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Chapter Five
Lexi
My last appointment left shortly after seven, typical for a Thursday night. I always work late on this particular day of the week, which helps me slim back my schedule on Saturdays to only half days.
The cute little silver flats are stylish, but not so great when you’re on your feet eleven hours a day. Sure, I was able to steal a few moments to rest my feet between clients, and lest we forget my quick lunch with Linkin, where I was able to sit down for twenty whole, uninterrupted minutes.
Linkin. I’m not sure what to think of him. He has that bad boy persona down pat, but every once in a while, I catch glimpses of a sweeter side with manners and charisma. I don’t hate him, that’s for sure. In fact, I find myself drawn to him, which is just crazy talk because I don’t even know him.
I don’t know his last name. I don’t know where he’s from. And I definitely don’t even know how he takes his coffee. Though, if I had to guess, I’d say black. Definitely tall, dark, and rich. (And now I’m thinking about him drinking coffee. In my kitchen. Naked.)
The elevator drudges up to the third floor, my shoes already off and in my left hand. I don’t even care at this point that the floors are probably super gross. I’m that exhausted. And hungry. My stomach is loudly reminding me that I haven’t eaten since my lunch date with Linkin.
No. Not a date.
Just lunch.
When the door opens, a plastic sword is thrust in my face. “Halt, my fair maiden! Hand over the pizza or die by my sword!”
I’m so startled in place that the elevator doors almost close–with me still inside.
Loud giggles erupt as I slowly step off the elevator. Two little boys stare up at me with matching mischievous grins and twinkling brown eyes. Both train their plastic battle weapons at my body, their own bodies covered in some sort of tin foil armor.
“Where’s the pizza?” one asks real low and menacing like. Of course, the giggle that follows kills the threatening appearance he’s shooting for.
“Pizza?” I ask, looking between the two boys who are obviously twins.
“Hand it over,” the other growls.
“I didn’t bring any pizza.” It’s hard to hide the smile threatening to spread across my face as I gaze down at these two boys ready to do battle for a pizza.
“What?! No pizza?! Off with her head!” the one on the left shouts just before fake swords are thrust at my face.
I start to laugh as the two boys attack, causing me to drop my shoes in the process. Reaching out, I use the only weapon I have at my disposal: my hands. Grabbing the closest one to me, I start to tickle his waist, while he thrashes and squeals against my assault.
“You’ll never take my brother,” the other yells, swinging his sword around and nearly taking my head off for real. Thank God those things are fake.
I grab the other boy and start to tickle. He kicks his feet outward, swinging around and yelling like a banshee. He ends up dropping his plastic sword as I really dig my fingers into his side. The first brother I tickled picks up both dropped toys and raises them above his head. Just as he lets out a war cry that’s a spot-on depiction from the movie Braveheart, he thrusts one sword into my side.
Dramatically, in what could be my best Oscar award winning performance to date, I let go of the captured boy and swagger around in the hall, disoriented and dazed. My arms drop and my legs buckle beneath the weight of my body. I slowly fall to my knees, then completely onto the ground, gasping for my last breath.
As I die, the boys stand over me, triumphantly, with their swords held over their heads. “We got her!” one twin says to his brother, who’s bending down and feeling for my pulse in my elbow.
“Hey, knuckleheads? Why did you kill my neighbor?”
I’d know that voice anywhere. Cracking my eyes open, I see Linkin standing in his doorway, a broad smile on his lips and his arms casually crossed over his expansive chest, the tattoos on his arms on full display.
“She didn’t bring the pizza,” the one checking my pulse answers, crossing his arms over his little chest to mimic the stance of the man before him.
There’s a strong resemblance, from the dark hair to the brown eyes. If these are his sons, he’s older than I thought. That or he started earlier than most. I can just picture a young Linkin, sweet-talking and charming the panties off all the girls in high school.
“She’s not the pizza delivery person, Jack.”
“Well, how were we supposed to know?” he says looking down at me. That’s when I realize I’m still sprawled out on the floor, body posed perfectly for the chalk outline.
“Yeah, you told us to watch for the pizza.”
“I meant from inside my apartment. You’re not supposed to open the door without me, right?” Linkin asks with a firm voice. Both boys look down, nodding their heads. Linkin points inside his place, and the twins take off, a whole mess of noise in their wake.
