Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) Elise Faber (classic literature books txt) 📖

me this way and that. Until suddenly I was on the other side. The water was still, and so were my emotions. Because . . .

Boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

That should be terrifying.

But instead it was . . . comforting, and also something I wanted so fucking much. If I wasn’t living small. If I was pushing outward, an explosion spreading over the earth, expanding until I encompassed everything I’d ever hoped for.

I could do that.

I could go after what I wanted, what I needed. I could have something good, someone who loved me for me.

I could have a man who didn’t care that I’d ignored him for work.

Who was thoughtful and didn’t care if I fit into a perfect, orderly box.

I could . . .

Get the hell out of my head, leave the baggage firmly behind, and live a giant, no-holds-barred life.

But first—

I ran upstairs, tucked the note carefully in the locked drawer of my desk. Then I headed to the garage, got into my car, and I drove to Archer’s apartment.

I’d parked in spot twenty-six.

I’d knocked.

I’d waited.

I’d called.

And waited some more.

But he didn’t answer my call or come to the door, and . . . frankly, I was starting to feel more than a little insecure. He’d left the note. He’d said to come. He’d—

“Enough, Dom—Niki,” I corrected. “He probably got pulled away to something. You’re reading too much into this.”

Except, the spot next to twenty-six was his spot.

And his car was there. And he wasn’t picking up his phone.

My stomach decided to take up hurdles in my torso, a rise-fall ending with a heavy impact, over and over again. Because . . . what if something had happened and he was hurt or ill inside?

What if—

“Fuck this,” I murmured, going back to my car and getting in.

Not because I was going home, but instead because I was retrieving my lockpicks from my center console. Before I’d focused in on unearthing important data, I’d been with a security company, and they’d taught all their techs several useful skills—how to pick a lock, how to avoid getting your face on security cameras, and how to lose a tail.

I’d never had a need to use any of them.

Until today.

Though, I couldn’t lie and say that I hadn’t been itching to pull out my expertise. I just had hoped it would be under far more exciting and far less nerve-wracking circumstances.

Regardless of nerves and itching, I made my way back up the steps and paused outside Archer’s door.

Just to do my due diligence, I knocked again, I called once more.

When neither received a response, I opened the small leather bifold and pulled out the tension wrench and a feeler pick. Then I crouched in front of the door handle, inserted them into the lock, and got to work.

“Whatcha doing?”

I shrieked, dropped the tools where they clanged loudly off the concrete floor, and straightened, covering them with my shoe as I turned to face the man in the hallway. “Nothing,” I said, tucking my hands behind me in an effort to shove the rest of my kit into my pocket.

He crossed his arms, a smirk on his face. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

“I—”

Normally, I might have been able to withstand the man’s penetrating expression, to put on some front that sent him screaming and running away, so I could get back to lockpicking my way into Archer’s apartment.

Instead, I was truly worried about my boyfriend.

Which was the only reason I could think of for me giving up any pretense and asking, “Do you know Archer? He asked me to come by, and now he’s not answering the door or his phone, and I’m worried he might be hurt or sick inside.” The man started to shake his head, brows pulling down to frame hazel eyes. “Well, do you have the landlord’s number? I think someone should have a spare key to go in, just in case. Just to make sure he’s okay—”

The man shook his head again. “I don’t have the landlord’s number.”

Frustration coursed through me, and I bent to pick up my tools, not bothering to hide my intention now. “Fine,” I said. “Then I’m going in, and I’m going to make sure he’s okay, and if you have a problem with that, you can just try and stop me.”

The man waved a hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I narrowed my eyes, something familiar about his tone or the words or maybe his face, but I couldn’t spend too much time on that.

Not when Archer may be bleeding out on the floor inside.

I inserted the tension wrench, went to work with my pick, flicking the pins into proper alignment with quick clicks, and then I was in, pushing the door open and stepping inside. “Feel free to call the cops if you must,” I said, when I noticed that the man was recording me with his cell. “Or to trail me inside. I’m not here to steal anything. I just want to—”

“Do some breaking and entering?” he asked.

I sighed, shook my head, and pocketed my tools. “I’m not—” And then I cut myself off, because the whole bleeding on the floor thing might be happening, and I had more important things to do than try to explain things to a stranger. When I saved Archer’s life, he could explain.

The kitchen was empty, as was the bedroom and bathroom.

Which left only one place.

The studio.

I pushed open the door, was momentarily blindsided by a gorgeous landscape of sea green and deep aquamarine before I realized that the studio, too, was empty.

“Find anything?” the man from the hall asked, leaning against the door.

I spun in a circle. “He’s not here,” I whispered.

That smirk widened. “Apparently not.”

“I—”

He held up his cell. “Should I call the police, now? Or did you want to steal something first—”

“Lucas?” Archer called. “Where are you?”

Relief poured through me. He wasn’t hurt or bleeding somewhere. He just hadn’t . . . picked up my calls? Okay, that didn’t feel so great. I opened my