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fucking everywhere, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
    Including ignore it.
    His legs were wobbly from his waning adrenaline rush by the time he walked onto the slick wood of his living room floor. At the time, he’d thought leaving the former dance studio’s polished planks intact was a good idea, especially after he’d removed a wall of mirrors and practice rails. Now he was worried if the noise of his squeaking new sneakers would carry out of the open windows facing the street and down to the uniforms squatting in a cop car in front of the building.
    It was a stark place, despite the warmth of its aged golden brick walls. He’d left most of the space unfurnished, mostly because he had no idea what to do with it. A long wall of ten-foot-tall black lacquer bookcases cordoned off the back third of the loft and hid the one piece of furniture he had purchased, a king-sized bed soft enough for him to bury himself in and not care if he slept the day away.
    He’d miss that bed, but he didn’t love it enough to risk jail for it.
    Enormous mullioned crank-levered windows dotted the loft’s three walls, allowing a fair amount of light into the space. Certainly enough light for him to scrape together a meal or two out of the kitchen he’d had installed against the space’s one solid wall, and blackout curtains took care of the sun and nightlife when he wanted to sleep. Left open, the windows pulled in the noise of living on the boulevard, and he’d fought many a losing battle with Hollywood’s erratic temperatures and breezes, usually giving up and shutting the windows to turn on the air-conditioning.
    Much like he’d done when he’d planned to be away for a whole day. So Rook was slightly alarmed to find all of the drapes pulled back, leaving the windows bare—and Rook vulnerable.
    He knew he didn’t leave the drapes open. Hell, he could barely remember his name at the moment, but he was pretty certain he’d closed every single swinging pane, locked them down, and pulled the blackout curtains before he’d gone gallivanting up and down the California coast.
    “Cops?” Rook sniffed, nearly tasting the scent of authority muddling the air. “Why the drapes? Unless they were looking for something else.”
    There was cop spooge everywhere. A stack of papers lay on the kitchen counter and, at the top of the pile, a boldly marked warrant authorizing access to Rook’s life and property. If he read the fine print, he was pretty sure there was a disclaimer the LAPD could shove a hand up his ass and use him to teach the alphabet to drooling children if he looked hard enough.
    His wall safe was definitely pushing up daisies. Torn apart and nearly ripped clean out of its brick hidey-hole. Bits and pieces of it lay strewn on the floor with the faux crayon brain splatter painting he’d placed over it leaning brokenly against the wall. The lock box was stone-cold empty, missing the few thousand dollars and a couple of rare action figures he’d stashed there for good measure. He hadn’t expected any different, and Rook didn’t know what offended him more—the cops ripping him off or the thug smash-and-grab they’d pulled on him to do it.
    “Well, fuck. They killed the safe. Hope they at least documented what they took. Fuckers.” The damage was pretty extensive, and if he’d given a shit Rook would take pictures and call in lawyers. But he was past giving a shit. He’d moved on to running until he found a place the LAPD couldn’t find or reach him. Taking a fast look at the safe, he toed the bent door. “Guess fucked-by-cops isn’t going to be covered by the warranty.”
    The safe wasn’t Rook’s only hidey-hole. Not by a long shot. He’d put it in plain sight to seed the belief it was all he had on him, but there were larger, more secretive stashes around the apartment, and he’d come to clean himself out. He just had to grab what he could get his hands on and get out before LAPD’s