Chapter Four: Too Kill, Or Not To Kill…

Tommy POV:

I pushed on it and it opened, creakily. So much for the element of surprise… as you enter my apartment, you are greeted by a wall with a light switch on your right, and another wall on your left, enclosing you into some type of hallway. Go down the three steps and the left wall ends, exposing the rest of the studio apartment. I waited at the top of those steps for what seemed like forever… just listening. All I heard was the ticking of my old clock and the rise and fall of my own breathing.

I crept down the steps cautiously, and slipped my shoes off at the welcome mat. I wore my not-so-high creepers tonight, knowing the girl was a little on the short side. Like me. I hate being short. Absolutely hate it—I'm sick of looking up at people.

Now, at the end of the steps, you make a 180 degree turn and descend three more steps. The railing on the left is twisty black metal—if you get that?—like vines. You are then immediately in the kitchen, which is complete with steel appliances—which is a cold sort of look for one's kitchen—and white cabinets. The white counters are topped with gray and white marble, the floor, white tile.

Fun, right?

Every wall in my apartment are white—I'm not allowed to paint—which gives it a certain bore, you know? To the right of the kitchen, I'd set up a brown card table, the four surrounding chairs are wheeled and cushioned—un-matching office chairs—and right behind the table is a desk with a laptop.

My apartment is kinda like a huge room with only two separate rooms—a bathroom and my room—which makes it easier to clean. The kitchen's white tile stretches into the makeshift dining room, through the bathroom—which is directly next to the computer desk—and stops a third way into the room, where cream colored carpet takes over. Positioned on the carpet are two black leather couches—one is a love seat if you want to be specific—the larger one is backed up against the left wall, the smaller one's back stops where the carpet and tile meet; facing the back wall. Which is just a sliding glass door that leads to a balcony where I'd set up a couple of cushioned lawn chairs, a few potted plants—most likely dead—and the occasional ash tray.

The left wall is capacitated with a 50 inch plasma screen tv set complete with cable and blu-ray; best feature in my apartment. In the center of the entertainment room, is a wooden coffee table. To the left of the tv—and the right of the bathroom—is my bedroom. The whole apartment that I just described to you was empty—there was no sign of a body even been there at all while I was gone. And there's not many places you can hide in my apartment. But one can never be too certain…

The bathroom door was closed—I always leave it open when I'm done in there and I'm almost positive that I haven't broken my habit. I crept over to it slowly, wincing as the floor boards creaked noisily. One, I count in my head, two, I grip the door handle and turn it slowly, three! I pushed the door open and it landed with a bang on the opposite wall. The walls are white—go figure—the far wall has a shower\tub, the left wall has a sink, the right a toilet. Next to the toilet is a white cabinet—you know, for like towels and stuff—pretty much your basic bathroom, nothing special. And it was empty.

Thank. God. Could you imagine walking into your bathroom and finding the person who broke into your apartment pissing? Yikes…

That left my room. I can picture it now: it's small with a very tiny closet—I don't have a lot of clothes—on the left wall. Next to the closet is a dresser with a 45 inch tv on top—one of these days, I'm going to slam a drawer shut and that thing'll go flying—also complete with cable and blu-ray.

It's a nice place for someone who works at home depot—oh yeah, I just love showing people where to find power tools—yeah, it sucks… I used to be somebody. I used real guns, not price tag guns. I'd kill people, not help them find fiber glass. I'd clean up blood, now I'm cleaning up spilled paint… I used to matter… I used to be feared. Fuck. Me.

But my favorite feature in my room is my bed—no, dumb ass, that's not why—it's super comfortable and soft… like quicksand… I love it. But its so big! You can't get out by going left or right, you have to crawl to the very end and get off that way. The space in between the walls is so tight, there's barely enough room for a quarter to fit through, so if you drop some change, you ain't getting it back.

The back wall has a window with a great view of the city—especially at night. I entered my room, the phantom break-in forgotten, and peeled of my shirt, moaning a little at the heat. Did I leave my window open again? I turned to check… and froze.

"Hi, Tommy." he said, smiling.

And that's when my biggest fear became reality… the fear of him returning and catching me off guard…

He sat on my bed, cross-legged, wearing black jeans and a plain white sleeveless tee, on his neck, he wore a black leather collar and I recognized it as the one we'd used for our little games in the past, if you know what I mean. his hair—still black thank god—was perfectly arranged around his face, his eyes smudged with black liner… ah those eyes! I missed them! I missed the soft, yet sharp, blue eyes that could flash from cute innocence to dangerously sexy in seconds… those eyes graced me with everything from angry glares to loving stares in the past, and now they were filled with… love? Admiration.. Trust maybe… a hint of lust and a sprinkle of insecurity.

"A-Adam…" I wasn't really allowed to talk to him because of what happened in 2009. "Does the agency know you're here?" I asked, doing a quick once over. His bare, freckled arms showed no possession of a weapon, but as I've said before, one can never be too certain… I crossed the tiny room and opened my closet, hanging up my shirt.

"Yes… yes they do… well, Claudia does, I'm not sure about anybody else, but—" he froze when I whirled around, pointing a silver pistol at him. His electric blue eyes stared at the gun, then glanced at my finger on the trigger, then flicked up to mine, giving me a look that proved he knew I would pull a gun on him. "How's life treating you?"

I gave him a wary look. "It's hell. I miss my old job… I haven't killed anyone in years!"

He laughed.

"Why are you trying to kill me?"

"I'm not trying to kill you, Tommy. If I were, you'd already be dead, I assure you."

I considered many things—pulling the trigger, running away, shooting myself, curling up on the ground and crying, running over to him and kissing him—so instead, I shot him… a disbelieving look—hahah gotcha.

"You think I'm lying? Wanna frisk me?" he smirked, arching a perfect eyebrow. I blushed and stared at my socked feet. "Relax, babe, I'm kidding!" he said, softly. I glanced back up at him and his expression turned serious. "Put down the gun, Tommy… you and I both know it isn't loaded."

How did he know? He must have searched my apartment, finding the gun and noticing the empty mag. Shit. I gave him a small smile of defeat and waved the empty gun at him. "Take off your showed, you probably tracked dirt all over!"

He laughed and unzipped his heeled boots—why the fuck did he need heeled boots? The man's six feet tall!—following me out of the room. I tossed the gun to the couch and motioned to the mat where my shoes rested. He tossed his boots next to my creepers.

"Want some cheese cake?" I offered, taking the dessert out of the fridge. He nodded, opening the cupboard. "The plates are—"

"I remember." he winked. How charming. He poured milk in two glasses and grabbed two forks, bringing them to the table. He sat down and crossed his socked ankles. I set the dessert down and sat down myself, watching as he dug in.

"I could have poisoned that you know…"

"But you wouldn't have… I know you wouldn't. I know you, Tommy… you won't kill me until you figure out why I'm here…"

Damn, he knew me too well…