Ahh!
I remember some distant self-defense teacher telling me to use my keys as a weapon, so I reach frantically for them. When my fingers close over metal, I pull them from my sweatshirt pouch, preparing to jab.
Except… where do I jab, again?
Throat? Eyes? Testicles?
Somewhere in the back of my mind, Sandra Bullock is telling me to SING.
Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m barely coordinated enough to walk up my stairs, let alone conduct an FBI-inspired takedown on them.
Precious seconds slip away as I consider the best location to stab someone — not fatally, just enough to, like, get them off my stoop so I can go inside and watch FRIENDS in peace. The shadow descends another step.
Eeep!
I jerk involuntarily, panic overriding my system. My body swings backward and my hands flail out like a baby T-rex attempting a hug, the sudden move sending my keys flying. I watch forlornly as they arc through the air and land in a nearby bush, out of reach.
Boo, my demon-dog, is nowhere to be found, now that I need him. Apparently, protecting the life of his beloved owner falls below licking flattened sidewalk chewing gum on his list of priorities.
Typical.
“Frack!” I shriek. With no other weapons left in my arsenal — unless I want to shoot him in the eye with a hair elastic or beam a pink Ugg boot at his head — I drop into a ninja-like crouch on the bottom step and position my hands in front of me like fleshy blades.
“Okay listen, buddy, I don’t know what you’re doing on my steps, but you have about two seconds to vanish before the cops get here!” I yell, hoping my voice sounds menacing and not like I’m about to pee in my silk pajama shorts from Bloomingdales.
“West, are you off your meds?”
I freeze, heart pounding in my chest, hand-blades taught with tension.
No. Freaking. Way.
All the air whooshes out of me as Nate takes another step down, until he’s standing on my level. He’s so tall, he still towers inches over me — I resist the urge to ease onto a higher step, just to level the playing field. It doesn’t escape my notice that his face is narrowed in anger.
At least, until his gaze flickers down to my hands. Taking in the sight of them, still extended ineffectually in the space between us, his mouth twitches and the skin around his eyes crinkles up, fine wrinkles feathering his temples.
You wouldn’t think wrinkles would be hot but… damn. Seeing Nate almost-smile at me with those crinkly eyes... Let’s just say it’s a miracle I’m able to remain standing.
“You planning to karate-chop me to death?” he asks, voice thick with mirth.
Mirth!
My brain is having trouble processing a version of Nate who knows how to experience such an emotion.
“No,” I mutter defensively, dropping my hands to my sides and curling them into fists. My mouth produces an incredulous puff of air, akin to an orca breaching. Sexy. “Of course not.”
“Looked like you were.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” I snap. I glance at my dog, who’s given up sniffing the bushes in favor of Nate’s shoes. “Boo, attack the evil man. Attack!” I order.
At the sound of his name, the Pomeranian glances at me with an utterly bored expression, then almost immediately resumes sniffing.
I sigh. “Some guard dog, you are.”
Nate glances at Boo. “He seems like a real killer.”
“We’re working on it. For some reason, he only seems to have lethal tendencies when it comes to me. Oh! And his plushy duck toy. He has it out for that thing.”