"Laymon, Richard - Bite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laymon Richard)

Somebody knocked on my door. I opened it, and there stood Cat.
I hadn't seen her in ten years, not since we were both sixteen. But this was Cat, all right. In the flesh. In the flesh and a blue silk bathrobe and apparently nothing else. Her feet were bare. She didn't even carry a purse.
"Cat?" I said.
A corner of her mouth tipped up. "How are you doing, Sammy?"
I was barely able to stay on my feet. That's how I was doing.
"Come on in," I told her, and staggered out of the way.
She stepped into my apartment, swung the door shut, then leaned back and rested a hand on the knob. "It's been a long time," she said.
I responded with, "It's great to see you." Which may have been the understatement of all time. I was _shocked_. I'd loved Cat Lorimer. Though I hadn't seen her since she'd gone off to live in Seattle with her parents all those years ago, I'd dreamed about her plenty. I'd _daydreamed_ about her plenty. I'd even toyed with fantasies of looking her up -- going on a Cat Lorimer hunt -- a pilgrimage in quest of my one-and-only true love.
And here she was.
Right in front of me, appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the night, wearing a royal blue silk robe that matched her eyes.
"You're lookin' good," she said.
"You, too. You look great." She also looked tired and a little too thin.
"My God," she said, "we were just a couple of kids . . ." Eyes fixed on me, she did her half-smile again and shook her head. "You recognized me right away, didn't you?"
"Of course."
"Amazing."
"You haven't changed much." She'd changed a _lot_, but not in ways that made her difficult to recognize. She still had hair like sunlight, the same blue eyes, and the pale slit of a scar like a nick on her right cheekbone. Her face was more denned, more mature -- in some ways more beautiful -- but it was still the face that had haunted my life for the past decade. I would've known it anywhere. And cherished it. "You look better than ever," I said.
"You, too," she said. "You turned into a man."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." One of her shoulders hopped up and down, sliding the silk against her breast. "What've you been doing with yourself?" she asked.
"Not much," I said.
"Married?"
"Nope. You?"
"Not anymore."
So she _had_ been married. I'd suspected as much. Every guy wants a girl like Cat, so it only made sense that one had gotten her. I despised him.
But apparently he was no longer in the picture, which pleased me.
"Divorced?" I asked.
"He was killed about a year ago."
"Oh." I scowled as if troubled by the news. "I'm so sorry."
"Thanks." She raised her eyebrows. "You haven't been married at all?"
"Not yet."
"Never found the right girl?"
The question slugged me. She seemed to know it, too. Some answers popped into my head. Things like, "I found her, but she got away." And, "I've never wanted anyone but you, Cat."
Only a guy doesn't say stuff like that. Not unless he wants to look like a jerk.
All I said was, "Nope. Guess not."
She made her shoulder hop again. "So you're basically unattached at the moment?"
"Basically."
"So you could . . . come with me?"
"Come with you?"
"Over to my house."
"When?"
"Now."
"Now?"
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Sure. I think so."
"I think you're in shock."
"Maybe a little."
"I'll drive," she said. "My car's out front. Maybe you should get your toothbrush and whatever else you might need for the night."
"I'm staying overnight?"