squirms, so I tighten my hold. “What?”
“The Glock. Why do you have it?”
Her mouth falls open, but she doesn’t look all that surprised. She does, however, give pulling away from me her best effort. “You went through my things?”
“Yes.” I put her in a wristlock, which she doesn’t take kindly to.
She pushes back, but there’s nowhere really for her to go. Her face reddens. “You’re hurting me!”
“Tell me why you have the gun,” I say, releasing her.
“Why do you think?” She takes three steps backward. Three steps toward the door. “For protection.”
