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She’s not coming.
That’s who was on the phone—his alleged mistress. If she were still coming, he wouldn’t be well on his way to a whiskey dick. Maybe she realized what she was doing, or maybe she realized his lies about her being permanent were just that. Or maybe she caught wind that the Missus is sniffing around. Either way, she’s a no-show for tonight.
It’s late and I’m tired, so it doesn’t take much to talk myself into calling off the stakeout. I’ve got a hot shower and a comfortable bed calling my name, and I can continue surveillance tomorrow.
Quietly and slowly, I extricate myself from the hiding spot I’ve been in for hours, stashing my camera and binoculars against a tree and covering the waterproof cases with vegetation. That’ll be one less thing to haul in tomorrow. I make my way back to my truck, parked on a pathway well away from Mr. Webster’s cabin, and drive up the hill to the cabin I’m staying at, which is close enough to make walking over to spy on Webster doable, but far enough away that we won’t run into each other. Not that Mr. Webster is the type to go traipsing through the forest.
Still, I park my truck away from the cabin and lock it up, making the short trek to the front door. I put the code into the door lock and step inside, typing an accounting of today’s activities on my phone.
18:32—Phone call received. Target appears distressed. Surveillance suspended until am.
I’m in the middle of saving the note to my secure cloud when it happens. That’s the only excuse I have for not realizing that I’m no longer alone.
“G-g-get out!” a female voice shouts.
I jerk my eyes up to find a small spitfire of a woman, wrapped in a towel but with water droplets all over her skin, a riot of red curls sprouting from her head in every direction like a halo, and gray eyes that are glaring at me in fear. She’s holding a small canister out in front of her like it’s her saving grace.
Unaccustomed to someone getting the drop on me, I sputter, “What the—”
I don’t step toward her, but I do turn to face her more fully, and she must take that as a threat because she lets loose with a panic-stricken, high-pitched scream and the bear spray she’s holding. She’s thankfully too far away for the jet stream of burning poison to reach my eyes, and it falls in an arc to the floor, several feet in front of me. She must’ve gotten some fake shit off Amazon because the range should be better than that.
A dark grin steals my face as I watch it puddle and then spit the last few drops as the canister is spent. It’s going to make a cloud that burns like a motherfucker in five minutes, but for now I’m good. When I lift my gaze to the woman’s, she’s the one frozen now.
She’s the first to realize the disadvantage she’s at and makes a loud squeaking noise as she turns, bolting down the short hallway toward the bathroom. With her high-kneeing it, the towel drops dangerously low before falling away completely as she decides to save herself rather than her modesty. I get a quick glimpse of a floral tattoo on her left ass cheek, and then the bathroom door slams shut and locks a split-second later.
I could pick the lock in seconds, or take it down with a single kick, but instead, I bang on it. “Hey!” I yell, then demand, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’m a black belt in karate! You should get outta here or I’ll kick your ass!” the woman screeches back in a hysterical voice.
A black belt? Does she think that’s remotely believable? Because given the way she was shaking and the fear in her eyes, she’s no more a karate expert than I’m a plumber.
Though I am fully skilled in laying a particular type of pipe.
Where did that come from? I don’t think in stupid double-entendres like that. That’s my brother’s specialty. Kyle can make anything sound downright filthy, but that’s not my style. It must be because of the peek at her bare ass, which was round and perky, bouncing as she ran.
I take a slow breath, calming down from the shock of her ‘attack’. “Look, you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. Are you going to hurt me?” I only ask to be polite. I don’t think she could actually hurt a fly even if she wanted to. Not with aim like hers.
“Get out!” she orders again, but it sounds more like a plea. A request. A beg.
“Afraid not. This is my cabin, or my buddy’s, at least. He gave me permission, and I’m staying here for a few days.”
