Page 42 of The Pleasure of Panic

“It’s ransacked, Finn!” I grab my hair with frustration. “Someone went through my house!”

His door is open, he’s out of the car, he’s got a gun out as he stalks up my front walk, and then he looks at me, nods his head, and I open the door for him.

He goes in like… well, an FBI guy. Pointing his gun this way and that way as he steps over the mountains of debris, searching for people in the house.

When he goes upstairs, I look around nervously.

Someone was in my house. Strangers did this to me.

I suddenly feel very violated.

“No one,” Finn says, coming down the stairs, holstering his gun. “Whoever it was did this hours ago. Probably right after we left.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, still expecting people to jump out at me.

“It’s my job,” he says simply. Which doesn’t appease me. He’s poking at his phone, puts it to his ear. He says, “Declan, call me back. Something is wrong.”

“What’s that mean? Who’s Declan?”

“Let’s go,” he says, pointing at the door. “I’m taking you to my house until I can figure this shit out.”

“Wait,” I say, putting my hands up.

“Yes, Ms. Grey?” he says, not even looking at me because his eyes are still taking in the scene.

“You want me to go to your house with you?”

“Yeah, to keep you safe.”

“And that’s it?”

He just stares at me. Dumbly.

“Not to fuck me again? Not to play one more round before this night is over?”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Issy,” he says, pulling out his professional voice. “This isn’t a game. I’m not your hired help for the night. I fucked you earlier because I think you’re sexy, that’s it. But if pretending to play this stupid game makes you go along with my duty to keep you safe, I’ll keep playing along.”

We stare at each other.

“Yes, Issy. This is all part of my secret plan to spread your legs open and lick your pussy. Better?”

I turn away so he can’t see me smile, then gather up my self-respect, turn back, and say, with a straight face, “Fine. It’s not a game. I’m just a job to you.”

He tips a pretend hat at me, then waves a hand at the door. “After you.”

It only takes a few minutes to get to his place over in Lower Downtown, but the seconds drag on like years in the silence. He says nothing, just compulsively checks his phone, like maybe he thinks his ringer isn’t working and that’s why this Declan guy hasn’t called him back yet. Then he sends another text, trying to get an answer.

“What did you just text?” I ask.

“Business,” he says back.

Whatever.

He lives in a trendy new condo building right next to a bar called Bronco Brews. That’s the place with the fake water tower on the roof, like this is New York or something.

“OK,” he says, flicking the light on after he opens his apartment door. “Come in and let’s just try to grab a couple hours of sleep before dawn.”

It’s already after four AM, and I’m not sure I could sleep, even if I had the time. My seminar is at noon, but I need to get my shit together before I walk in and try to change the mindset of three hundred women. I can’t go up there and talk to them all freaked out about shit like this.