I realized I was overwhelmed and clam-shelled my computer. “I think I hit my wall.”
“Bed?”
“Yes.”
“No alarms tomorrow?”
“No alarms.”
“Thank Christ,” he muttered.
We locked up the house and then padded into the bedroom. Slash had already taken off his leather cut and hung it in the closet when we got home. He removed his wallet and cell phone from his jeans and set them on the nightstand next to his pistol.
“It’s Sunday,” I said. “Tomorrow is garbage day. I forgot to put out the bin.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He cocked his head to the side. “This is sounding pretty fucking domestic.”
“Yeah. Scared yet?” I teased.
“Nah.”
“What if I find a flying insect in the house and ask you to kill it? Is that too domestic for you?”
“I think I can handle it.” He kissed me quickly and then he marched toward the front door. “Damn it.”
“What?”
“I have to put my boots back on.”
“Maybe we should invest in a pair of flip-flops for you, for occasions such as this.”
“Flip-flops?”
“No? How about Crocs.”
“Do I look like the type of man who wears Crocs?”
“They’re comfortable and easy to slip on.”
“Yeah, never gonna happen,” he muttered, but he spoiled his faux surly attitude with a smile. He pulled on his boots but didn’t lace them up. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
The front door closed, and I headed to the bathroom. I was in the middle of brushing my teeth when I heard the buzz of a phone. I wandered into the bedroom, toothbrush still in my mouth, to check my cell.
It wasn’t mine.
Slash’s phone was on the other nightstand, and it was lit up with an incoming call. It was ten-thirty at night, and I wondered who it might be.
I went to his phone and stared down at the screen.
Millie.
Who the hell was Millie?
Why was a woman calling Slash?
All rational thought and resistance to curiosity went out my brain. I picked up the phone and pulled the toothbrush from my mouth. “Hello?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line and then, “Hi. I’m trying to get hold of Slash.”