Stripping to my underwear, I hung up the suit Gerty had loaned me and climbed into bed. Hailee's scent, still lingering on my pillow, had a calming effect on me and my eyes went closed. I enjoyed the premiere, being with Hailee, and meeting her parents. The end of the evening hadn't gone as I expected; I wish we wouldn't have argued, but that kiss made it all worthwhile.
I'd get to see her again on Friday. Thank you, Brett, for being out of the country. If I had my way, you'd be returning to big changes.
I should've turned off the bathroom light, but I was too comfortable now. My eyes were too heavy.
* * *
Something woke me. I rolled over, tried pulling up the covers but couldn't find them. The digital clock on the nightstand read 4:04. Yawning, I got out of bed, turned on the desk light, and found all of the covers piled on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Strange. I didn't normally thrash around so much. I used the bathroom. While washing my hands afterwards, I remembered being too tired to get up and turn off the bathroom light before falling asleep. It had been off just now.
Hairs on the back of my neck stood at the realization that something wasn't right. I went to the desk chair where I had hung my shooting rig.
My gun wasn't in the holster.
Slipping into my jeans and pulling a tee shirt over my head, I went to the door and eased it open. Nothing in the hallway. Nothing at the foot of the door.
In a panic, I realized that I had been robbed. Ducking back into the room, I grabbed my wallet. Nothing missing. Just my gun.
That's when I noticed the curtains swishing in the breeze at the sliding door to the balcony. Could the thief still be hiding out there? With my gun?
I sneaked to the door and listened. Heard nothing. I stepped out.
"Come slowly." A woman's voice, strange accent, Russian or Eastern European. Weaponless and defenseless, not knowing what was about to happen, adrenaline coursed through me making my hands tremble. Would this woman shoot me with my own gun and throw me over the side?
"Come, come," she repeated.
I sucked in a deep breath and stepped onto the balcony.
"Sit on hands." The voice came from my left.
I sat on the nearest patio chair. Far below, I heard traffic noises from Las Vegas Boulevard.
From the shadows, the woman stepped forward, holding my gun, business end pointed toward my chest. She was dressed in a black, one-piece jump suit reminiscent of cat woman, black athletic shoes, and a long, thick pigtail hanging all the way down the middle of her back, Lara Croft style. The hair gave her away. When I had chased this woman up the ridge at the Ben Hur film site, I recalled seeing what looked like a pony tail.
"You must be Myna."
She dipped her head in what I took to be an acknowledgement. I pegged her as being in her late thirties.
"You hacked cell phone records and viewed the camera feeds?"
Another dip of the head. Trent had nailed it. Whoever these people were, they had tracked me down. The incident took place only a few days ago, so I didn't guess they would get to me so soon.
"Have you come to kill me?"
"I come to show you photo." Under other circumstances, I would've found her accent kinda sexy.
YOU ARE READING
The Story of SingTeen Fiction
[2018 Wattys Short List] - Sixteen-year-old Sing strives to do well in school so that he can find a decent job and provide a better life for his crippled mother and younger brother, Jacko. That goal becomes derailed when Sing is falsely accused of a...