Fight For Her (More Than A Cowboy 1)

“Then come out with me tonight. Paul’s in New York for some deposition and I was going to go to the new Thai place with my friend, Leah.”

I didn’t have other plans. I never made them for Wednesdays, the final night of my three days of work, because I was usually too tired and didn’t like backing out. This time though, dinner sounded good. Maybe it was because I knew Gray was busy and I was recognizing that I spent more time at home—alone—than I should. Maybe it was because I missed him and needed a diversion. Whatever it was, I was up for dinner out. “Sure.”

She must have suspected I’d say no, because she beamed at me when I gave her my answer. “I’ll make reservations for eight then. Is that enough time to get cleaned up?”

***

I was home and in bed by ten-thirty. Christy, unlike me, had to work in the morning. By the time we paid the check, I was done. Three twelve-hour shifts had me practically asleep on my feet. Once in bed, I didn’t even read as I normally would, but instead, turned the light out. I thought of Gray when I fell asleep, but it wasn’t thoughts of him that woke me.

A crash from downstairs had me sitting up, the orange glow from the streetlight filtering through the curtain. I listened and wondered if I had just heard someone in the alley when the noise came again. This time I was sure it was from inside the house, from the kitchen specifically. Someone must have come in through the back door.

Crap! I’d forgotten to replace the lightbulb back there so it was perfectly dark for someone to sneak in. I’d all but helped the guy!

Footsteps moved across the kitchen. I’d lived in the house over half my life; I knew the sounds it made. My heart lurched and fear coursed through me hot and fierce. Grabbing my cell charging on the bedside table, my fingers fumbled over the screen and I was able to dial 9-1-1. As I did so, I slid from the bed and neared the door, listened.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” The neutral voice came through the phone in my hand.

I didn’t respond because I heard shuffling feet, then swearing as the guy—the deepness of the voice was the giveaway—bumped into something in the dark. My parents had night-lights around the house when I was young, but when we moved in, Chris was too big for them and we never put them back.

The house was small. Living room in the front, dining area in the middle, kitchen in back. One stairwell leading down by the front door. If I went downstairs to get out, I would run into the guy. There was no way to avoid him. Another crash. Why was he here? I’d heard that people robbing wanted to get in and out without anyone the wiser, but this guy, he was either a bumbling idiot, or didn’t care if I knew he was there.

My heart skipped a beat and I swear every hair on my body stood on end. This meant one thing. He wasn’t in the house for my TV. He was in the house for me.

“Hello? What is your emergency?” The voice was low, but it was insistent from the phone.

“Someone's in my house,” I whispered, not sure if the operator even heard.

I glanced around my dark room. There was no weapon. I refused to have guns in the house with Chris. There was my lamp, a shoe. Fuck! No knife. Nothing! I heard the floor creak between the kitchen and the dining area. That board had creaked forever and I used to step over it when I would come in past my curfew. I knew that sound. I heard the operator talking but I didn't have time to respond. I had to get out of here. How?

I was breathing quickly and quietly and I wondered if the guy could hear my heart beating; it was so loud in my ears. I looked to the window, my only way out, but I was on the second floor overlooking the street. It was a long drop to the sidewalk below. Then I remembered. Elation shot through me, mingling with the panic.

Chris’ Boy Scout project. Moving quickly, tiptoeing across the wood floor, then the thick area rug, I squatted down by the rolled-up safety ladder. Emergency Preparedness had been his last merit badge before Eagle Scout and we’d had to make the house safe for different dangers. We’d affixed these ladders to the windows in each of our bedrooms, leaving them rolled up on the floor beneath. Since there was only one stairwell and no means to escape the second floor, it was one of the requirements of the badge to add egress to the house. There were smoke alarms and the chance of fire breaking out being so low, I'd hadn’t thought about them since then.

Now, I almost cried in relief at the sight. The window was open a few inches to let the summer air in, but I held my breath as I pushed it up, more, more until it was enough to toss the ladder out and me to fit through. The rope was thin and light, easily unfurling down the brick to the ground. Chris and I had even practiced going down them a few times, my dad taking a turn as well, taking pictures of our efforts for his merit badge counselor. Then, it had been daylight and I’d had all the time in the world to reach the sidewalk. There also hadn't been a guy in my living room. With sweaty hands, I climbed out the window—I didn't remember it being quite so hard to wedge through—and got my feet on the rope. My cell fumbled and I almost lost my grip on it when I saw the hall light turn on.

Oh shit.

He was coming for me and didn’t care if I knew. With the ladder swinging and bumping into the exterior brick, I went down as fast as I could, my knees and fingers scraping against the rough wall on the way. I hit the ground and ran, my bare feet slapping the sidewalk.

“Hey!” I heard the shout and knew he was at my window. Oh God, he was going to get me. I ran down the street knowing the trees would have blocked me from his view, then ducked between two cars. I squatted down and tried to catch my breath and be as silent as possible.

Would he go down the ladder or go back downstairs and out the front door? Could he even find me? The streetlights cast a harsh orange glow to everything, but the shadows were deep and I was well hidden.

I needed help. I was in my pajamas, barefoot with a man after me. I had to assume the police were coming. I looked down at the phone in my shaking hand. How had I not dropped it? As I escaped, I must have disconnected from 9-1-1. My fingers shook as I unlocked my phone once again and fumbled to press and swipe to get it to work.

With a shaking hand, I put my phone to my ear. Answer. Answer!

“Emory.”

I almost fainted in relief at the sound of Gray’s voice. While I needed the police, I needed Gray.

“Grey,” I whispered, my breath coming out in silent pants.

“What’s wrong?” His voice went from soft to hard in a second.

“There’s…in my house,” I gasped, unable to catch my breath, looking around. All I could see was the car grill and bumper in front of me, the steps of the house to the right and the empty street on the other side. I listened for heavy footsteps. “Kitchen. He—”

“There’s someone in your house?”