Page 9 of Dangerous Games

“You know I can hear you, right?”

Shit, shit, shit!

“What do you want?” I ask through the door, hoping he’s fine having a conversation through it and not face to face.

Right now, it’s the only thing saving my ass.

“I want you to open the fucking door.”

I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “No.”

I hear his frustrated sigh as what I assume is his head thumps against the door. “It’s been a long day and I don’t want to do this with you right now. We can pick up this game of cat-and-mouse tomorrow, but right now I need to talk to you.”

“What could you possibly need to talk to me about?” I ask, playing dumb.

I know exactly what he wants to talk to me about. And I have a feeling that conversation will end with my hand being cut off my body while he does god knows what with it.

“Open up the door, Bronwyn,” he orders, his tone sending a chill down.

On command, my body betrays me as I flip open the locks and yank open the door, aiming a glare at him standing in my entryway in another perfectly polished suit with not a single hair out of place. “How do you know my name?”

He crowds my space until I’m left with no choice but to step back or risk being pressed flush against his chest. He takes advantage of the opening and sidesteps me, making his way into my apartment.

He looks massive in my tiny apartment, his large frame taking up most of my living area. He doesn’t look around as he heads toward my futon and sits down, making himself right at home. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

My mouth opens and closes as I stare at him in what can only be summed up as a mix of confusion and shock because what in the hell is going on?

“What would you like to drink?” I find myself asking before I can catch myself.

“I’ll take a bourbon, cara.”

“I don’t think I have bourbon,” I tell him as my brow lowers.

Actually, I know I don’t have bourbon because I don’t drink it. I can’t stand the taste.

“You should check your cabinets. You’d be surprised what you forget you have,” he responds. There’s something in his voice I can’t place.

Not wanting to push any buttons while the man who might be murdering me soon is in my apartment, I do as he asks. I open the cabinet next to the fridge that I use as my makeshift pantry.

Lo and behold, a bottle of Red Breast is staring right at me.

“What the fuck…” I whisper slowly as I reach for it.

I know I didn’t buy this.

This is all way too weird.

An unsettling feeling sets in the pit of my stomach as his voice rumbles throughout my apartment, commanding the space with little effort. “Two fingers neat, please.”

Uhh…

Do I look like a bartender to him?

“Pour it until it’s about an inch deep, cara. No ice,” he answers my unasked question.

On a normal day, I would have told this guy to fuck all the way off, but I’m thinking that’s not the right move here. I think my best bet is to do what he wants, which will please him and then, in turn, make him leave faster, and then I can hope I never see his face again.

So, I do as I’m told. I grab a glass and pour until the whiskey is sitting about an inch high in the glass.