by Lola Taylor
“Damn, that’s harsh. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged but made no reply.
She pressed her lips together. The nosy part of her wanted to know more about this expensive ex. But, not wanting to come off as too inquisitive and force him back into his shell, she decided to keep her trap shut.
“So, you said you have an exhibit coming up at the end of the month?” Scott said, in a clear attempt to change the subject.
She nodded, eagerly launching into the type of art she was working on, what the exhibit’s theme was, where it was. A full ten minutes had passed before she glanced at her watch and clamped her mouth shut with a gasp. “I’m sorry. Art is really the only thing I get chatty about. You’re probably bored to tears.”
“Not at all.” He grinned, and his eyes twinkled with amusement. “I can tell you’re really passionate about it. I like that in a woman.”
“What other things do you like?” she said in a low voice, surprising herself.
“Well,” he said huskily, coming up behind her and placing his hands on her hips. The heat of his body soaked into her back, making her thighs clench. She wondered how hot he’d feel inside her. He placed his mouth beside her ear. The feel of his lips brushing her earlobe, of his hot breath against her hair, made her sex tingle. “I like watching these. You do this cute, sexy little hip bop every time you toss a dart and don’t make it. It’s fun to watch. Makes me glad you’re so bad at this game.”
She laughed and elbowed him lightly. He reluctantly dropped his hands, though he was grinning. The sudden absence of his heat behind her made her wish he’d return, preferably without any clothes on.
“I blame the alcohol,” she said, though she knew that wasn’t the truth. She couldn’t aim for shit. She glanced at her watch and frowned. “It’s about ten. Little guy’s been alone for about two hours now. I should probably go check on him.”
“Yeah, I was just thinking the same.” Scott cashed out their tab, paying for the drinks and the cheesy fries—or as Amy had dubbed them, “greasy fries”—they’d snacked on, before they headed out the door.
The bar was close enough that they’d just walked. Amy had enjoyed it, breathing in the fresh air and leisurely walking beside Scott. With him, she felt safe. It made her realize how stressed out and tense she was all the time by herself.
Maybe her therapist was right. She really had grown paranoid.
The hope that this was the beginning of something special, a new start, blossomed in her chest.
They knocked elbows on the way back, both lost in their own thoughts. Scott’s hand lingered by the side closest to her, while the other was stuck casually in his pants pocket. For a moment, she thought he might try to hold her hand. His fingers started to reach for hers and then fell back at his side, as if he’d changed his mind.
It was a miracle she made it back to the apartment at all without face-planting on the sidewalk. The alcohol had hit her body hard; she’d stumbled and giggled the whole way back, Scott poking fun at her. After her foot caught in a deep crack in one of the stairs up to the front entrance and she nearly went down, Scott said, “All right, clumsy. No way am I making a visit tonight to the ER.”
Before she could process what he was doing, he’d scooped her up into his arms and carried her up the stairs, like a knight out of a storybook. She clung to him as she eyed the stairs below them. “If you drop me, I’m taking you down with me.”
He held her tighter. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”
Her heart fluttered, along with a rush of heat that made her thighs squeeze together.
Once in front of her door, he set her down but didn’t let go. His hands lingered on her hips, with her back against the door. The hard muscles of his arms flexed under her fingertips. He stared at her mouth, his eyes dark with desire.
Inside her chest, her heart thumped against her sternum. She stared at his lips and instinctively opened her mouth when he leaned in and kissed her.
The kiss was sudden and hot. He crushed her to his chest, pressing her against the door as his tongue hungrily sought hers. With a moan, she wrapped her arms around his neck as he hoisted her legs up around his hips.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Hell, she didn’t want to, this felt too damned good. Ever since she’d met him, she’d wondered how he would kiss, and now she knew.
He was fucking phenomenal.
She could feel his erection rub against her sex, making her groan deep in her throat. He rocked gently and reached down between her legs, stroking her through her jeans. His thumb caressed the spot where her sex was, and she cried out. Wanting to reciprocate, she palmed him.
Holy shit. He easily filled her palm, his sex hard and strong against her hand. She suddenly had the urge to unzip him, to feel the hotness of his skin on hers. To pet him, to please him.
To make him, any part of him, hers.
Just as her fingers found his zipper and began to pull down, a door banged open across the hall. “Disgusting youth!” yelled an old woman, her cane raised in the air. “Fornicating wherever you please! I’m reporting this to the building manager!”
With a slam of her door, she disappeared. A moment later, the landline in Scott’s apartment rang.
They both froze and then burst out laughing.
Holy shit, she was laughing.
Phone the president. Amy Miles was officially laughing.
“Oops.” Amy bit back another laugh. Her face heated as she realized what she’d just done. Having sex, even if it was just hot grinding, in public wasn’t something she normally did, but hell if it hadn’t turned her on.
Scott grinned and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His hand rubbed over his face; he took a step back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, sorry I assaulted you like that. That was dumb. And here I was trying to be a gentleman.”
Amy bit her lip. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I didn’t exactly mind you being a scoundrel.”
“Duly noted.”
A beat of silence passed between them, and she glanced at her door.
If she invited him in now, it would go further. She knew it would.
What she didn’t know was whether she was ready for it to. Now that her head was clearing from her lust-fest, she was grateful the old woman had interrupted them.
She gave him an apologetic smile. “I had a really good time.”
“Me, too.” He smiled at her gently and leaned in; his mouth hovered over hers. “Good night?”
She took a deep breath, let it out. “Good night.”
He kissed her. It was nothing like the one before. This one was sweet and tender, making her heart squeeze.
Oh, heaven help her, she was falling hard for this guy.
Once they’d finally parted ways and shut their doors, a process that took a full minute because they kept glancing over at each other and giggling, Amy sighed with contentment and leaned against the door.
Unbelievable. It had to be fate that she’d been drawn to this building and had moved in here. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she and Scott were neighbors. Finding love wasn’t something she’d intended on in the least, but now that it was waved in front of her face, she found she couldn’t resist.
She poured herself some water and took an aspirin and then padded to her bedroom to check on the kitty.
He sat on her bed, playing with her underwear.
It was cute for about five seconds until she realized she hadn’t let him out. When she’d left, he’d been in his kitty carrier, and her underwear had all been tucked away in her dresser.
The sense of panic, of that ice-cold fear, slowly took over her body as she stared. Trembling, she took a hesitant step toward the bed, and then another. Soon, she stood directly over it, now able to read the message that had been spelled out on her comforter using her panties.
The glass of water slipped from her hand and shattered against the floor.
I’m watching.
EVEN A
FULL half hour after the police arrived, Amy hadn’t stopped shaking.
I’m watching.
Upon reading those words, every hope she’d had at living a normal, peaceful life blew up in smoke.
He was keeping his promise. Nathan had been serious.
“I’ll always be watching, Amy.”
She could see him, in her mind, hauled off by the police. Her shoulders had started to sag with unbelievable relief until he’d looked over his shoulder, winked, and mouthed those words to her.
“Miss Miles?”
“Huh?” Her head snapped up, and she blinked, her eyes focusing on the cop in front of her. He looked young for a cop, fresh out of the academy maybe. He stood with his pen poised above his notepad. She shook her head and sighed as her hands ran through her hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“It’s all right. I was just asking if the lotion was the only thing you’ve noticed missing?”
She blinked and nodded again. Her throat felt way too tight as she rasped out an answer. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t misplace it?”
“No.” She knew she hadn’t. Her vanilla-and-lavender lotion, which she slathered on after a hot shower, always sat on the rim of her bathtub. It had, everywhere she lived. That’s how she’d noticed such a common item was missing.
Nathan’s voice whispered through her head.
He leaned in to her neck. Amy trembled and whimpered beneath him as he inhaled deeply. “Vanilla and lavender…my two favorite smells.”
“Miss Miles?”
Amy jumped. Squeezing her eyes together, she sighed and put her hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He gave her an understanding smile and closed his notepad. “Understandable.” Reaching into his pocket, he handed her a business card. “You’ve given us plenty to work from. If you can think of anything else, please give me a call.”
She nodded and took the card.
He started to walk away and then paused. Glancing around at his partners, he said quietly, “For what it’s worth, my son’s still a huge fan of Leviathan 5. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Amy stared at him, going completely still as tears pricked her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, barely able to make her mouth move. It had been years since she’d thought about her dead fiancé’s band’s name. When he died, the band had, well, disbanded. The lead singer, Roxanne, had stopped singing altogether, but Amy knew Michael’s death had hit her harder than the others for reasons she’d rather never think about again.
“Please don’t say anything,” she begged quietly. “About who I am.”
He nodded. Those kind eyes gazed at her with understanding and sympathy. “Of course.”
She closed her eyes and let out a sigh of resignation. This was exactly what she’d feared in calling the police—that someone would do enough digging into her background and would recognize her. It was inevitable, really. When they asked whether she knew of anyone who would want to hurt her, she had to say yes. That cop had thought to ask. The others hadn’t. They’d thought it was a simple breakin, but he’d dug deeper.
So deep, he’d scraped the scars on her soul.
Her heart pounded at the thought of undergoing all that media attention again. That same fear had almost made her chicken out of calling the police in the first place, but she knew she’d sit there all night worrying if she didn’t. It was a catch-22.
It also confirmed her worst fear: that no matter how far she ran or who she became, she’d always be known as the fiancée of a dead rock star.
She would never get to be her own person again, a truth that both saddened and angered her.
Twisting her shirt in her clammy hands, she worried she’d made a terrible mistake in calling the police, who seemed to linger now that she was freaking out inside. She imagined reporters, talk shows, and uncomfortable questions. Her face plastered all over some tabloid or on TV. Angry fans who blamed her for the band’s breakup, or for Michael’s murder, which was insane. If anything, at least it could be said his fans were passionate.
Amy tapped her foot, wondering whether she could break her lease and move again.
The tiny voice of rationality talked her off the ledge, as it usually did. It also curiously wore the voice of her therapist. Stay calm. Think it through. You had to call the police. Don’t be foolish, and don’t run from your fears.
As they finished their inspection and finally left the apartment fifteen minutes later, Amy’s phone chirped—Becca.
It was awfully late for her to be calling. Amy opened it, intending to say hello, but her voice wouldn’t work.
“Ames? You there?”
“Yeah,” she rasped. It was no more than air. She cleared her throat. “Yeah?”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. “Oh my God, Ames, what’s the matter?”
Amy closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe.
In and out, in and out. See? Your lungs remember how to work. Now, let’s see if we can get your brain on board.
With another deep breath to steady her nerves, she explained what had happened. The rehash was fresh on her mind, considering it was the exact same thing she’d just told the police.
“Holy shit,” Becca breathed. “Do you think it’s him?”
Amy went cold and gripped the phone tighter. It was a miracle her voice worked when she spoke. “No,” she rasped, “I don’t think Nathan would be that dumb. He doesn’t want to go back to jail.”
“Did you at least tell the police his name, you know, just in case?”
“Of course I did.” Amy sighed wearily.
“Aw, I’m sorry, girl. I know how much you wanted to hide your identity.”
“It’s fine,” Amy said automatically, though it was anything but. “I’ll…be fine.”
Amy could hear keys rattle and clothing whispering: the sounds of someone getting ready. “I’m coming over.”
“No, don’t bother. I mean, I kind of just want to be alone right now.”
A long pause. “Are you sure?”
Hell no. “I’m sure. But thanks anyway. Oh! Did you call for something or just to say hi?”
“Well, some of my coworkers were going to hit up the late showing of that new slasher flick…but I’m guessing you don’t want to see that, huh?”
It suddenly became hard to swallow again. “Nope,” she whispered.
“Figured as much.” Amy could hear Becca’s nails drumming along the phone, something she did whenever she was thinking. “Promise me you’ll text or call if you need me? It doesn’t matter the time. I’ll come over.”
Amy smiled. “I will. I promise, I mean.”
Becca was silent. “Scott is your neighbor, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, maybe you should go stay with him for the night.”
“What? I can’t do that! I barely know him.”
“Weren’t you just saying you had a date with him earlier?”
Amy pressed her lips together. “Well, yeah, but I can’t just barge in and ask to sleep over. He might take it the wrong way.”
Someone banged on the door in the background, and Becca groaned. “Be there in a second! Look, Amy, I know you’re afraid to move too fast, but seriously, what are you going to do if that creep comes back in the middle of the night?”
Amy nearly choked on her own breath. Oh God, what if he did? She knew self-defense, but what if he had a knife or a gun?
What would he do to her?
“Exactly,” Becca said. “Trust me—you need to stay with Mr. Sexy.”
“Stop calling him that,” Amy said irritably.
“I will when you do.” She made a kissing noise. “Love you. Stay safe.”
After she hung up, Amy looked around her apartment. It was quiet. Too quiet. Putting in a movie—she didn’t have cable—she started cleaning religiously, a task she did only when she didn’t want to think about something. The smell of lemon disinfecting wipes an
d lavender-scented dish soap soon filled her nose. Every few seconds she’d pause, go to the door, and check to make sure the doorknob, dead bolt, and security chain were locked.
Once the kitchen, dining room, and living room were practically sparkling, she checked the door—and windows, this time—again before she hauled her things into her bedroom.
She froze at the threshold and stared at the bed. Her heart beat faster.
There it was, the message meant for her.
I’m watching.
The kitten pawed at its kennel and meowed at her. She’d put him away when the police came over.
The mop handle smacked against the floor, making her jump. She hadn’t realized she’d lost her grip on it; her palms were sweaty, but it wasn’t the hot she-just-worked-her-ass-off kind of sweat. This was the cold, clammy kind, caused by fear.
The oddest thing about the police’s once-over of her apartment was that they couldn’t find a point of entry. The door was still locked, as were all the windows. It was as if the intruder had literally walked through the wall.
Or right through the front door.
When was the last time the locks on this place had been changed? She and Becca always swapped keys to their places in case of an emergency, but Becca had been across town. No one else, aside from Scott, had a key to her place—that she knew of. But a number of tenants had to have lived here before her. Anyone could have made a copy.
She hugged herself as she shook. Looked over her shoulder. Looked under the bed, in the closet. Anywhere the boogeyman could be hiding.
Except, he wasn’t there. He’d vanished, like smoke.
And yet, she still didn’t feel as if she were alone.
Once again, she didn’t feel safe in her own home.
A tear rolled down her cheek as she sank to the floor.
Exhaustion started to set in, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Nathan.
Nathan, with that dark, wicked stare, mouthing, “I’m watching.”
