Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,48

I hate this tense feeling and fear of walking around by myself. We shouldn’t have to go through this. The monsters committing horrible crimes are collecting more victims than the ones they’re targeting. I’m just about to slip inside when a food delivery guy calls out for me to wait. He hands me a pizza and saunters off.

“Hey, jerk, this isn’t for me,” I call out, but he’s already stuffed his earbuds back in, ignoring me.

Checking the name on the pizza, my stomach flip-flops. Clark. I suppose I better take it up to him.

Nerves flutter as I ascend the stairs to his apartment. Rapping my knuckles on the door, I hear his movements.

He opens it a sliver and peers out, his eyes suspicious. Recognition dawns on him, and his eyes widen. “Hey.” I give a half-smile and hold up his pizza. “The delivery guy doesn’t want tips apparently.”

Looking behind him, his forehead creases, but he opens the door, filling the gap with his frame. He holds out his hands. “Sorry about that. Thanks for doing his job.”

I place the pizza box in his upturned palms, feeling a little awkward. A couple moments pass before he says, “You hungry?” He lifts his brow. “And do you like pizza?” he adds, twisting his lips.

A smile touches my face, lightening the somber mood I’ve been living in. “As long as it doesn’t have pineapple on it,” I fire back.

“Are you trying to steal my heart?”

My heart rushes. Butterflies flurry in my stomach. “No, I’m trying to steal your pizza.” I quip, feeling lighter being in his presence.

My stomach growls when the aroma of melted cheese and sauce drifts from the box. He turns to go back inside, letting the door close behind me. I follow him. It’s the exact layout as ours, only his furniture doesn’t look like he bought it at a flea market. The place is also clean, spotless, a hint of bleach in the air. He also has curtains. Lucky bastard.

“Drink?” he asks, holding up a bottle of wine. My mouth salivates at the sight.

I nod enthusiastically, and he chuckles before pouring me an extra tall glass. Untangling my scarf, I place it on one of the stools at his breakfast bar.

“Long day?” he asks, giving me the once over. His gaze feels intimate, like he sees through my clothes to the flesh beneath. I squirm a little and recheck my cell phone. “You have somewhere to be?”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. I have some time.” I have nowhere to be.

He nods and places a plate in front of me. I help myself to a slice and try not to look giddy at the sight of his meat lovers pizza. A guy after my own heart. “Your place is looking nice.” I smile. Everything looks expensive. “So, what is it you do, Mr. Clark?” I bite into the slice and wait for his answer. When he remains silent, I flick my eyes up and find him watching me. Does he realize it’s not polite to stare at people while they’re eating?

“Everything okay?” I ask, running a hand down my hair. Do I look a mess? I’ve been at work all day. Crap, I should have changed, brushed my hair.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “As in do for a Profession?”

“Yes.” I nod, licking the oil from my fingers.

“Freelance photography.”

I quirk a brow. There isn’t one picture on the bare white walls. I wonder if he’s still in school. He doesn’t look much older than me. I open my mouth to ask when the door buzzer sounds, interrupting me.

He glares over at the front door, his nostrils flaring.

“Sorry. I’m not expecting anyone.” He frowns, going over to the intercom. I check my cell phone. It’s past eight. The door downstairs will be key and intercom access only.

“Hello?” he barks through the intercom. Ours doesn’t work. It’s yet another thing we need to complain about.

“It’s Detective Hernandez,” the familiar voice says back.

“I’m busy right now. Can this wait?” His tone is clipped and terse.

“It will just take a minute.”

He slams his palm against the wall, dipping his head to his toes, making me startle.

“I can leave. I should be going anyway,” I offer, slipping from the stool, a disappointing cloud floating over me.

He looks between the pizza and me, shaking his head. I notice his quick glance to the bedroom door. Unlike ours, his is a one-bedroom apartment. “No. Eat. I’ll go get rid of him.” He swings open the door and