Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
She looks at her phone again while scrolling through messages. This time she scans the card and punches in a code. My annoyance spikes when she gets the green light. I guess Rook really does have a sidepiece, which proves he’s not as perfect as he portrays himself to be.
The woman shoulders open the door and awkwardly drags her beat-up suitcase inside. “Thanks so much for your help. It’s nice to be welcomed so warmly to the building.” She shoots me the bird and disappears inside the penthouse.
For half a second I consider whether I should call someone, like our coach or maybe the GM, but I’m not sure there’s a point. Rook is all buddy-buddy with our coach, Alex Waters, since they played together in Chicago for a number of years. And Waters is tight with the general manager. Besides, Rook’s extracurriculars aren’t my problem. If he’s cheating on his wife, I sure as hell don’t want to be in the middle of it.
I turn off the TV—which I’d fallen asleep in front of—and hit my bed. I expect to fall asleep right away, since I’m bagged, but I find myself wondering what the hell is going on across the hall for a lot longer than is reasonable.
The next morning I wake up late thanks to last night’s hallway disturbance. I set a pot of coffee to brew before I grab the paper from the hallway. I don’t read books, because they require a time commitment and I can’t stay seated or focused long enough to finish one, but the newspaper is different. I can get all the basics from the sports section and scan the current events to keep up with what’s going on in the world while I eat breakfast.
My semidecent mood sours as I open my door to retrieve my morning paper and glance across the hall. Now that I’m not being woken up from a dead sleep, I can admit that I was a jerk, although I believe I had a reason to be. Especially if Rook is keeping a pretty pet in his team-issued penthouse.
I’m about to go back inside when I notice my neighbor’s door is ajar. My first inclination is to ignore it, since it really isn’t my problem . . . but then I entertain several possible reasons as to why the door is open:
The hot train wreck from last night got lucky with the code and ransacked the place.
Rook stopped by to make use of his sidepiece.
Rook’s wife somehow found out about his lover and decided to murder them both in the middle of the night.
If it’s option A, then someone in security is about to be out of a job. But if it happens to be option B, and I catch Rook in the act, I could use it to my advantage. If it’s option C and there are dead bodies in the penthouse, the hallway will eventually start to stink.
I slip the paper between the jamb and the door of my apartment to prevent it from closing all the way and pad across the hall. While I’ve seen a fair amount of blood thanks to on-ice accidents, dead bodies are a whole different story and something I’d rather not be subjected to. But in this case, a fresh body is better than one that’s been hanging around for a few days, so really I’m doing my civic duty.
I knock on the door, and it creaks open several inches. I wait a full fifteen seconds before knocking a second time. When no one answers after another half minute, I peek inside and take a look around. No pool of congealed blood stains the floor. No obvious body lying anywhere. So I don’t have to call 911 yet.
I listen for sounds of human occupancy, namely moans of pain or pleasure, but all I get is the whir of the air conditioner, so I call out, “Hello?” loudly. Still nothing. I really hope no one is dead. I enter the penthouse. It’s exactly the same as mine layout-wise, but it’s missing any personal touches, making it feel sterile, like a show home. Everything is pristine and untouched, so his guest hasn’t ransacked the place, and there’s no indication of foul play, although the latter might be more likely to be found in the bedroom, where the dirty deeds happen.
I shout, “Hello?” again but still don’t get a response, so I continue toward the bedrooms. I’m halfway down the hall when a door swings open and the woman from last night appears. She’s definitely in one piece. One freshly showered, towel-wrapped piece. A second towel is wrapped around her head. She looks a lot better this morning—less like last night’s strung-out head case and more like . . . sex wrapped in black terry. She’s athletic but curvy, the perfect balance of strength and femininity. Not waify and breakable. I’m annoyed by this observation.