Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Night
London was ripe for the taking, that’s what the whole shower-in-sight thing was all about. Wilde could swing up into her bed right now and take her like she’d never been taken in her life. He could turn her into a sweaty, lust-soaked animal. It wouldn’t blow his cover. No one from outside would be able to tell.
The problem was Secret.
She was in his blood.
His blood needed to be sure he didn’t screw things up. An hour of pleasure, no matter how pleasurable that pleasure might be, wasn’t worth turning Secret into someone who trusted the wrong man.
No.
No.
No.
If things didn’t work out with Secret, it wouldn’t be because of anything Wilde did.
That’s what his brain said.
Still, the rest of his body couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to swing up top.
“Are you still there?”
The voice came from above.
It was laced with erotic vibration.
“Yeah.”
“If the floor’s too hard, you can come up here. There’s room.”
Wilde exhaled.
“The floor’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Go to sleep.”
“I can’t,” London said. “I’m too wound up.”
“Try.”
The storm raged against the windows, rattling them to the edge of shattering. In other circumstances, Wilde would have nestled into the MG with a couple of beers and let the weather beat down on the rag inches above his head. Tonight, however, all he could do was try to hear over it, listening for sounds of intrusion.
Something seemed off.
He grabbed the gun and stood up.
“I’m going to check the house,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Hey, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, what?”
She handed him the empty wine glass. “Can you fill this back up for me? The bottle’s in the fridge-”
He hesitated.
It was a bad idea.
He didn’t feel like arguing though.
“Sure.”
Downstairs, the doors were shut and locked, as were the windows. There were no signs of entry. Outside, nothing showed that shouldn’t. No menacing silhouettes lurked in the shadows.
Wilde filled the wineglass, headed upstairs and took his place back on the floor. The carpet was harder than he remembered.
London propped against the headboard and nursed the wine in silence.
“He’s coming tonight,” she said.
Wilde frowned.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because the storm’s too perfect.”
London set the glass on the nightstand and snuggled into the covers.
“Good night.”
Time passed.
The storm intensified.
Wilde listened to it as London’s breathing got deeper and heavier, then he shut his eyes just to rest them for a second. A slap of thunder forced them open. He listened for sounds, found none, and closed them again.
The jagged edges in his brain softened.
Don’t fall asleep.
I won’t.
Keep your eyes open.
I’m just resting.
You’re falling asleep.
No I’m not. Leave me alone.
At some point later, which could have been ten seconds or ten hours, a hand shook his shoulder and brought him out of a deep sleep.
He frantically fumbled for consciousness.
“Someone’s in the house,” London said.
Wilde felt around for the gun in the dark but couldn’t find it.
Then he had it.
The steel was cold and heavy.
“Where?”
“Downstairs.”
Wilde focused with a pounding heart.
He heard nothing.
Suddenly a heavy silhouette bounded into the room. An arm raised and a knife stabbed down at London’s head. Wilde jerked the woman to the side with one hand and pulled the trigger with the other.