Read Online Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) by Marjorie Doering - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marjorie Doering
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close favorite, he wondered why he’d bought them in the first place. The two-for-a-buck sticker explained it. Tomato soup would have to do.
The handle of a can opener jutted from a small packing box near a table leg. He grabbed it and put it to work, realizing a half-turn later that he hadn’t the faintest idea which box held pots, bowls or utensils. He flung the opener into an empty drawer and slammed it shut.
A new idea flashed into his head: delivery food. No strain, no pain . He grabbed his cell phone only to find the battery had died an untimely death. He had one last hope: with any luck, the landlord had let the telephone company in to hook up his phone like he’d asked. Still bent, he made his way to the opposite side of the couch. There it sat in all its glory—a shiny, beige phone, resting on the brown carpet where an end table was meant to be.
“God bless you, Mr. Bradley.” He picked up the handset. The sound of a dial tone was music to his ears. Ray poised a finger over the buttons and froze. Who the hell am I calling? He looked for a phone book, but found none. The handset crashed back to its base.
Humbled and famished, he crossed the hallway outside his apartment and knocked on the door opposite his own. He was about to knock again when the door cracked open.
The voice on the other side was soft and mellow. “Yes?”
In pain, Ray stood there bent at the waist, his eyes traveling from feet slippered in pink fluff to the hem of a short, white satin robe. The shapely legs looked like they went on forever; his neighbor had to be at least six feet tall.
The voice purred, “Is there something I can do for you?”
Unable to straighten up to his full height, Ray could only see as high as her chest—also impressive. He cleared his throat. “Sorry to bother you. I’m new in the building. My back’s screwed up and I don’t have any groceries yet. I’m starving and wondered if you might have a phone book.”
Veiled laughter filled the voice. “Does your taste run more toward the white or yellow pages?”
“Let me try that again. My name’s Ray Schiller.” He pointed to his apartment. “I just moved into 310. I thought I’d order a pizza or something, but the phone company didn’t leave a directory.”
The legs on the other side of the threshold shifted sensuously. “If it’s pizza you want, I know just the place. I can call your order in for you, if you like.”
“Great.”
“Size and type?”
“Large. The works.”
“Got it. I’ll order your pizza right now. It should be at your door in about thirty minutes.”
“Thanks, Miss ...”
“Gerrard.” A slender hand with tapered, polished nails reached out and shook his hand. “You can call me Patti…with an ‘i’.”
“All right. Thanks, Patti, with an ‘i’.”
Patti’s knees bent, bringing the two of them face to face. Beneath the powder, blush, mascara and brunette wig, the essence of that face was indefinably but irrefutably male. “It’s nice to meet you, Ray.” The door closed. Ray thought about the long, shapely legs and shuddered.
Ravenous, he returned to his apartment while thoughts of the hair-trigger smile and infectious laugh of a particular waitress at Widmer’s Copper Kettle Café played with his mind. There were all kinds of hunger. Amy Dexter had instilled a more dangerous kind, but he hadn’t indulged. Some hungers you fed, others you didn’t.
Some men didn’t see it that way. His own father had stooped to accepting payoffs to finance a sleazy affair. That discovery devastated Ray. His father—the man he’d looked up to all his life—was a cheat and a dirty cop—a criminal. Destroyed by the revelation, his mother took her own life. Blinded by grief and rage, Ray helped send his father to prison where he died at the hands of another inmate two months later.
Four years had gone by since then, and Ray still hadn’t come to terms with the past. He hoped overcoming the pain of Gail’s betrayal
The handle of a can opener jutted from a small packing box near a table leg. He grabbed it and put it to work, realizing a half-turn later that he hadn’t the faintest idea which box held pots, bowls or utensils. He flung the opener into an empty drawer and slammed it shut.
A new idea flashed into his head: delivery food. No strain, no pain . He grabbed his cell phone only to find the battery had died an untimely death. He had one last hope: with any luck, the landlord had let the telephone company in to hook up his phone like he’d asked. Still bent, he made his way to the opposite side of the couch. There it sat in all its glory—a shiny, beige phone, resting on the brown carpet where an end table was meant to be.
“God bless you, Mr. Bradley.” He picked up the handset. The sound of a dial tone was music to his ears. Ray poised a finger over the buttons and froze. Who the hell am I calling? He looked for a phone book, but found none. The handset crashed back to its base.
Humbled and famished, he crossed the hallway outside his apartment and knocked on the door opposite his own. He was about to knock again when the door cracked open.
The voice on the other side was soft and mellow. “Yes?”
In pain, Ray stood there bent at the waist, his eyes traveling from feet slippered in pink fluff to the hem of a short, white satin robe. The shapely legs looked like they went on forever; his neighbor had to be at least six feet tall.
The voice purred, “Is there something I can do for you?”
Unable to straighten up to his full height, Ray could only see as high as her chest—also impressive. He cleared his throat. “Sorry to bother you. I’m new in the building. My back’s screwed up and I don’t have any groceries yet. I’m starving and wondered if you might have a phone book.”
Veiled laughter filled the voice. “Does your taste run more toward the white or yellow pages?”
“Let me try that again. My name’s Ray Schiller.” He pointed to his apartment. “I just moved into 310. I thought I’d order a pizza or something, but the phone company didn’t leave a directory.”
The legs on the other side of the threshold shifted sensuously. “If it’s pizza you want, I know just the place. I can call your order in for you, if you like.”
“Great.”
“Size and type?”
“Large. The works.”
“Got it. I’ll order your pizza right now. It should be at your door in about thirty minutes.”
“Thanks, Miss ...”
“Gerrard.” A slender hand with tapered, polished nails reached out and shook his hand. “You can call me Patti…with an ‘i’.”
“All right. Thanks, Patti, with an ‘i’.”
Patti’s knees bent, bringing the two of them face to face. Beneath the powder, blush, mascara and brunette wig, the essence of that face was indefinably but irrefutably male. “It’s nice to meet you, Ray.” The door closed. Ray thought about the long, shapely legs and shuddered.
Ravenous, he returned to his apartment while thoughts of the hair-trigger smile and infectious laugh of a particular waitress at Widmer’s Copper Kettle Café played with his mind. There were all kinds of hunger. Amy Dexter had instilled a more dangerous kind, but he hadn’t indulged. Some hungers you fed, others you didn’t.
Some men didn’t see it that way. His own father had stooped to accepting payoffs to finance a sleazy affair. That discovery devastated Ray. His father—the man he’d looked up to all his life—was a cheat and a dirty cop—a criminal. Destroyed by the revelation, his mother took her own life. Blinded by grief and rage, Ray helped send his father to prison where he died at the hands of another inmate two months later.
Four years had gone by since then, and Ray still hadn’t come to terms with the past. He hoped overcoming the pain of Gail’s betrayal
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