My Sinful Longing (Sinful Men Book 3)

by Lauren Blakely

  Hey, pretty lady. Don’t you be messing around with that new guy. WJ

  “It doesn’t even have my name on it. Is there any chance it was just an error? Maybe it was meant for someone else?” I suggested, as I clasped on to the hope that I wasn’t the target of some strange stalker, calling me a pretty lady and warning me to stay away from my new man.

  “That would be great if it was just a mistake,” he said, but his tone was completely pragmatic and I could tell he didn’t think “Oops, that was meant for someone else” was a likely scenario.

  Or spam.

  “I got a strange Facebook comment too,” I said, then told him about the hazy memory from the other night, including how odd the name was on the post. “It was gone as quickly as it was posted.”

  “Who was it from?”

  “I can’t remember. I was loopy on pain meds. But it wasn’t a real name. It was, like, some weirdly menacing roller derby name, but for a guy.”

  He nodded and listened intently, my phone in his hand. He’d shifted into all-business Colin, and I sensed this was the newest challenge he was about to take on. He opened a browser window on his computer, and tapped the number into a reverse phone search. It showed up as unavailable. “Pretty sure this text came from a burner phone. If I looked up your number, it would show the wireless carrier it’s registered to. A burner phone isn’t registered, so it’s hard to trace. Let me see what I can do though.” He set down the phone, cupped my cheeks, and met my gaze once more. “I promise, Elle. I’m going to fix this for you.”

  I didn’t know how he could, but I loved that he wanted to. That he pulled me close and brushed his lips on my forehead. That he wanted to take care of me. No one had taken care of me in years. I wrapped my arms around him and breathed him in—his clean, freshly showered morning scent. I stayed like that for several minutes, there at his office, curled up with him. This was where I wanted to be when times were good, and where I wanted to be when times were tough.

  He felt like a new beginning. Like my truest second chance.

  The second chance I was finally letting myself have.

  The next day, Colin stopped by the center to tell me he’d tried a number of leading-edge technologies, including the most advanced IP tracker, to identify where the text had come from. None had revealed the sender’s info.

  “Do you think it’s about us? The note?” I asked him, worry in my tone. That was all I could figure. That someone was trying to stop me from seeing him. “Do you think it’s from your ex? The one who didn’t want you doing the triathlon?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I haven’t heard from her in a year. That’s so over it’s beyond over.”

  Fear tripped through me. “Then who do you think is sending these to me?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not going to stop until I find out.”

  57

  Colin

  All the damn technology in the world at my fingertips and I couldn’t crack how to trace this goddamn burner phone. We didn’t know where the phone had come from and hadn’t been able to triangulate any calls from it, and there was no way to trace it from the message Elle had received.

  “Tell me, Larsen. Tell me when you get a pitch for a company that has this tech, and we’re getting in on the seed funding round,” I said, frustration thick in my voice as I sifted through app stores, past pitches from scrappy start-ups and app makers, and all the presentations I’d ever heard on new cell phone technology, with Larsen by my side hunting too.

  Were the drug dealers who used these phones really so far ahead that they’d found the one fail-safe method of covering their tracks?

  “I’m on it,” Larsen said with a crisp nod.

  “Nothing’s working. My brothers don’t even have tools for this, and that’s the business they’re in. Security.”

  “Isn’t that the point though? Not to go all internet privacy on you, but isn’t that why burner phones exist? Because people feel like they have no privacy. Facebook won’t even tell you who sends you creepy messages because of privacy guidelines.”

  I sat up straight. “What did you just say?” The cogs whirred in my head.

  “Facebook won’t even tell you who sends you creepy messages because of privacy guidelines?” Larsen repeated tentatively, furrowing his brow.

  An idea hit me—it was out of left field, but sometimes the best ideas were born there. I latched on to something Detective John Winston had said. The gang culture, oddly enough, loves social media. They post pictures of themselves online, on Instagram and Facebook, holding wads of bills from their drug sales or showing off electronics they stole.

  “You’re brilliant,” I said, then flipped open my laptop, logged into Facebook, and started hunting. There were many ways to solve a problem. You could tackle it point by point, or you could triangulate it.

  I’d had no success tracing the number, so rather than go from number to name, I’d have to amass a list of possible names and see what matched. I rolled up the cuffs on my shirt—nothing ventured, nothing gained—and spent the next few hours digging into Facebook and Instagram for images of the Royal Sinners.

  Don’t mess with the Royal Sinners.

  That was what they said about themselves.

  Those were the words used in Elle’s messages.

  Don’t you be messing around . . .

  Whoever WJ was, he had effectively identified himself as a gang member in the text. Gang members had nicknames—weirdly menacing ones. WJ wanted to own his intimidation, and I was determined to find him.

  I had something these gang guys didn’t have.

  Ingenuity. Resourcefulness. And one hell of a brain. I knew how to use my head to solve a problem. As I hunted, I unearthed a braggart’s den. I found a treasure trove of images, just as John had said we would. Young guys holding wads of cash. Guys aiming guns at the camera. Others pointing to the ink on their arms. Protect Our Own.

  I captured screenshots. I saved images. I took notes. I checked geotags on Instagram. I studied the pins on the images.

  I did it again the next day.

  And the next.

  And the next.

  I didn’t have an answer, or a name, or a number. But I had a database now. Soon, WJ would tag something. That was what these guys did. Then I’d zero in on him.

  58

  Elle

  Two Elles.

  Over the next few days, I returned to my split self. Only this time I was Happy-Go-Lucky Elle, and I was Sleeping-with-One-Eye-Open Elle.

  My schedule was packed with work, and pickups, and spending time with my two guys. It was stuffed with Colin playing a few rounds of State of Decay with Alex, and then basketball with Rex, Tyler, Marcus, and Alex at the center. Tomorrow was jam-packed too—during the day I had a board meeting with the center’s directors over the remodeling progress, and at night Ryan was proposing to Sophie. He’d planned a surprise family celebration for Sophie afterward.

  Life was almost too good to be true.

  Almost.

  Because there, in the background, slinking over my shoulder was my phone stalker. WJ.

  I hadn’t said a word about it to my son. I didn’t want him to worry, especially since I’d promised to always protect him. But I desperately needed to talk to someone.

  “It’s been several days since the text message. Maybe it’s all over,” I said to my sister at the Skyway rink on Thursday evening.

  “Let’s hope so. Did you get a new cell phone like I told you to?”

  “What’s the point?” I asked as Camille straightened up napkins and straws at the snack counter. “My number is on the center’s website. Anyone can get it.”

  Camille gave me a pointed look. “Maybe it shouldn’t be so easy to reach you.”

  I drummed my nails against the counter. “I want the boys to be able to reach me. That’s the point of doing what I do. To be accessible. To be a resource for them. I can’t shut myself off from the world.”

 
“Just be careful. Because someone clearly doesn’t like your boyfriend if they’re sending you messages not to mess around with him.”

  I sighed heavily and twisted my hair into a makeshift ponytail, wondering who that could be.

  Twenty minutes later, I picked up Alex from Janine’s house.

  I chatted briefly with Janine on the porch then headed to the car, waving goodbye. “Good luck this weekend. I’ll be there cheering you on, though it’ll pain me not to skate,” I said.

  “It’ll pain me more not to have my favorite blocker,” Janine said with a pout.

  “Are you going to come with me to the final match this weekend?” I asked Alex once we were inside the car.

  “Can I stay home and hang out by myself?”

  I flinched at the idea, gripping the steering wheel. “No. I want you to come with me.”

  “But why? You’re not even skating. I just want to hang at home. Play Xbox and stuff.”

  “We’ll have fun. We’ll get pizza at the rink,” I said through pursed lips. I didn’t tell him the truth—that I could barely stomach letting him out of my sight.

  He groaned.

  “Alex, don’t do that,” I said, as I changed lanes.

  “I just don’t feel like going. Can’t I just chill? What if Rex and Tyler come over?”

  But before I could say no one more time, my phone buzzed in the console.

  “Want me to see if that’s Colin?” Alex asked, grabbing the phone.

  “I’ll look at it later,” I said hastily, as the truck in front of me slowed. I didn’t want Alex seeing any messages from Colin, though we hadn’t exchanged many dirty ones lately. Still, my phone was private. It was mine.

  “Mom.”

  I hadn’t heard that tone in years.

  His voice was laced with fear.

  I snapped my gaze to him, and my son was staring at the screen, jaw agape.

  Pure, primal terror burst through me, like a dam breaking. “What is it?”

  But I knew.

  It could only be one thing.

  “Who sent you this?” he asked, his voice thin as a thread, cold as winter.

  I yanked the wheel right and pulled into the lot at a Burger King. Slamming the car into park, I grabbed the phone from him.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

  Pretty ladies should be smarter about who they get INVOLVED with.

  The phone slid from my hand, clattering to the console.

  “What is that?” Alex asked again.

  I inhaled deeply, then did my best to channel a calmness I didn’t feel. “I’ve been getting some strange messages.”

  He shook his head adamantly then stabbed his finger against the screen. “This isn’t strange, Mom. It’s creepy. It’s stalkerish. Who is sending you these?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, my hold on a cool, collected tone faltering.

  “Someone who doesn’t want you to be with Colin.” His voice rose with every word.

  I bit my lip and managed a small nod. “It seems that way.”

  His eyes widened as big as the moon. “Mom! I like Colin. He’s a cool guy. But seriously, this is freaking me out.”

  It was freaking me out too. More than I could ever have imagined. But I couldn’t let on. I had to stay strong for Alex. I had to be titanium.

  “Colin is working on it,” I said, taking my time with each word. “He’s working on figuring it out, and we’ll make it stop.”

  “‘We’?” he asked, arching an angry eyebrow. “Who’s ‘we’? You and Colin? Or you and me? Or you and—”

  “I’ve got this. I’ve got this under control. You don’t need to worry about it.”

  “Just like when you had things under control with Dad?”

  I held up my index finger. “That is not fair. And this is not the same.”

  “You’re right,” he said, spitting out the words. “It’s not the same. Because he’s not Dad. He’s just a guy.”

  “Alex,” I said.

  He stopped talking, crossed his arms, and slumped down in the seat.

  “Let me get you home and make dinner,” I said, as calmly as I possibly could.

  I stuffed my phone into my purse in the back seat, as if that would erase the message. But the text was still there, like a shadow that lurked by my side. Colin had thought a Royal Sinner was sending these to me, and I was sure now that he was right. I was sure, too, that someone in the Royal Sinners didn’t want Colin in my life.

  And now my son maybe felt the same way.

  He didn’t talk to me at dinner. All he said was “Thanks.” Then he got up from the table, showered, and went to bed.

  “Night.”

  Barely a word.

  Just like that year.

  The year he didn’t talk.

  The year he was nearly destroyed by his father’s death.

  I sank down on my couch and ran my hand over the back of my neck. My sparrows. My guide to finding my way home. My son was my home, and I’d helped him find his way back to me after he’d lost his father. I’d do it again and again and again. I reached for a framed picture of him on the coffee table—his fourth-grade school photo, with his goofy, toothy grin. A small smile surfaced as I ran my finger over it. A tear threatened my eyes, but I refused to allow it to appear. I would not wallow. I would not weaken.

  I had one goal in life and it was to take care of my son, no matter what.

  But Colin meant more to me already than I could have dreamed. He’d told me he had some leads and was tracking them down, and I was grateful for that. Damn grateful. But I was torn.

  Ironic, because I thought it would be my choices that brought me here.

  Instead, it was the past.

  The one Colin had zero control over.

  Through no fault of his own, that past had resurfaced to the present. The past where a gangland shooter killed his father, and the present where a member of that same street gang was harassing me.

  All because I was in love with him.

  Holy hell.

  In love.

  I was in love with him.

  How the hell was I going to do the right thing? And what was the right thing to do?

  59

  Colin

  I wished I could be there with her. Holding her till she fell asleep. Kissing her forehead as her eyelids fluttered closed. Brushing loose strands of hair away from her face.

  Instead, from the wooden swing on the back deck of my house, I zoomed in on the screenshot Elle had sent me a few hours ago. The one of her latest text. A night breeze tripped through the trees as I studied the message. I stared so long I let my vision go blurry. The message turned hazy around the edges of the words, and the letters seemed to float off the screen.

  Pretty. Ladies. Smarter.

  Then one word, in all caps, slammed into me.

  INVOLVED.

  I tapped the community center’s web address into a search bar. Quickly, I found Elle’s bio, where it said she prided herself on being involved with the local community.

  In my head, I replayed the messages.

  Be careful who you get involved with.

  Hey, pretty lady. Don’t you be messing around with that new guy.

  Pretty ladies should be smarter about who they get INVOLVED with.

  All from WJ.

  The blurry haze evaporated. The clouds burned away, and the sky was clear. I’d figured a gang member was somehow targeting her, because she was involved with a man whose family had been torn to pieces by a gang. Someone like Kenny or TJ Nelson, who didn’t want the case reopened. Someone who was trying to intimidate my family through the woman in my life.

  But that theory didn’t entirely add up.

  I called Ryan. My brother answered on the first ring. “What’s up? It’s late. You okay?”

  “Yeah. You answered quickly. What are you up to?”

  “Sophie and I just finished a game of pool,” he said, and if there was ever a code for banging, that was i
t. But now was not the time for razzing my brother.

  “You told me something the other day, about visiting Marcus at the convenience store,” I said, reminding Ryan of a conversation we’d had earlier in the week. It hadn’t seemed like much at the time, but now I was examining every possible connection. “He mentioned a guy who’d come in?”

  “He did. Said he got some weird vibe from him. Thought he reeked of Royal Sinners. Marcus said the guy had a goatee and was bitching about his phone.”

  “And that made him think the guy was a Sinner?”

  “It was more a gut reaction to him, I think. And Marcus said his dad has always been worried about those guys coming after them.”

  I snapped my fingers. That was it. What if the warnings Elle had received weren’t about me, but about Marcus?

  Elle wasn’t only involved with me. Elle was involved with the local community. Elle was involved in helping the kids at the center. Elle had been deeply involved with helping Marcus. And Marcus’s father had been worried about gang members targeting his family. Were they targeting Marcus through Elle?

  In the morning, I called Marcus and asked him for help.

  “Tell me everything about the guy who came by your store the other day,” I said, and my younger brother described the guy in detail, right down to the fingernails on his hands.

  After I finished a training swim at lunch, my phone buzzed on my way out of the gym. I’d set up an alert for any new photos from the Instagram and Facebook profiles I’d marked as likely belonging to the Royal Sinners. The account that had pinged was called Don’t Mess With, and it often featured snapshots of stolen goods.

  As I walked across the parking lot to my car, I scrolled through the new set of photos.

  Boatloads of electronics. Laptops, tablets, some phones.

  In some of the pictures, a guy pointed at his stash, his fingers in the shape of guns. The guy’s face wasn’t in any of the pictures, but I punched the air when I read the caption.