Night Shifters by Sarah A. Hoyt Page A

could do. She tapped him on the arm. “Turn that off. Come inside. Have a shower. I’ll grab another jogging suit for you.”
    He looked surprised. Dumbfounded as if she’d offered him a fortune. “Are you sure?”
    “Where would you go otherwise?”
    He shrugged. “I’ll figure . . . I’ll figure something. I always do.” For just a second a dangerous liquid quality crept into his voice, but he only shook his head and swallowed. “Look, it’s not safe to be around me.”
    “I’ve noticed. But you have nowhere else to go. Come inside. I’ll make coffee.”
    He took a few seconds, then grabbed the screwdriver and turned it. And nodded at her. “Can I come out through your side?” he said. “Less—”
    “Exposure, yes,” she said. “And don’t break anything. I have a key.”
    She dove out the door and retrieved her key from its hiding place.

    Later Tom would think he might never have agreed to go to Kyrie’s house, except for the chunk of glass slowly working its way into his buttock.
    It was clear she didn’t really want him around, and he wasn’t sure he could blame her. After all, he wasn’t sure he wanted himself around most of the time. And she’d seen him at one of his most dangerous moments.
    It would probably be a kindness for him to leave. But then he came up on the fact that he was naked, he was shaking with exhaustion, and there was a big glass chunk becoming a permanent part of his behind.
    He turned off the car and waited till she was out and had opened the door before he dove out of the car after her. And stepped into a cozy kitchen—cozy and homey and like no place he’d ever been before.
    His father’s condo had been huge. This entire house would probably fit in the kitchen. And the kitchen of that house had been white and chrome, imported Italian marble and mosaic floors. But it was the domain of Mrs. Lopez, their cook. Never the family kitchen. Never a place where the family gathered for meals.
    Of course no family could really gather in this kitchen either. Not unless they were all unusually close. It was barely big enough to contain both of them, a card table, two folding chairs, a refrigerator, stove, and a tiny counter with sink. Above the table, on the wall, hung a painting of an old-fashioned bicycle done in shades of red and pink on black, the front wheel dwarfing the rest.
    Kyrie closed the door behind him. “This way,” she said, as she led him out of the kitchen via the interior door, and into a hallway. She opened another door and turned the light on. “The bathroom. I’ll go get you something to wear.”
    He stepped into the bathroom, where there was just enough space for himself between tub, sink, and toilet.
    Kyrie returned almost immediately and knocked, and he hid himself behind the door as he opened it. It seemed silly when they’d been together, naked for most of the evening. But then Kyrie had put on a robe—a fluffy, pink robe that made her look young and feminine.
    She handed him a bundle of clothes and said, “There’s plenty of water. Outsized water heater, so don’t worry too much. But I’d like to shower after you, so don’t use more than you have to.”
    He nodded, took the clothes, set them on the toilet tank, and started the shower. Plunging under the water, he felt it like a warm caress. He tried not to notice that it ran red-stained down the drain. The corpse . . .
    The corpse seemed wholly unreal in this white-tiled shower that smelled of lavender and a subtle hint of Kyrie’s perfume. Tom had never noticed her perfume before, but it was definitely her smell. Something spicy and soft that he’d caught before as an undertone at work.
    He removed the glass chunk from his backside, by touch, then soaped himself vigorously. He had no right to intrude on her life, nor to bring his own messes into her house. He had no right to endanger her. He should leave as soon as possible.
    Guiltily, he used her shampoo, which was some designer brand and