You Belong to Me – 22

 

 

Corey walked into the club at exactly eight fifteen, shivering because he’d left his jacket in the car. He would have been on time if the car had started the way it was supposed to. It took him five minutes to realize his battery was dead, and ten more before he could find another tenant to give him a jump.

 

Looking around, he didn’t see Brad. Of course, with the place crowded to the walls, that didn’t surprise him. He fought his way to the bar, thinking about what Brad had said—that he’d buy Corey’s first two drinks.

 

So how do I find him in all this madness, since he isn’t at the bar?

 

He ordered a beer and worked his way from there to the dance floor, checking out the tables along the way. He squeezed in between two guys along the railing who were eyeing the men demonstrating their dancing skills—or lack thereof, in some cases.

 

Maybe he got hung up and tried to call.

 

Corey took out his phone to check, even though he knew he’d have felt it vibrate. Then he swore under his breath. The damned thing was dead, which startled him. He knew he’d charged it last night as always. Maybe it’s time for a new battery?

 

With no other option, he kept looking for Brad. He’s probably doing the same thing: going one way while I go the other. With that thought, Corey went back to the bar area and waited for a space to open up. When one finally did, he planted himself on the stool and ordered another beer.

 

Finally, when it hit ten o’clock, he gave up, feeling beyond pissed. “He stood me up,” he muttered under his breath.

 

“Now who would stand up a good-looking man like you?” the guy next to him said, smiling hopefully.

 

Not in the mood for games, Corey ignored him, set down his empty bottle, and left. It was close to freezing out, so he made it back to his car in record time, immediately turning it on so he’d have heat, then putting on his jacket.

 

His disappointment was matched by his anger at Brad—and at himself for not having checked his phone before leaving the apartment. If something had come up, and Brad had tried to call, he was probably equally pissed off when Corey didn’t answer.

 

He was halfway down the hall to his apartment when he realized something was wrong. The door was open enough that he could see a narrow band of light from the table lamp he always left on in the entryway.

 

Corey took out his phone, intending to call 911, before remembering it was dead. After a moment’s hesitation, he hurried back to the elevator and went down to the manager’s office to bang on the door. It was opened a couple of minutes later by the woman, whom he had obviously awakened.

 

“Please, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to call the police. I think someone broke into my apartment again.”

 

“Oh no,” she replied in consternation. Stepping aside, she pointed to the phone on her desk.

 

He called and explained to the dispatcher what was happening. He was told to wait in the lobby until the police arrived to check it out. After thanking the manager, and apologizing again for waking her, Corey began pacing the lobby. When someone rapped on the front door, he saw it was the same two officers he’d spoken with after the first break-in.