Bait

“You need to put these in a hot bath,” he tells me.

I smile as I tell him I only have a shower. A small one at that.

His eyes are dark on mine. “A bowl then.”

I nod.

I figure he’s just putting the wipes away when he reaches back to the glovebox.

My eyes widen when I recognise my shoes.

“You found them.”

“One of them was under a truck,” he says.

I don’t know why I’m smiling so hard to see them again, but I am.

I don’t know why I have the urge to brush my thumb across his jaw when he slips one onto my foot and buckles it up so gently.

Walking on these is going to be marginally better at best to walking barefoot, and that’s being optimistic. I don’t want to tell him that, though.

He fastens up the other and I thank him. His eyes burn me as I grab my handbag from under the seat.

“First floor, right?” he asks and I nod. He glances across to the building and points at my window. “Yours?”

“My living room.”

He looks from my feet to the communal entrance. “I’ll help you up the stairs.”

He holds out his arms to help me, but I don’t move a muscle. I’m frozen like a fool, floundering at the kindness of such a brutal stranger.

His dark eyes are dirty. Amused.

“Even a monster can be a gentleman,” he says.

I think of Stephen back home. His slick ways. His posh suits. His cocky smile.

And I guess it’s true enough that a monster really can be a gentleman.

After all, I already learned the hard way that a gentleman really can be a monster.PhoenixI feel like a prize asshole as I help Abigail up to her apartment.

Her feet were a wreck and they’re barely any better now. She’ll be sore on them for days.

The rest of her probably won’t feel all that great, either.

She’s elegant even in pain. There’s a finesse about the way she limps. A beauty in the grace of movement.

She ran like a nymph, her hair streaming like a siren.

She is a siren.

I’m still holding her as she digs her keys from her handbag and pushes the door open. I step inside without hesitation, closing the door behind us as she gets the light.

Her place is small, neat, organised.

Barren.

It surprises me.

“I haven’t long moved in,” she says, as though she’s embarrassed.

She’s been on the electoral roll for months and I know it. There’s a sadness in her eyes that doesn’t go unnoticed.

She lowers herself onto the sofa but I don’t join her. I’m not sure I should even be in here. Unsure I’m even welcome.

“You promised you’d delete your profile,” I remind her, and she smiles.

“I didn’t think I’d be so desperate for a repeat performance.”

“And how about now? Are you still so desperate to go again?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Maybe not right this second.”

It makes me smile. “A rain check, I think. See how you feel in a few days.”

She shakes her head. “No rain check necessary. I want to go again.”

My demons are fucking joyous.

And so am I.

“You’ll delete your profile like you promised,” I tell her, then hold out my hand. “Give me your phone.”

She looks up at me curiously, but hands it straight over from her bag.

She doesn’t have a lock code. Her backdrop is the factory default.

I suspect that hasn’t always been the case.

I log into my work GPS portal and download the logistics app to her handset. She stares up at me but doesn’t say a word. I set the app to update in real time, just as I do with the drivers’ PDAs. I’ll feed data straight through to my phone.

I clear the browser listing showing my company login. The app still stands.

I hold my own handset up. “Your phone will talk to mine,” I tell her. “I’ll know where you are in real time. Nowhere to hide. You have your phone, I’ll be able to find you.” I pause. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

She takes her phone back from me. “Anytime?” she asks. “So you’ll just what? Show up?”

“Written notice kind of ruins the chase, don’t you think?”

“And if I want to get hold of you?” She drops her gaze. “I guess you’ll be the one getting hold of me, right?”

“Maybe when you least expect it.”

Her breath is shallow. Her eyes soft.

I have to get out of here before I lose the power to walk away.

I slip my phone back in my pocket. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Wait,” she says, but I don’t. She doesn’t follow me, not in those heels. “I don’t even know your name.”

And that’s how it’s going to stay.

I take one last look around the place before I leave, taking in the layout – the window positions, the small kitchen table, the bathroom off to the right. I assign it all to memory in a heartbeat and then I make my move for the exit.