by Lola Taylor
“I can’t take this.”
“Sure you can.” He smiled. “I have a spare. I’ll get another one. They’re pretty cheap.”
He lingered in front of her door, not quite willing to walk away yet. The urge to remain, to protect her, wouldn’t go away.
But she’s not yours to protect.
His shoulders fell. And she never would be. He had too much baggage, and she seemed like she had her own problems to deal with.
“Well, good night.” He turned and forced himself to walk back to his door, every fiber of his body aware she watched him as he left.
“I can’t believe you didn’t screw him.” Becca sipped her cup of coffee.
They were walking back to Amy’s car a few blocks over from their favorite coffee shop. Amy had run out for some more art supplies the next morning and had met up with Becca afterward for their weekly breakfast ritual.
Amy nearly choked on the donut she’d been in the process of swallowing.
“Easy, there.” Becca gave her a mischievous look and slapped her on the shoulder a few times. “It’s not like it didn’t cross your mind.”
“Well, yeah,” Amy admitted between coughs. “But I’m…I’m not…” She took a deep breath and pressed it out. “I’m not ready to go there yet.”
And probably never will be.
She shivered at the thought of sharing her body like that with someone again. Would anyone ever be as gentle a lover as Michael? Sure, he’d screwed up in a lot of other ways, but sex with him had always been amazing. Tender. Loving. She hadn’t been with anyone since the day she’d come home to find…
She shook her head. “How are your birthday party plans coming along? Any idea of a venue yet?”
“Yep.” Becca grinned. “Chains and Daggers.”
A nervous tremble raced its way up Amy’s legs. Of course she would pick a club. “Seriously?” She tried to play it cool and not freak out. “It’s full of nothing but a bunch of horny Gothic wannabes.” Chains and Daggers was a big club chain across the country. They’d had one back in her college town, too. She’d never been in the place, but she’d heard it had a dress code requirement: you had to be dressed in leather, with some sort of chain jewelry. Amy had no idea where the “Dagger” part of the club’s name had come from. Someone probably thought it had sounded cool and decided to tack it on.
“That’s why it will be fun! Besides, I’ve been dying to wear this killer leather dress I bought on consignment.”
Amy rolled her eyes.
“Please tell me you’re coming,” Becca begged, grabbing her arm and pulling.
Amy groaned. She couldn’t say no. Becca didn’t have a whole lot of family support: her brother was too young to come, her father was in prison, and her mother was dead. But the thought of being around all those groping men made her blood run cold.
And a club was where she’d first met him, aka “the greatest mistake of her life.”
“You could find some hot man candy,” Becca sang.
“As if I’m searching for any,” Amy grumbled.
A construction crew was digging into the sidewalk across the street, right in front of where they were parked. They must have just started work. Amy had seen cones, tape, and equipment when they first got out of the car, but not any workers.
It was already turning out to be a hot, humid day. Most of the guys had their shirts pulled up or wore sleeveless tank tops. With that much exposed muscle, Amy and Becca both gawked appreciatively.
Becca’s eyes stopped on one man. She slowly smiled. “Speaking of hot man candy…”
Amy looked up—and stared.
One man was cussing and pulling off a shirt that looked as if it had been blasted by sludge. Three other equally handsome men stood around, laughing. One of them held a long, ribbed tube dripping sludge, the other end of which snaked down into a manhole.
As soon as the man took his shirt off, he looked up. His eyes widened, but they were hardly what Amy noticed.
She couldn’t take her eyes off his naked chest, the same chest that she saw in her next-door neighbor’s apartment yesterday.
Scott blinked and gave her a breathless smile. “Looks are free. I charge for you to lick it.”
Oh…
Her tongue raked over her lips, a movement she realized she’d done subconsciously, to her utter mortification, a few seconds later.
Damn. Oh, hot damn. Shit!
Scott—who shall henceforth be known as “Evil Hotness”—grinned like a fiend now.
Becca leaned in. “Dayuuuuuuummm, he is all sorts of hitting on you right now.”
Amy gulped. “That can’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s my building manager. The guy I’ve told you about.”
Famous last words, Amy realized too late.
A calculating look came over Becca’s face.
“Hi!” she said brightly, interrupting Amy’s silent meltdown. She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Becca. So you’re the hot neighbor I’ve heard so much about.”
“Becca!” Amy hissed.
Scott raised a brow, smiling tightly as he shook Becca’s hand. “Nothing but compliments, I’m sure.”
Amy crossed her arms and returned his tight smile. “I still have paint in places that shouldn’t have paint, thanks to you.”
He shrugged. “You’re the one who took the paint bucket lid off, sweetheart.”
“Look,” Becca said, with her win-over-any-man smile, “I know this is kind of short notice, but I’m having a birthday party day after tomorrow, and my friend here needs a date.”
Amy slowly pieced together where this was going. “No, Becca—”
“And she mentioned thinking about going with you, but she was too shy to ask.” Becca smiled sweetly, as though she were doing the most darling thing by trying to help out her friend.
Amy’s jaw dropped.
Scott slowly grinned and looked at her. “Yeah, sure, I’ll be your date.”
“It’s not a date!” Amy stuttered, still trying to get over the shock of what Becca had just done.
“So, you’ll be there?” Becca asked hopefully, holding her breath.
With his eyes still on Amy’s, he grinned. It was a wicked, sexy thing that made her clench. Those eyes were full of challenge as he said, “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Excellent!” Becca squealed.
Amy bit her lip to keep from cursing Becca out as she gave him the details of the party. “Just pick my girl up at seven-ish.”
“Seven-ish it is.” He saluted.
Becca said goodbye to him and hauled Amy off. “Well, that went well.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“You’ll thank me later—once he’s pounding you into the wall of a bathroom stall.”
“Ew, can you please get your mind off sex for one second?”
Becca cackled like an evil Cupid and chattered about her theories on how good he was in bed.
An itch started in the back of Amy’s mind, urging her to look behind her.
He probably isn’t even looking.
She slowly looked over her shoulder.
To her surprise, those blue eyes followed her, watching her with the hunger of a predator eyeing its prey.
And, even more to her surprise and dismay, it only made her sexual cravings more restless as she forced herself to keep walking.
EVERY NIGHT, AMY had a ritual before she went to bed—she checked all the locks at least twice and made sure nothing was out of place or missing.
And every time she did, her gut twisted a little bit more.
The apartment was supposed to symbolize a new start, her revival from the darkness that still haunted her dreams. Yet here she was, still stuck in the same routine, unable to break these habits and lay old ghosts to rest.
The itch to keep looking out the window wouldn’t leave either.
She swore someone was watching her. Always.
Though i
t had been two full years, and she knew Nathan had been obeying his restraining order, she couldn’t help but keep looking.
And looking and looking and…
When was it going to end? Would she ever not be afraid?
Exhausted from a day of painting, she crawled into bed…and then crawled out again thirty seconds later to peek between the blinds. No dark figures lurked on street corners or in open view below the streetlamp.
The blinds snapped shut, and she made herself crawl back into bed and stay there. This was getting old.
So was Becca trying to set her up with someone.
Since getting back home, she’d opened up her new art supplies and had immediately started painting. She had a gallery showing later on this month, and she still had a few extra pieces she wanted to exhibit. Plus, she could turn them into digital prints and sell them through on-demand printing services, adding to her rapidly growing digital portfolio. The hunger to create had returned with a passion a few months back, and she’d rarely stopped painting since. She supposed a year and a half of creative silence had been all her body could stand. After the incident, she had stopped painting altogether. She had been broken.
Something must have healed, her therapist had said, when Amy mentioned she had started to paint again.
She wasn’t sure about that, because she still felt like a train wreck inside, but if the therapist said so…
Flipping on the TV, she turned to one of her favorite mystery channels. It was mostly true crime, which she found fascinating in a morbid sort of way. Once darkness like that touches you, it’s hard to let go.
The host, a pretty blond woman, went on about the most infamous celebrity murders. Amy watched about half of the program, her thoughts drifting off and her eyelids getting heavier, until a familiar story aired.
“And who can forget the tragic murder of rising rock star Michael Stone in New York City just two years ago?”
Amy stopped breathing. She bolted upright, suddenly wide awake.
A picture of a handsome man in his early twenties—blue eyes, spiky black hair, and enough metal in his face and ears to trip a metal detector—flashed on the screen. He clasped the hand of a smiling brunette girl with a lot of dramatic makeup, her engagement ring catching the light of the camera.
Amy stared. She looked so different then, before she’d dyed her hair to help obscure her identity and gained about thirty pounds from comfort food binges.
She reached for the remote and fumbled with the power button as her hand shook.
“The couple, who were college sweethearts, were due to be wed the following morning, when tragedy struck.”
She managed to hit power before the host could go on. Once the TV was off, Amy sat in the darkness, breathing heavily. Tears pricked her eyes.
Was there anywhere she could go where she wouldn’t be haunted? If she hadn’t been about to get married to a freaking rock star, the whole goddamned country would not have taken notice.
She’d wanted to stay out of the attention of the media, to forget and move on. But no, the media just loved a good story, not caring how it might be twisting a knife in the side of the victims.
Michael’s gone. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.
Rolling over and bunching her pillow, she cried until she passed out, the face of her dead fiancé burned in her mind.
Becca was officially on Amy’s shit list.
It was the night of the party, and she had about a half hour left to get ready. The thought of setting foot in another nightclub made her nauseous, so she’d busied herself with picking out the perfect outfit. But because of the Epically Evil Invite, every piece of clothing in her wardrobe had suddenly become inadequate.
Nothing was nearly sexy enough to rival Evil Hotness’s innate sexiness. Keeping up with the club’s theme, she’d found a leather pencil skirt and a sparkly black-and-silver top at a discount clothing store. Thinking the two didn’t go that well together after all, she’d tugged them off and tossed them onto the floor with the rest of her discarded pile.
Running out of options, she looked at her bed. A dress, if you could call it that, lay across her bedspread. It was made entirely of an inky vinyl so shiny she could see her reflection in it. Granted, it wasn’t real vinyl; the material was way too supple, and actually quite thin, to be the real deal. She’d bought some black lipstick and had painted her toes and nails black to match.
But…it was so skimpy. She’d never worn anything that revealing before. It was a halter top, which she knew looked good on her body shape, but the neckline went down to the top of her stomach. It had a built-in bra—sort of, the padding was so thin—so she wouldn’t need one of those. Which was probably a good thing, considering the back was completely open. The top of the zipper was at the small of her back. It showed off her curves and somehow made her waistline look smaller, both perks. But the skirt barely covered her ass, it was so short.
You only live once.
Sucking it up, she pulled the dress on. Her hair and makeup were already done, as was her jewelry. This was the final piece.
With a deep breath to yank her gut in, she zipped up the dress. It snagged within an inch on her black lace underwear. Becca had encouraged her to go panty-less, but Amy wasn’t quite that brave yet.
Now, she wished she had been. She cursed as the zipper pulled at her panties and threatened to tear them. Swearing, she tried to angle herself so that she could see the snag in the bathroom mirror, when the doorbell buzzed.
She gasped. What time was it? It couldn’t be… Never wanting to run late for anything, she had clocks everywhere. Glancing at the little one on her bathroom wall, she nearly swallowed her tongue. It was seven.
Scott. It had to be him.
And here she was, with her zipper caught on her underwear.
“Shit! Shit, shit, dammit…”
Swearing under her breath, she frantically tried to unlatch herself from the zipper but kept failing.
The doorbell buzzed again, and she jumped. She couldn’t keep him waiting.
Not seeing any other way, she said, “Oh, to hell with it,” and opened the door wide.
Hot. Damn.
Scott had worn black leather pants and a dark-blue satin button-up shirt. A silver chain drooped from his front pants pocket to his back. His hair had been spiked slightly on the ends, making him look younger—and hot as hell. A leather bracelet with silver studs was fastened onto his wrist.
The word “hi” dried up in her mouth as she stared.
It took her awhile to notice that it was silent.
That he stared back.
His eyes slowly raked over her, inch by inch. Her breath quickened, and heat pooled between her legs, making her clench deep within.
His gaze stopped at her arm, and he raised a brow. “Need a hand?”
“What? Oh, um—”
Before she could say anything, he’d stepped forward and turned her gently so her back faced him. He gripped the zipper, unsnagged her panties, and slowly slid it up. His fingers grazed her bare skin, and she sighed low as she leaned her hips into him.
It had gotten quiet. Really quiet.
The sound of his ragged breathing, coupled with the hot brush of his breath against the bare skin of her shoulders, made her hot with need.
Clearing his throat, he abruptly turned around. “Ready?” he said gruffly.
She wasn’t expecting the wave of disappointment at his dismissal.
When she saw the slight bulge around his crotch, she understood why he’d turned around.
With a nervous, pleasant fluttering in her chest that hadn’t been there before, she smiled. “Yeah. Bring it on.”
HE’D GOTTEN HARD for her. Again.
Thank God he’d still had enough blood flowing to his brain to have the decency to turn around and hide his erection. If she’d noticed anything, she hadn’t said a word on the drive over.
Or once they were in the club. Actually, she’d ditched him the mo
ment they’d walked through the door, as if she couldn’t get away fast enough.
Scott hung out by the bar, idly sipping his gin and tonic, and watched everyone grind on the dance floor. The party was huge. According to Becca, who was decked out in chains and purple leather, most of the people on the floor were there for her. Scott watched them laugh and act wild.
It must be nice to have that many friends. He wouldn’t know. He hadn’t exactly been the popular kid throughout his school years, not coming into his looks until he was well into his twenties. Suddenly, it wasn’t hard to get a date. In fact, he had women begging him for dates. They had started to pay a ton of attention to him, but by then he’d been burned enough to learn to guard his heart.
Some techno tune with way too much ramped-up bass rattled the speakers and floor; his bones hummed. He couldn’t even tell what the lyrics were. It was some weird mixture of rap and death metal; it was gonna take serious surgery for that singer—if you could call him that—not to completely eviscerate his vocal cords with that much screaming. Scott loved heavy metal—when done well. Hell, he had a whole collection of screamers at home, one CD of which he usually kept on repeat in his tricked-out stereo system he bought for fifty bucks off a buddy of his. But this shit…
He took a larger swig and flagged down the bartender. “Another, please, man.”
“You got it.” The buff blond guy went to work at mixing his poison. He cast Scott a wry look. “You here looking for some action? I’m still sending Molly that picture I took of you earlier, by the way. You look like you belong on a romance novel cover.”
Scott snorted. The bartender, Jace, was one of his oldest friends. They’d gone to high school together, and Jace had even married his high school sweetheart, Molly. “Go ahead,” Scott said. “But don’t blame me—or my awesome leather pants—when she leaves your ass because I’m so good-looking. And no.” He frowned as he searched the sea of people again. “I’m with someone.”
Jace raised a brow. “Oh? You dating again, man?”
Scott’s jaw ticked, and something inside him froze up at the word “dating.” He shrugged.
Jace studied him, quiet for a second. “I’m glad you’re at least out and about. You need to be around people, and women, Scott. Not everyone is like Erika.”
