I knocked, the heavy steel door barely making any noise. After several minutes, when no one had answered, I pounded the door with the side of my fist, hard enough to bruise my hand and shake the door in its frame.
“Just a minute!” someone yelled from inside the apartment.
After slamming my fist against the door one more time for good measure, I folded my arms across my chest and cocked my hip to one side, placing most of my weight on my right leg. Only a whisper of sound came to me through the door as someone moved around inside.
Several more minutes later, the door finally opened, and a bare-chested man, his hair still dripping from the shower, opened the door. His scent, under the Irish Spring, was musky, familiar, and decidedly male. I had no idea how he could stand to use such a strongly scented soap. Maybe he didn’t use his nose. He matched the image sent to me by Mitchell, having an ordinary face—neither attractive nor ugly—and the lean physique of a natural athlete. My gaze couldn’t help but glide up and down his taut abdomen before I realized what I was doing.
When my eyes returned to his face, the corner of his mouth was turned up in a knowing smirk. Embarrassment caused blood to rush to my cheeks, and I stammered, “Are you... Mister Johnson?”
The smirk turned into a leer. “Call me... Dick.”
I rolled my eyes. If that’s really your name, your parents need professional help. Looking him in the eyes, I didn’t let my gaze waver. “Could I come in? We need to talk.”