Read Online Don't Kill the Messenger by Eileen Rendahl - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eileen Rendahl
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hadn’t invited him in. Who had?
He didn’t answer my question. “Stand up, Melina,” he said.
My body obeyed him even though my mind screamed for it to stay safe under the blankets. I stood in front of him wearing only the panties and tank top I’d had on when I’d fallen into bed, exhausted and stricken.
“Come closer,” he said. His voice was low and rough, setting off vibrations in me that I didn’t want to ignore.
I took a step closer, unsure whether I was responding to his command or the needs of my own body or some truly unholy combination of the two. He rose from the chair and stood next to me, moving through the dark room like a shadow. His fingers traced the skin just above the neckline of my tank top. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. I felt like my skin was on fire and his icy fingers left trails of goose bumps behind them. He leaned down toward me, his lips cool and full only inches from mine, and a horrible screeching filled my ears.
My eyes flew open. I was alone in the room, still tucked safely beneath my blankets, morning light streaming in the windows and my alarm clock blaring from the bedside table.
No seductive vampire sat in the corner of my room. I sniffed the air. Not a sign of him.
I half crawled to the bathroom to take a very cold shower. I let the stinging drops beat against my skin as I tried to sort out which of the previous night’s occurrences had been real and which had been all in my head. Maybe those hopping things had been figments of my imagination like my late-night visit from Alex. I could only hope so.
I was toweling off, still feeling like shit on a shingle, when the banging started on the apartment door. I threw on some shorts and a T-shirt and ran to answer it.
“Who is it?” I said, trying to peer through the peephole and getting just a blurry image of something blond on the other side.
“Police,” the blond thing barked. “Open up.”
HAVE I MENTIONED HOW I AM SO NOT A FAN OF DEALING WITH the police? Don’t get me wrong. I am thrilled that they exist. I don’t entirely get the mindset of people whose instincts make them run toward the sound of gunfire rather than away, but I’m happy they’re around because I certainly don’t want to be running toward the flying bullets. I heal fast but not fast enough for that. Plus, I’m not a big fan of pain.
Still, I don’t want to have much to do with them. Cops like things to have labels, to be in neatly categorized little boxes. I exist in the margins. They seem to have a knee-jerk mistrust of me, so I try to make sure I don’t come to their attention. It’s occasionally tricky at the hospital where they’re in and out of the emergency room all the time, but mainly I do a good job of not drawing attention to myself. I blend.
So why was Blond Surfer Cop at my doorway at seven thirty A.M.? And he was Blond Surfer Cop. He totally looked like he’d competed in Mavericks, dropped his board, brushed off the sand, donned a police uniform and driven to Sacramento right from the beach. His hair was all sun streaked, and even through the sliver-sized view the security chain allowed, I could see it wasn’t one of those fakey highlight jobs.
“Hey,” I said. “Keep it down. I’ve got neighbors, you know?”
He swore under his breath and then glanced around as if my neighbors might even now be dialing his superiors to complain. Satisfied that the hall was empty and quiet, he said in a half whisper, “Sorry. Are you Melina Markowitz?”
Bummer. I’d been hoping he had the wrong apartment. Although I’d also been hoping he wasn’t here to visit Ben downstairs. I’d be okay with it if he was paying a visit to the skinny little dude across the hall. The guy looks like a ferret, and I am none too happy about the way he leers at Norah when she takes out the garbage. It skeeves me out, and consequently, I feel compelled to take out the
He didn’t answer my question. “Stand up, Melina,” he said.
My body obeyed him even though my mind screamed for it to stay safe under the blankets. I stood in front of him wearing only the panties and tank top I’d had on when I’d fallen into bed, exhausted and stricken.
“Come closer,” he said. His voice was low and rough, setting off vibrations in me that I didn’t want to ignore.
I took a step closer, unsure whether I was responding to his command or the needs of my own body or some truly unholy combination of the two. He rose from the chair and stood next to me, moving through the dark room like a shadow. His fingers traced the skin just above the neckline of my tank top. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. I felt like my skin was on fire and his icy fingers left trails of goose bumps behind them. He leaned down toward me, his lips cool and full only inches from mine, and a horrible screeching filled my ears.
My eyes flew open. I was alone in the room, still tucked safely beneath my blankets, morning light streaming in the windows and my alarm clock blaring from the bedside table.
No seductive vampire sat in the corner of my room. I sniffed the air. Not a sign of him.
I half crawled to the bathroom to take a very cold shower. I let the stinging drops beat against my skin as I tried to sort out which of the previous night’s occurrences had been real and which had been all in my head. Maybe those hopping things had been figments of my imagination like my late-night visit from Alex. I could only hope so.
I was toweling off, still feeling like shit on a shingle, when the banging started on the apartment door. I threw on some shorts and a T-shirt and ran to answer it.
“Who is it?” I said, trying to peer through the peephole and getting just a blurry image of something blond on the other side.
“Police,” the blond thing barked. “Open up.”
HAVE I MENTIONED HOW I AM SO NOT A FAN OF DEALING WITH the police? Don’t get me wrong. I am thrilled that they exist. I don’t entirely get the mindset of people whose instincts make them run toward the sound of gunfire rather than away, but I’m happy they’re around because I certainly don’t want to be running toward the flying bullets. I heal fast but not fast enough for that. Plus, I’m not a big fan of pain.
Still, I don’t want to have much to do with them. Cops like things to have labels, to be in neatly categorized little boxes. I exist in the margins. They seem to have a knee-jerk mistrust of me, so I try to make sure I don’t come to their attention. It’s occasionally tricky at the hospital where they’re in and out of the emergency room all the time, but mainly I do a good job of not drawing attention to myself. I blend.
So why was Blond Surfer Cop at my doorway at seven thirty A.M.? And he was Blond Surfer Cop. He totally looked like he’d competed in Mavericks, dropped his board, brushed off the sand, donned a police uniform and driven to Sacramento right from the beach. His hair was all sun streaked, and even through the sliver-sized view the security chain allowed, I could see it wasn’t one of those fakey highlight jobs.
“Hey,” I said. “Keep it down. I’ve got neighbors, you know?”
He swore under his breath and then glanced around as if my neighbors might even now be dialing his superiors to complain. Satisfied that the hall was empty and quiet, he said in a half whisper, “Sorry. Are you Melina Markowitz?”
Bummer. I’d been hoping he had the wrong apartment. Although I’d also been hoping he wasn’t here to visit Ben downstairs. I’d be okay with it if he was paying a visit to the skinny little dude across the hall. The guy looks like a ferret, and I am none too happy about the way he leers at Norah when she takes out the garbage. It skeeves me out, and consequently, I feel compelled to take out the
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