Kiss in the Dark (26 page)

Vance closed his cell and dropped it in his pocket. He looked down at his dusty, dirty shirt and worn-out jeans. He considered that maybe he shouldn’t have come straight from work. He wasn’t a very appealing sight, all covered in dust and smelling like road base and tar. He lifted his arm and sniffed his armpit. Raising his eyebrows in surprise that he still smelled more like deodorant than sweat, he raised a fist and knocked on the door.

Fear washed over him for a moment. What was he doing? She’d run away as fast as she could if she ever found out the truth about him—when she found out the truth. In that moment, he knew Boston Rhodes deserved so much more than he had to offer. He almost turned around and hightailed it—but he’d already knocked. Nothing left to do but man up and take a chance.

Boston startled—a terrified, yet quiet, yelp escaping her throat as there came another knock on the door. Trembling, she snatched her cell from the kitchen counter and crept toward the door once more. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she flipped open her cell and pressed 911. She didn’t press send but let her thumb hover just over the send button.

“Hi,” he said. He’d smiled when she’d first open the door, but his pleased expression quickly turned to a deep scowl as he looked at her. “What’s the matter?”

Boston reached out, taking hold of his wrist and pulling him into the apartment with her. Frantically she locked the door once more, twisted the turnkey on the dead bolt, and burst into tears.

“He’ll come back! I know he will!” she cried, throwing herself against the sure protection of Vance’s powerful body. She closed her cell phone, not even caring that her trembling caused her to drop it. Sliding her arms around Vance, hugging him tightly for reassurance that all would be well now that he was with her, Boston was instantly comforted as he returned her embrace.

“Who? Who will come back?” Vance asked, thoroughly perplexed. “What’s wrong?”

At once, Boston broke into one of her characteristic strings of babble.

“I was in the bedroom. I came home, and Danielle had gotten the package of pictures from your mom.” She paused, smiling even for her fear and tears. “And the flowers are gorgeous, Vance! I’ve never seen anything so beautiful! I can’t believe you’d—”

“Just tell me what’s wrong…what happened,” he interrupted. It was obvious he was concerned, and Boston thought perhaps he should be.

“Well, Danielle got the box of photos from your mom today, and she found these three that we were pretty sure are postmortem photographs. So, like an idiot—’cause I know I’m a chicken at night—but like an idiot, I thought I’d just look on the Internet for some information on the man in one of them…because his name is on the back…so he must be your guys’ relative, and his infantry number’s there too. So I thought I might be able to find something…but instead I decided to do a little research on postmortem photography of that era, and pretty soon I was getting totally freaked out because—let’s just say it—Victorian postmortem photography can be disturbing if it’s night and you’re home alone…and I was totally wigging out anyway because I
am
here all alone and shouldn’t have been looking that stuff up at night. So then I was afraid to go to bed or to get in the shower because…well…to be honest, I’ve just seen
Psycho
too many times, and that part when Janet Leigh gets shanked in the shower just freaks me out completely. So I didn’t want to get in the shower because I’d been scrolling through pages and pages of those creepy old photographs, and then I started thinking about Tony Perkins in
Psycho
, all insane and stabbing Janet Leigh. So I thought maybe I’d watch TV or something and get my mind off of it, but then there was a knock on the door. So I looked through the peep hole, and it was some guy, a guy I didn’t know, so I didn’t answer the door…because…hello…I didn’t know him, and I’m here all alone. So I didn’t answer, so he starts pounding on the door and yelling about how he’s going to come back because he knows I’m here. And he was cussing…not like you cuss but, like, really bad words…and so he left, and I was totally freaked out then. But he came back, like, five minutes later and started pounding on the door again…and I thought I should maybe call 911. But they say to only call 911 if it’s matter of life or death…and so I wasn’t sure…and then he left…but he came back a third time, and I have no idea who he is or what he wants. He just keeps yelling about how I’m in his parking spot and he’s ticked off…though he used different verbiage than that, of course…and I don’t know what the heck he’s talking about. And I’m sure he’ll come back, and I can’t quit thinking about Tony Perkins stabbing Janet Leigh in
Psycho
in the shower…and those Victorian postmortem photos were really creepy and I…I…”

“Shh…okay…it’s all right,” Vance soothed, his powerful arms banding tightly around her. He rested his chin on the top of her head. This gesture lent even more comfort to her than his simple presence did, and she melted against him—feeling safe, protected.

“First of all,” Vance began, “you should never pause to dial 911 if you have even the slightest feeling you might be in danger, Boston.”

“I know…I know,” she sniffled. He was right, she knew he was. She shouldn’t have paused in calling for help—but she’d been so rattled!

“I know you’re in there!” the man shouted, adding a thread of profanity like Boston had certainly never heard pass from Vance’s lips. “Open the door!”

There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment, but only for a moment. Boston startled as the stranger on the other side of the door started beating at the door, kicking it. “Who are you, man?” the stranger shouted. “Open the door! That chick’s in my parking spot!”

“911, what’s your emergency?” a woman’s voice asked. Boston’s hands were trembling so wildly she feared she might drop Vance’s phone as well.

“Someone is at my front door…trying to get into my apartment!” Boston stammered. “He’s trying to beat the door down! He’s furious, and I don’t know him!”

“What’s your name, miss, and are you calling from a cell phone?” the woman asked.

“Cool off, man!” Vance shouted.

“Open the door!” the stranger roared. He let go a rope of threats and profanity that would’ve knocked Steph Crittendon on her backside.

Boston could hear the stranger beating on the door; she could hear Vance shouting back at him. All at once the pounding on the door stopped, however, as did the shouting.

“What if he’s hurt Vance?” Boston breathed. Her concern for Vance beat down her fear for a moment, and she unlocked the bedroom door. Peering out into the living room, she couldn’t see anything, but she could hear a scuffling noise, the sound of a struggle.

“I think he’s in the apartment!” she told the operator.

“Stay where you are, Boston,” the operator said. “Assistance is almost to you.”

But a new fear was fast overtaking the old one. What if Vance was in danger or hurt? Quietly, Boston stepped from the bedroom and crept to the living room.

She gasped as she saw Vance struggling to restrain the man.

“He’s broken in!” she exclaimed into the phone.

“The police officers dispatched are pulling into the parking lot of your complex now, Boston,” the operator said. “Stay back as far as you can.”

But Boston was stunned, paralyzed with fear—fear for Vance’s safety. The stranger was insane—kicking and punching! Vance managed to avoid most of the blows the stranger threw at him, landing several consecutive punches to the stranger’s jaw. The stranger reeled back, stumbled, lost his balance, and crumpled to the ground just as two police officers arrived.

“It’s him,” Vance said, raising his hands and nodding toward the stranger. “My sister lives here,” he said to the officer who held his hand over the gun at his gun belt, ready to draw if need be.

The vision of policemen, Vance’s hands at his side, and a stranger in her apartment was horrifying! Boston rushed forward, throwing herself against Vance and sobbing with relief.

“Are you Boston, ma’am?” the officer asked.

“Y-yes, sir. Boston Rhodes,” Boston stammered. The officer nodded, and Boston felt the strength and protection of Vance’s arms around her once more.

“And, Miss Rhodes, you do know this individual?” the officer asked, nodding to indicate Vance.

“Yes, sir,” she managed. “But not him,” she said, pointing to the stranger. The second officer held a gun on the stranger as he stood.

She handed the cell phone to the officer and listened as the policeman identified himself and assured the 911 operator that the situation was under control.

“What are you doing here, sir?” the other officer asked the stranger.

“That dude just beat me up, man!” the stranger shouted, pointing to Vance. Boston felt the muscles in Vance’s arms and torso tighten with restrained aggression. Instinctively, she snuggled against him—embraced him more firmly in an attempt to settle him.

“Well, apparently you were trying to break into his girlfriend’s apartment,” the officer said. “And, sir, it looks to me like you hit him. Were you trying to break into Miss Rhodes’s apartment?”

“Yeah…but so what?” the stranger growled. “That don’t give him the right to mess me up!”

“I’ll ask you again, sir. What are you doing here? Why were you trying to gain access into Miss Rhodes’s apartment?” the officer asked again.

“She parked in my spot,” the man said, wiping the blood from his nose on his shirt. “She parked in my spot!” The drunken man let go a slur of violent profanity.

“He’ll kill somebody!” Vance shouted, however. Boston felt every muscle in Vance’s body tighten, felt him trembling with sudden rage.

“I’ll have to ask you to step back, sir…and control your temper,” the officer said.

“Vance,” Boston said, placing a hand on his cheek. He looked down at her, and she was astonished to see moisture in his eyes. The expression on his face was that of pure rage, but in his eyes she saw fear—and pain.