I let it all out. Beckham held on to me through the storm.
After what felt like years of me trying to get it together, I separated from Beckham. He looked up at my apartment, and I knew he wanted to go in there and take a look before the cops messed around with it too much.
“Go,” I said. “I’ll be fine down here.” I took in a deep breath, grateful for the air.
“I’ll go up and take some pictures, and then I’ll be right back down. You’re staying at my place tonight.”
“Mind if these two bums come along?” I pointed at Mason and Jar. Thank all my pop-star gods that they were both underneath my bed when I had come home, no doubt scared off by whoever had come into my apartment. When I called them, they had come running from out under my bed, purring as they bumped into me.
Holding them and stuffing my face into their fur, allergies be damned, was one of the happiest moments of my life.
Beckham smiled and looked down at the hot-pink carriers. “I’ve got some cans of tuna waiting just for them.”
I wasn’t about to break his heart and tell him they preferred salmon. “Go up,” I said, nodding toward my apartment, feeling like an entire football field separated me from it, even though the scene that was going to add to my nightmares was up the stairs and to the right.
Beckham held both my hands and kissed me soft on the forehead. It wasn’t a kind of kiss I’d ever had before. It felt like I could trace the exact outline of his lips on my skin, even as he turned and walked up the steps, pulling out his identification from his shorts pocket. I just now noticed Beck had come here straight from the bar, still wearing his kickball uniform, with his nickname printed in bold white letters on the back of his shirt:
SHERCOCK HOLMES.
That one got a genuine belly laugh out of me. A sound that felt so out of place, I’m pretty sure it scared even Mason and Jar.
* * *
We gotto Beckham’s place without any more panic attacks striking. Jesus. I hadn’t had many of those since the months after Derrick’s death. They’d struck hard and fast back then, seemingly out of nowhere.
I thought I’d become immune to them, like I’d somehow conquered the panic after all that time.
How silly of me.
I set the pink cat carriers down on the ground, already feeling Mason purring through the carrier. Mason and Jar seemed to be as happy as I was that we were out of my apartment. They tiptoed out of their carriers first and then started to run around the living room, bumping into the table and chairs. I laughed, grateful for the comfort Beckham and his home offered.
“Want some tea?” Beck asked as he kicked off his shoes.
“I’m okay, thank you, babe.”
I fell down on the couch, throwing my feet up and lying down with a loud sigh. I grabbed a big gray pillow and stuffed it over my face. There, I yelled.
“I’ll get you that tea,” Beckham said. He went into the kitchen, Mason following behind him. I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the good parts of tonight: I was alive. Mason and Jar weren’t hurt. Beckham was with me.
And there was a psycho freak tailing me, and somehow they had gotten into my apartment. I felt violated. Someone had entered my apartment and left a message written in blood, and for what?
Beckham returned with a steaming cup of tea. I sat up on the couch and thanked him. He sat down next to me, letting me drink, a comfortable silence washing over us for the moment.
“Olly, who else has a spare key to your apartment?”
So I wasn’t the only one whose mind was racing, even if the silence lulled us into thinking we were both okay.
“Only my friend Tyra. I’d given her a copy of the key when I went to Europe so she could take care of Mason and Jar. But… I mean…”
Beckham didn’t say anything.
“You can’t possibly think she’s responsible, right?”
“I don’t know right now.”
I set the tea down on the coffee table. “No, she’s not. I do know that. She’s one of my best friends. There’s no way. None. Besides, Juan was a thousand percent involved, and I don’t see her ever interacting with that thug.”
“The pig was from the vet’s office and Tyra work—”