It’s cute, with a love seat and television, a bookcase and a coffee table.
“Does anyone actually sit up here?”
Seems like a waste of space to me, but then again, I grew up on a massive estate on a cattle ranch with more housekeepers than was necessary, which had more rooms than a family of six could possibly ever need.
There are four doors on this level, one of them closed.
Popping my head into the closest door next to me, I discover that it’s a bathroom. The next bedroom appears to be a spare bedroom, so that’s where I plug my suitcase, nudging it next to the dresser with the toe of my boot while flipping on the light at the same time.
I don’t bother settling in. Instead, I continue exploring.
There is another guest bedroom—or at least that’s what I assume it is. It doesn’t look like there are any personal items that would indicate someone is staying here. Bare walls and minimal decorations.
I do not hesitate to crack open the closed door, not bothering to knock, with the assumption that I will find it empty on the other side.
I’m wrong.
A desk that’s been placed in front of the window faces the door, and at that desk is a young woman. It takes her a few seconds to notice me, and when she does, the bloodcurdling scream that comes out of her throat actually has me ducking—as if she’s just hurled a vase in my direction.
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
It's pens and pencils, and they hit my arm like tiny swords before falling to the carpet.
“Whoa!” I hold my hands up defensively as if I expect something to come flying at my head. “Lady, what are you doin’?”
“What am I doing?” She screams for the second time, grappling for her phone, earbuds dangling from her lobes. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
“I’m Duke,” I inform her calmly. “I live here.”
I’mstayinghere for a time, but I don’t see much of a difference between living and staying.
The young woman—Posey—has a bright red face and looks madder than a chicken caught in a rooster house, chest heaving, nostrils flaring.
“You do not live here!” She pauses. “Are you high? Are you lost? Oh my God, have you escaped from prison? Don’t come near me.”
Now she’s holding what looks like a letter opener in one hand, brandishing it like a knife as her wild eyes glance around, probably looking for mace.
Something.
Anythingto spray in my face to blind me so she can escape.
“Duke Colter. Your friend…uh…” I rack my brain for the name of Eli’s girlfriend. Misty? Michelle. “Your friend…what’s her face? It begins with an M.”
Her chest heaves.
My hands are up in a surrender pose. “My agent is Eli Cohen. He rented the room for me.” Relax, lady. Chill.
The clock ticks as the pieces of the puzzle click together in her brain, thank God.
“My friend’snameis Molly, not what’s her face.” She sets the letter opener down on the desk and plops back into her desk chair, body visibly sagging with relief. “You don’t just barge into someone's home and scare the shit out of them. How did you get in?”
Well, no shit, you don’t barge into someone’s home. That’s not what I did, jeez. I’m staying here. I had to get inside somehow—what difference does it make how I got in?
“I didn’t realize anyone was here. If I had, I’d have banged on the door harder.”
“Yes, you should have banged on the door harder.” She’s fuming, steam practically coming out of both ears.
“Ma’am, in my defense, the door was locked.” I sound reasonable enough, hands gesturing in front of me. Inwardly, I chuckle at my own use of the word ma’am, knowing it makes me sound like the gentleman my mama raised me to be, though I know I’m not.