A Matter of Time (A Matter of Time #1)
ONE
Second, I am not the most discriminating person on the planet.
So when a friend of mine asks me to do them a favor, I’ll usually just do it without asking a lot of questions.
Not that I would be listening to the whole explanation anyway, since like I said, I’m probably the poster child for ADHD, attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder, unless you’re my boss or a really hot guy.
In both those examples, I’m laser focused.
Now, in all the movies on the Lifetime Channel, which I watched the last time I was home sick—hungover and hurling—the wife always has to go back to get her kid’s stuffed animal from the house of horrors she lives in.
Before she can put the pedal to the metal and point the late-model station wagon with the faux-wood paneling into the sunset, she has to return for Boo-Boo Bunny or Mr. Snuggles, or a teddy bear that has been loved so hard and long it now resembles an iguana.
Anna didn’t have any kids, but what she did have was her beagle, George.
She couldn’t go back, but nor could she leave without her partner in crime.
After leaving my friends dancing at a club on Halsted, I took a cab and headed out to the suburbs.
I tried never to leave the city, especially not in the fall, which it was at the moment—mid-November—and had only been outside of downtown Chicago on two previous occasions.
On the way over there I focused on where she’d told me the dog was: in her bedroom, in a crate. That part I had wired.
I made my way stealthily up to the first floor, then up much quieter, less creaky stairs to the second floor, and finally the third. I went right at the top, as the married couple had separate suites, not having shared a bedroom in years.
Once I slowly opened her bedroom door, there was George.
He barked out a joyful hello, jumping up and down, and I closed the door fast so the whimpering and whining wouldn’t echo.
He was very cute, and once I’d loved on him a bit, I looked around for anything like a leash.
After checking closets, I finally perused the room and realized it looked like a hurricane had blown through.
Anna had definitely packed in a hurry. Drawers were open, her jewelry box was empty, and a small safe in the wall that the picture of a greyhound now leaning against the wall had probably covered was open and empty.
I had a moment to wonder what would go through Brian’s mind if he found me in here, and I had to take a breath to steady my nerves.
This was possibly one of the dumber things I had agreed to do.
But it was for Anna, and she had to have her puppy with her.
Thinking George’s leash might be in the kitchen hanging on a peg somewhere, I called him to me and scooped him up, and we left the room together.
Of course, once we were in the hall, the dog got excited and squirmed in my arms, and I had no choice but to put him down before he fell.
I was about to pick him back up when the little jerk bolted down the stairs.
“George,” I stage-whispered to absolutely no effect. He didn’t even slow down, which left me chasing him down two flights of stairs.
Once we were on the first floor, he took a left turn, ran around the side of the stairs through an open pocket door, and down a short hallway to a thick, heavy drape.
It was, in my opinion, an odd place for a curtain, but I only had a moment to think about that before George, finding me behind him, was all over me again, jumping, dancing, whimpering softly, and wanting to be petted.
His whole little body moved with his wagging tail as he tried like mad to claw through my jeans.
When I bent to pick him up, ready to go back to the basement, he bolted down the hall, then came running right back.
“Stop right now,” I admonished, reaching for him a second time. When I did, he darted away and back to the drape before stopping and turning to face me, front legs spread, tail wagging, ready to play. “Come here,” I commanded.
Nothing. Dog didn’t move an iota.
“George.” I tried a second time.
He barked softly, and I went to grab him.
When I reached him, the angle I needed to pick him up from was weird, and without meaning to, I accidentally pushed the drapes apart and stepped into the room.
I immediately moved back behind them, and I was about to pick up George and go back the way I’d come when I heard a crash.
George yelped and retreated behind my leg.
My curiosity getting the better of me, I peeked into what looked like a massive den, the walls, floor, and furniture all done in shades of brown, maroon, and black.
A moan drew my attention to a man lying on top of the remains of a heavy glass coffee table.
The broken piece of furniture was one thing; the guy covered in blood and mumbling softly was a much bigger deal.
There are those moments that make it seem like a strobe light is going off in your head.
You see pieces of things but not the whole picture.
Like, I saw the shattered glass, the burnished black leather shoes of the guys standing on the brown-and-damask-colored Persian rug.
I saw the polished marble floors and Brian holding a gun on a man.
I heard the guy scream “No,” then saw him jerk as Brian fired.
It doesn’t sound like it does in the movies.
When a gun goes off, there’s no boom, it’s more of a firecracker pop.
It was fast, like a jump cut in a movie, and then it was over.
Brian unloaded the gun, then all the guys took turns spitting on the dead guy, and at that moment two things happened simultaneously.
First, my phone rang, playing “Karma Chameleon,” and second, George bolted through the drapes. I lunged for him and caught his collar, but not in time to stop my forward momentum. It was like being on stage. I came out from behind the curtain like, ta-dah!
My eyes swept the room. I saw every face before I settled on the one I knew the best—the guy who was married to my friend and holding an empty gun.
“Jory!” Brian roared, and because I have no fight reflex whatsoever, I went immediately to flight.
I yanked on George’s collar, jerked back the drape, and whipped George into the hall.
He ran, and as I bolted after him, I heard shots and Brian screaming my name.
He hadn’t been all that crazy about me to begin with, and we were definitely not in a good place at that moment.
I felt a bit lightheaded for a second, but I got my legs under me and ran.
I yelled for George when I got back to the space on the side of the stairs, because he went right, heading for the kitchen, but I needed us to go out the door together.
Instantly, he course-corrected, running along beside me as fast as his little legs would carry him.
I saw a guy in front of me, but instead of slowing down, I sped up.
When he pulled his gun, I dropped to my knees and slid halfway across the polished marble floor.
It would have been very cool if I hadn’t been running for my life at the time.
He fell on top of me, but I got untangled and ran for the front door again.
When I threw it open wide, I was faced with Darth Vader.
“Get down,” he ordered me, and the second I dove for the ground, I heard what sounded like a baseball hit him in the chest.
Immediately, someone stepped on me, somebody else kicked me, and then my arm got yanked so hard I thought my shoulder was dislocated.
Outside, someone dragged me to my feet before pulling me into the street where, like, a hundred police cars were, lights flashing everywhere.
It was cold, and I registered that before anything else.
There were more shots, and I got shoved back down to my knees, which hurt a bit when they hit the ground.
I lost my balance because I got bumped and pushed, and then somebody covered me in a jacket that easily weighed a thousand pounds.
I fell back, and then George was on me, licking my face as I tried to breathe.
I was winded, and when I finally grabbed the dog and hugged him so he’d stop, I realized four men were standing over me.
Not one looked pleased. One guy in particular looked like he wanted to strangle me right there in the middle of the street.
“Two years of undercover work blown in seconds,” he snarled icily.
What to say… “Sorry?” I offered, even though with the panting, it was hard to speak, and from his expression, I was guessing he didn’t hear me.
But that was okay, because lying there, staring up at him, was actually really nice.
He was easily the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life, and even the glaring that was happening as he loomed over me was good.
“Who the fuck are you?” he yelled that time, and the sound came up from his diaphragm. With a chest that wide, he had a lot of air to help with the noise level.
His scowl looked permanent. I coughed twice. My ribs hurt. “Jory Keyes.”
“What the hell are you doing here, man?” one of the others barked at me.
I tried to take in some air. “I came to get the dog,” I answered, which was really all the explanation I had. It had seemed like such a nothing task two hours ago.
“The dog?”
Their expressions were priceless, and even lying there on the cold pavement, I had to smile.