His loft was super-fly.
One huge room with four huge windows down one side, two windows down both the narrow sides. All the walls were exposed brick, the ceiling had duct work, painted black, and the floor was shining wood planks cut only with rugs under the bed and living room areas. Smack center, between the four windows opposite the elevator, there was a kitchen area with a counter against the wall, a semi-circular bar facing the room, stools around the bar with stainless-steel bases and black leather seats. There were shiny, black appliances including an enormous fridge. To the side, stationed between the two windows, there was a black couch, a huge black recliner to one side, a black-lacquered coffee table and a gigantic flat screen TV was fixed to the wall. Well across from the kitchen was a big bed with a black, slatted head and footboard, but deep-gray sheets and comforter. The other side of the room had a set of weights, a weight bench, a fancy weight machine and an elliptical machine. In the corner next to the weights, there was a small room made of glass block that I assumed was the bathroom.
It was obviously occupied by a man, there were clothes all over the place, magazines and opened mail in disarray on every surface and dishes in the sink. The bed had been slept in and hadn’t been made.
Still, even with the mess, the tough guy, mercenary, bounty hunting, private eye business must pay well for Luke to have a Porsche and a LoDo loft like this.
I was now definitely impressed.
This lasted for two seconds, mainly because he had dragged me to the side of the bed and he was now unlocking the bracelet on his wrist.
“What’re you doing?” I asked, watching him.
“Cuffing you to the bed.”
My body went solid.
Then I screeched, “What?”
Too late, I should have run, struggled, something. Instead I went still, like the big dork I was, and he pushed me back with a hand to my chest. I fell to the bed, he leaned into me and before I knew it, or even began to struggle, he had cuffed me to one of the slats.
I stared at my handcuffed to the slat then I stared at him, completely at a loss for words.
He was looking down at me and he seemed deep in thought.
“I don’t like this,” he informed me.
He didn’t like it?
I found some words. Loud ones.
“I don’t like it either!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Uncuff me!”
He put a knee to the bed, grabbed my other wrist then came forward and pinned me with his heavy body. This time I struggled, twisting under him but it was like I didn’t even move. He worked at the cuffs, pulled up my other arm and slapped the bracelet on that one so I had no free hand. He did this all with minimal effort but I was breathing like I had just run a marathon.
Then he got off me, stood and stared down at me.
“That’s better,” he murmured.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I said softly and I was hoping he was. I was hoping this was all a big joke. He would give me one of his half-grins and say, “Psych.”
“Be good while I’m away,” he answered instead as he turned.
“Get back here! Uncuff me!” I shouted. “Luke, I’ll scream my head off!”
“Do it,” he invited, hitting the button to the elevator and turning to me, looking totally calm and I wished I could throw something at him. “The loft upstairs is vacant, for sale. The people downstairs are still in Florida for the winter. Each loft is the whole floor. No one’s around to hear you.”
The elevators opened, he flipped the lights off and disappeared.
I screamed, “I’m going to kill you!”
The elevator doors closed and he was gone.
Well, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Good Ava said into my ear.
Oo, we’re in Luke’s bed, Bad Ava cooed into my other one.
Shit.
*
When you were fuelled with adrenalin, shot at and were lying handcuffed to a bed owned by a man you had a screaming crush on for most of your life, it was impossible to sleep. Not to mention, both arms over your head was not a comfortable position.
So I laid awake thinking of all the ways I wanted to kill Luke.
Then I realized, when I couldn’t find a way I liked, I didn’t want to kill Luke because I wasn’t a killing type of person.
Instead, I focused on all the reasons why I hated men. They cheated on you. They lied to you. They stole your stuff. They made you feel like shit. And they cuffed you to beds.
I was mentally arranging and rearranging all the men I hated in order of the ones I hated the most (Luke being on the top of that list in each arrangement, for obvious reasons) when the elevator doors slid open.