One to Keep (One to Hold 2)

#15: I’m coming up.

The thought of no backup again crossed my mind, and I decided to vacate the premises. Tossing my towel on the bed, I jerked on my jeans and a maroon tee. I stepped into a pair of loafers, and snatched my keys off the front counter, slipping out the door and locking it behind me. The lights were still on, but that would add to my story—I’d forgotten to turn them off before I left.

Last thing I wanted was to run into Star, so I used my stealth training. Creeping down the breezeway, I went opposite my normal route. With my back to the wall, I edged down to the parking garage. Not seeing anyone, I went car by car until I was at the Charger and jumped inside, jamming the key in the ignition and turning it. This whole scenario was pissing me off even more, but when I turned the wheel, I saw a dark figure exiting the garage in the direction of my apartment. Dammit. Now I’d have to tell Derek.

There was no way to know if she’d seen me. Well, I could wait for the texts to start pouring in, but I was scrolling through my contacts first. When I saw his name, I took a deep breath and touched the screen. A few buzzes later, and he answered.

“Patrick?” Derek’s voice held a note of confusion. “Is something wrong?”

“Hey, man.” I switched to casual cool. “Need to ask a favor if possible.”

“Okay…”

There was a brief pause, and I thought about my story. He was going to be pissed as hell, so I decided to let him finish what he was doing and tell him the truth in person when he got back.

“Seems they were doing some maintenance in my building today, and the power was knocked out. Still is.”

I heard him exhale. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s probably too much to ask, but would you mind if I crashed at your place tonight?”

“Sure.” A smile was in his voice. That wouldn’t last long. “Stay as long as you need. I’ll call the manager and have the doorman let you in.”

“Thanks, D. I owe you one.”

“No worries.”

I ended the call and turned the wheel toward downtown. It was possible Star might figure out where I’d gone, but with valet parking, a gated garage, and a doorman, I’d at least have three layers between me and the crazy. And I’d bet my life Derek Alexander didn’t have any female visitors that looked like her. Although, now that I thought about it, he could do whatever he wanted, and I’d never know. Nah, he wouldn’t have been as quick to let me crash at his pad if he were hiding a secret double-life.

By the time I reached the glass doors at the entrance of his building, the doorman and valet were waiting for me. There was something to be said about luxury living. Maybe in a few years, I’d look into a similar arrangement.

“Good evening, Mr. Knight,” the doorman said, glancing briefly at my ID. “This won’t be necessary next time.”

“Thanks… Walter,” I said, reading the man’s small, gold nameplate. “I’ll only be here a day. Two tops.”

“Enjoy your visit, sir,” he said with a smile.

I nodded and started for the elevator, but then I stopped. “Oh, Walter—”

“Yes, sir?” He stepped back to me.

“I’m not expecting any visitors.”

“Of course.” He nodded, and I smiled.

“Thanks.”

He returned to his post, and I entered the waiting elevator, collapsing against the back wall as the doors slid closed.

* * *

Standing at the dark windows overlooking the lights of Princeton, I let out a deep exhale. I was tired. I’d been drinking since lunch, I’d had no lunch… I’d fucking fucked through lunch—all followed by that insane adrenaline trip from hell. Now I was looking back over the whole thing, growing more and more pissed. Mostly at myself.

I’d sent Kenny a short text that I was at Derek’s, and after her smartass response about hiding, I’d silenced my phone after Text #50 from Star. My head hurt, and I couldn’t believe I’d been such an amateur.

Walking through Derek’s plush condo, I debated how I could present this in a way that didn’t end up with all signs pointing to me applying for one of those Afghanistan jobs.

The condo was noticeably free of any photos or personal mementos. It was like a fucking museum. At twenty-five hundred square feet, it wasn’t warm or homey. The décor reminded me of the office with its dark wood and spare furnishings. Glass and stainless, granite and all the latest appliances. The beds were plush with 800 thread-count sheets and those firm but soft mattresses. I think they were the Swedish kind. Of course, they were. This was Mr. Alexander.