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“It’s been a really shitty Wednesday, and a bullet wound would not make it any better,” I joked weakly as I came to a stop only slightly outside the closet.
The man in front of me had jerked at my emergence from the closet and was pointing a gun at me, phone still at his ear. His stance was tight.
I quickly ran my gaze over his body. He wasn’t tall, but he was big, a wall of muscle. He wore faded jeans and motorcycle boots—I was right—paired with a tight black tee and leather jacket. Half his face was obscured by a shaggy beard. His hair was equally shaggy. He worked the shit out of shaggy.
Piercing blue eyes held me in place.
I hoped this dog would lick me. Or bite me. Either thought had the six months of chastity I’d not been enjoying bringing forth my baser instincts—at a murder scene, of all places—before I banished them.
“I know this looks bad, and my hiding in a closet has nothing to do with that.” I nodded to the body he was standing next to. “Well, it has something to do with that, considering the reason I was in that closet was because I found that and didn’t really want to end up like that too,” I corrected quickly.
The man continued to stare.
I blinked.
Do not cry. Do not become another stereotype.
“Please don’t shoot me,” I repeated. “I’m only here because I’m meant to be doing a story on jewelry. I love sparkly things and makeup. You should see my bathroom vanity—it’s a testament to my love of cosmetics and jewels. My friends were actually thinking of holding an intervention, because I have a slight obsession with highlighters. I think it was because they wanted some shine for themselves. No one loves makeup more than my sister, the instigator for said intervention, apart from me.” I sucked in a strangled breath.
The piercing blue eyes were regarding me blankly, but I swear the corner of the guy’s lips twitched. I realized I was babbling.
“But I would rather not die for it. Shoes, maybe,” I added with another attempt to lighten the mood. Or save my ass.
The shaggy guy’s jaw did another small twitch, though it hardened as his focus seemed to move from me to the phone still at his ear. He lowered his gun immediately.
“What’s your name?” he barked.
I jumped at his rough tone. I was used to men speaking in grunts and the like where I came from, but my nerves were slightly frayed. “Lucy,” I said in a small voice, lowering my arms.
People usually didn’t bother with pleasantries with someone they were going to shoot.
“You hear that?” he asked the person on the phone. There was another pause and something moved in his eyes, which weren’t leaving mine even though his attention was on the call. “See you soon.”
The phone left his ear and his face gentled a smidgeon, giving me his undivided attention. “You gonna throw up?” he queried.
I shook my head. Weird thing to ask, but he had the gun so he could ask the questions.
“Faint?” he continued.
Another head shake.
“Cry?” he said with disdain.
He seemed like the prospect of my tears would be more unsettling to him than the dead body inches from his toe.
“Not at this juncture,” I told him firmly.
I’d wait until I was safe in my apartment, half a bottle of vino deep, before I’d let my tears fall.
“Good,” he muttered, nodding in what looked like approval. “You see who did this?” he asked.
I gulped. “I got a peek and a sniff. He’s an Old Spice type of guy,” I told him with a wrinkled nose.
The man’s frame tensed. “How long were you in there?” He nodded to the closet.
I pondered. It felt like hours, days. “Ten minutes. Give or take,” I said after a moment.
“Fuck,” he muttered again, glancing around the decadent apartment. They rested on an open window leading out to a balcony and what looked like a fire escape. He strode over and stuck his head out, looking down.
I guessed he was deducing where the murderer had escaped from. He obviously decided not to give chase because he straightened and walked back to the body, kneeling next to it.
I screwed up my nose again, stepping away from it slightly so my hip rested on the sofa. I gave it some of my weight. All I wanted to do was collapse onto it.
There was a long silence. “You’re not a cop,” I pointed out.
“No,” he agreed, not looking up from the body.
“But you have a gun.” I nodded to his hand, which was resting at his side.
“Yep,” he clipped again.
“Interesting,” I mused. “Bounty hunter?”
He moved his head so I could see his raised brow and nonverbal ‘no.’
I shrugged. “Cat sitter?” I guessed again.
A curt head shake.
