Dangerous Type
He was in the throes of sleep.
But then he heard a noise. He sprang up like a jack-in-the box, only he wasn’t in a box, but in his bed. Half-naked, he had his semi-automatic drawn and ready to off-load its contents.
It was like a heart-beat: that one action. One minute he was in dream-land, the next he was aiming his pistol at an unseen perpetrator/intruder/burglar/cat?
Nate Holden let out a breath and rolled out of bed, placing his gun unto the night-stand.
“Hey, Kitty,” he said, as he picked up a tawny cat who was mindlessly licking herself. What you doing, girl? For a minute I thought you were an…”
Intruder!
Nate’s throat suddenly became dry, as he turned around and saw that someone else was in his room.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. It couldn’t be. Was he still dreaming?
Kitty had escaped from his arms and her claws had scraped his bare chest, but he hadn’t realized this. What he did realized was that Nina, his ex-girlfriend, was standing before him. And she was alive.
His eyebrows began to move upward, and the beginning of a tick was forming at his left jaw.
Controlling his tone of voice, Nate said, “Thought you were dead?”
“Of course,” she said, “you would.” She was using the sultry tone that she sometimes used on him. Well, that is, used to use.
Without another word, she turned--her hair swinging with the motion--and sashayed from his bedroom, one red stiletto clad foot after the other.
Nate saw that her hair had gotten longer and her butt, which he never had minded admiring, looked better than ever in the black leather pants she had on. Nate knew from experienced that she wanted him to follow.
When she reached the doorway, she called over her shoulder,” And put on some clothes, Nate.”
“Yeah, sure,” Nate thought, “and put my gun close.”
What the hell was she doing alive? Nate did not believe his eyes. Nina. Alive. And hotter than ever! Nate shook his head as if by doing this he could make her disappear---again.
He stuffed his legs into a pair of jeans and pulled a black t-shirt over his head. Shoes… he needed shoes. Where had he tossed them last night? Nate scratched his head. Oh, the bathroom.
For Christ’s sake, Nate thought furiously, as he donned his sneakers, I saw you die. I shot you with my own gun a year ago. I killed you .You’re supposed to be dead!
Quickly, he checked the cartridge in the weapon that always had a spot occupied beneath his pillow. It was stupid: him checking his gun, because it was always loaded. And he never went anywhere without it. Even though he did go someplace without it, it surely wasn’t going to be that morning.
As he knew, the gun was loaded. Sticking it into the waist band of his jeans, he grabbed his brown leather jacket. As he turned around he saw her, in the doorway; her head cocked to the right, hazel eyes squinting, her luscious lips curved into a half-smile.
“Leave the gun, Nate.”
He felt like a child who had been caught stealing bubble- gum at a store.
Dammit!
