Page 36 of Avenging Angel
Last night was extreme, and because of it, I could forgive his intrusion…once.
Him just helping himself to my place…hell to theno.
I was juggling Cleo’s lead with pulling off the strap to my purse in order to dig out my phone, wondering if I should hit up Bill and Zach to take my back when I went into my apartment (because it might not be Cap, and even if it was, a statement needed to be made). Or maybe head to Jacob, who worked crazy-long hours and endless days of construction sometimes, doing this so he could make enough money to take lots of time off in order to hang around and get high other times. But even if he was high, he could probably take care of business, because he might not be super tall, but he was solid and built.
These were my activities, and thoughts, when the door to my apartment opened.
A very pretty Black woman, who I guessed was a little older than me, had large bosoms, slim hips and long legs, and was wearing a white suit Olivia Pope would get in a bitch-slapping contest over, took one step out on her pencil slim, four-inch, patent-nude Louboutin heels, and asked, “Well, are you coming in?”
“Who are you?” I returned.
She walked my way.
I braced.
And unfortunately, Cleo took that opportunity to become one with her Labrador, so she was full body shakes due to her tail wagging and straining the leash to get a lick or two in as the woman approached.
She ignored Cleo but opened her white Birkin with black stitching, exposing the sumptuous red leather interior.
From it, she pulled a manila envelope.
She offered this envelope to me.
I didn’t know why (out of habit? shock? whatever), but I took it.
“Don’t call her Charlie. And don’t call me Bosley. I’m Clarice.”
And with that, she strutted away in the manner only a woman in Louboutins could strut, in other words, there was no better strut in the world.
I watched her go.
Cleo watched her go.
When she was out of sight, I dashed to my apartment, Cleo having no choice but to dash with me.
I closed the door, locked it, took off Cleo’s leash and hung it on the golden arch that was adorned with medallions shaped in the cycles of the moon with hooks under each moon.
I then went to my circular, glass-topped coffee table with the white cutaway panels underneath that supported a shelf, on which I displayed my Pucci coffee table book that had a hardback exterior of a Pucci print (and itrawked).
I dropped that envelope on the table like it could grow teeth and bite me.
Five minutes later, I had a glass of chilled white in my hand, and I was standing at the coffee table, staring at that envelope.
“Shit,” I whispered, rounded the table, sat on my pale-blue velvet, tufted-back couch, sucked back some wine, set it aside and reached for the envelope.
Cleo sat on the floor beside me and watched, panting, as I opened it and upended what was inside onto the table.
Some papers came out, as did a car key fob and a business card.
I reached for the fob first. It had a tag attached to it.
On the tag were the words,The Parking Spot, a letter, number (in other words, location where the car was parked), an email that appeared bogus, some goobledygook letters, numbers and characters and the message,Download the app, username, password, use that account to pay.
“What the fuck is going on?” I breathed.
I set the fob aside and nabbed the business card.
The cardstock was thick and expensive.