Night Prey

here.”
    “I’ve got a lease,” Sara said, away from the balcony, toward him. “And the apartment is really handy to work. And it should be safe. It is safe. I’ve changed the locks, I’ve got a steel door. I don’t know. . . .”
    Hart stepped over to the balcony, looked out, his back toward her. She wondered if she made him nervous. “It’s a pretty neighborhood. And I guess no place is really perfectly safe. Not anymore.”
    There was a moment of silence, and then she asked, “Do I make you nervous?”
    He turned, a weak, slowly dying smile on his face. “Yeah, a little.”
    “Why?”
    He shrugged. “I like you too much. You’re very attractive . . . I don’t know, I’m just not very good at this.”
    “It is awkward,” she said. “Look, why don’t you come over and sit down, and I’ll put my head on your shoulder, and we’ll go from there.”
    He shrugged again. “All right.” He put down his glass, crossed the room, sat quickly, put his arm around her shoulder, and she let her head sink onto his chest.
    “Now, is this bad?” she asked, and suddenly broke into a giggle.
    “No, this isn’t bad at all,” Evan said. He sounded nervous, but he felt committed, and when she lifted her head to smile at him, he kissed her.
    She felt good. She made a hundred and thirty thousand dollars a year, took vacations in Paris and Mexico and Monaco; she was the toughest woman she knew.
    But a chest felt . . . excellent. She snuggled into it.
     
     
     
    KOOP GRABBED THE edge of the air-conditioner housing, pulled himself up, and saw Jensen on the couch with a man, saw her turn her face up and the man kiss her.
    “Oh, fuck me,” he said aloud. “Oh, fuck me,” and he felt his world shake.
    The guy across the street put his hand on Jensen’s waist, then moved it up a few inches, under her breast. Koop thought he recognized the guy, then realized he’d seen somebody like him on television, an old movie. Henry Fonda, that was it; Henry Fonda, when he was young. “Motherfucker. . . .”
    Koop stood up without thinking, hand holding the scope, the living room couch jumping toward him. Their faces were locked together and the guy was definitely copping a feel. Remembering himself, Koop dropped to a crouch, felt the heat climbing into his face. He looked down and hammered his fist into the steel housing; and for the first time since—when? never?—felt something that might have been emotional pain. How could she do this? This wasn’t right, she was his. . . .
    He looked back toward Sara’s apartment. They were talking now, backed off a little. Then she tipped her head onto his shoulder, and that was almost worse than the kiss. Koop put the scope on them, and watched so hard that his head began to hurt. Christ, he hoped they didn’t fuck. Please, don’t do it. Please.
    They kissed again, and this time the guy’s hand cupped Jensen’s breast, held it. Koop, in agony, rolled over on his shoulder and looked away, decided not to look back until he counted to a hundred. Maybe it would go away. He counted one, two, three, four, five and got to thirty-eight before he couldn’t stand it, and flipped over.
    The guy was standing.
    She’d said something to him; a pulse of elation streaked through his soul. She must’ve. She was getting ready to throw him out, by God. Why else would he have stopped; Christ, he had her on the couch. He had her in hand, for Christ’s sake. Then the guy picked up a glass and looked at her, said something, and she threw back her head and laughed.
    No. That didn’t look good.
    Then she was on her feet, walking toward him. Slipped two fingers between the buttons of his shirt, said something—Koop would have mortgaged his life for the ability to lip-read—then stood on tiptoe and kissed him again, quickly this time, and walked away, picked up a newspaper, and waved it at him, said something else.
    They talked for another five minutes, both standing now, circling each other. Sara Jensen kept touching him. Her touch was like fire to Koop. When she touched the guy, Koop could feel it on his arm, in his chest.
    Then the guy moved toward the door. He was leaving. Both still smiling.
    At the door she stepped into him, her face up, and Koop rolled over again, refusing to watch, counting: one, two, three, four, five. Only got to fifteen, counting fast, before he turned back.
    She was still in his arms, and he’d pressed her to the door. Jesus.
    Gotta take him. Gotta take him