* * *
Which is why this Irish sex god and I couldn’t go on a date. This needed to stay like every other physical relationship I’d ever had—a mutually beneficial arrangement set up with clear ground rules. They needed to treat me with respect. Sex wasn’t ever a guarantee. Condoms would be used. And no emotions needed to be involved, other than friendship.
* * *
Initially, I avoided emotional attachment because of the potential risk. Not so much to my body—that had already been run through the gamut of abuse—but to my heart. I was terrified that, after surviving the emotional train-wreck caused by the rape, heartbreak would be another burden I wouldn’t be able to handle.
* * *
Those worries had been unnecessary. Far from heartbroken, I seemed to be an emotional cactus, dry and parched of any of the emotions that led to love. With the first few guys I messed around with, I'd nervously waited, in the quiet moments after sex, for the feelings to come. The rush and exhilaration. The high. The butterflies. The endorphins that turned ordinary people into lovesick idiots. None had ever come. Eventually, I’d stopped worrying and gave up on the feeling altogether, accepting that that part of me might have broken that night in the barn.
* * *
Ian flipped his keys in his hand and scowled at me. “It’s just a date, Bell. I’m not proposing.”
* * *
“Oh, I know. I just … I’m not looking for anything serious.” I stood on my tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss on his lips. “Are you okay with that?”
* * *
“I guess I’ll have to be.” He frowned. “Since the burnt toast didn’t appeal to you, want to go grab something quick. Subs?”
* * *
I pretended to swoon. “Subs? Like, with meat AND bread?” I fluttered my eyelashes. “You are an Adonis of sexual temptation.”
* * *
“So I’ve been told. I also issue A’s for exemplary blow jobs.”
* * *
“I already earned my A.” I stuck out my tongue. “And … I’m going to pass on your gourmet lunch offer. But after class next week, I’ll let you spell out my homework assignment with your tongue.”
* * *
Still smiling, I wiggled my fingers at him and pulled the door shut, jogging down the steps and into the warm Nevada sunshine. I let out a hard breath. Prior to his date night invite, I had liked the ease of Ian and assumed he was hooking up with several other coeds. But maybe I’d read him wrong. Maybe he wasn’t a man whore wanting a casual lay. Which sucked, because Meredith had been right, Ian checked off all the boxes in an ideal man. He’d be an ideal boyfriend, if I was looking for that. But… I checked my feelings. Nope, still repelled by the idea of love.
* * *
Pulling my sunglasses from my bag, I headed for my car, grateful for the newly-fixed air conditioning. Glancing at my watch, I quickened my pace. I didn’t have much time to get home, shower and change before work.
* * *
I pulled out of the complex and was halfway to the main road before I realized I’d forgotten my phone. I pulled a quick U-turn and almost hit a black Tahoe, also on its way out. I kept going, seeing Ian’s Jeep, and slowed down when I saw his hand reaching out, waving at me.
* * *
“Forget this?” He held my cell out, and I shifted into park and half crawled out of the window to grab it.
* * *
“Yep. Thanks.” I worked my way back in and waved. “See you in class.”
* * *
He nodded, and his Jeep bounced a little on its shocks as he bumped it into drive.
Fifteen minutes later, I juggled a giant Styrofoam cup in one hand and eased my car out of the McDonald’s drive-thru, the nose of it almost clipped by some prick in a Tesla. I craned my head forward, looking down the road, and noticed the dark SUV, two cars down, parallel parked under a tree. There was an opening in the traffic, and I pulled out in a screech of almost-bald tires. Settling into my lane, I glanced back at the SUV. As I watched, it pulled out into traffic, four cars back.
* * *
I set down the cup and put both hands on the wheel, darting my gaze between the road ahead and the rearview mirror.
* * *
It was ridiculous to think it was the same Tahoe from Ian’s neighborhood, ridiculous to think that it had sat and waited for me to finish my fast food order, and extra ridiculous for me to think that it was now following me.
* * *
I got in the left lane and it did nothing. I waited the last possible moment, then switched back to the right lane and whipped off on the exit ramp.
* * *
The Tahoe continued straight, and I let out a hard breath. See? Nothing. I was being an idiot.
* * *
I was humming down the road when I spotted it again, materializing out of nowhere as if I hadn’t just shot off in a different direction, not three miles ago.
* * *
I reached for my phone, driving with my knees as I dialed the number and put the cell on speakerphone.
* * *
Rick answered on the fifth ring. “Hey.”
* * *
I blew out a frustrated breath. “This is probably nothing, but you were the only person I knew to call.”
* * *
“Got a body that needs burying?”
* * *
I smiled despite my nerves. “With your puny arms? Please. I’d call Lloyd for that.”
* * *
"Hey, I devote serious time to these biceps. Want to insult my calves, go for it."
* * *
Traffic opened up a bit, and I pressed the accelerator a bit. “I’m probably being paranoid, but I think someone’s following me.”
* * *
“Where are you?” The laughter was gone from Rick’s voice.
* * *
"Umm... Martin Street, by that Chipotle. He’s been behind me about ten minutes."
* * *
“Come to our house. Lance is home now. I’ll have him grab the Hummer and hem him in.”
* * *
Hem him in? The idea sounded reckless. I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “Maybe I should just drive to a police station.”
* * *
“And the minute you turn in, he’ll drive away and we won’t know anything about him.” I heard muffled taking, his hand probably held over the receiver. “Lance is getting the H1 now.”
* * *
I could hear the excitement in his voice, the increased pitch as he called out something. I told him so, and he let out a long puff of air.
* * *
“I am not, in any way shape or form, excited by the prospect of kicking some creep’s ass.” He spoke the words in a dead monotone. “I promise,” he added.
* * *
"Whatever. Just don't be stupid about it."
* * *
“I’m going to open the garage door and move my Benz. Just pull in and go in the house. We’ll handle the guy.”
* * *
We’ll handle the guy… With someone else, I would have been afraid. But Rick and Lance had managed to survive situations a hundred times hairier than this. Still, he sounded too cocky to be safe and too confident to be cautious. I turned into the entrance of his neighborhood and started to second-guess my decision.
* * *
“I don’t know…”
* * *
“STOP worrying. And drive normally. I don’t want him to suspect anything.”
* * *
"I just pulled into your neighborhood. Please be careful.”
* * *
I turned down his road, noticed the black grill of Lance’s H1 idling on a side street, and pressed the gas a little bit harder, passing their neighborhood’s 23 MPH speed limit sign like a badass doing thirty.
* * *
Rick and Lance lived in one of those neighborhoods that didn't quite know its place. It was a cluster of overpriced mansions built during the real estate heyday, back w
hen ordinary people got loans on million-dollar mansions they couldn't afford, then defaulted nine months later. Half the houses had overgrown lawns and For Sale signs in the yard. Their house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac and was a three-story frat house, disguised in respectability and brick. From the street, you couldn't see the six-car garage that stretched along its back, nor the pool with the grotto waterfall and Slip ‘n Slide.
* * *
I didn’t know the rules of following someone, but I assumed this guy’s vehicle had a navigation system, one that would tell him, as I approached Rick's house, that it was a dead-end. I approached the cul-de-sac and Rick's Mercedes SUV rolled across the width of the turn-off road, jostling into Park, the door opening as I passed. He lifted a hand to me and I focused on his driveway, hitting it at a brisk ten miles per hour and pulling around to the back, the last garage door open and waiting for me.
* * *
I pulled in, jerked the car into park and turned off the key. I cracked open my door and waited for the sounds of disaster.
Seven
My engine had no concept of danger. It ticked as it cooled, and when I pushed the car door open, it creaked. I crept out of the car and around its hood, moving carefully down the long garage, past the vintage Mustang, the Range Rover, jet skis, and motorcycles. I tried the door to the house, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.
* * *
The interior smelled like pizza and Pledge. The television in the living room was on, and I moved through the kitchen and to the front windows. Light streamed through the open curtains, and I sidled up to them and peeked out.
* * *
The Tahoe was parked at an angle, too far away for me to see or hear anything. I saw a blob of person move, and they could have been a sumo wrestler or a six-year-old kid. I gave up my attempt to hide behind the window and just pressed my face to the glass, cupping my hands to shield the sun.
* * *
Nope. Still couldn't see anything. I hesitated, then moved to the front door. I gave myself a moment to consider the first option—staying inside like a good little girl. I tossed that to the side and turned the knob, stepping outside and into the situation.
* * *
It turns out that the “situation” was waaaay back where Rick had parked his Mercedes. That was where the Tahoe had gotten wise of the situation, attempted to turn around, and got stopped by the front bumper of Lance's Hummer. I headed toward their cars and made it two houses down before my feet started sweating in my heels. Another house further, I decided to pull them off and go barefoot. Another six steps and I realized the sidewalk was hotter than a skillet. I hopped to the side and put them back on. I continued, sweating through my sundress, and was practically wheezing by the time I approached the confrontation, one that had both of my boys out in the middle of the street, arms folded across their chests, a scrawny little white-haired guy between them. My fear took a nose-dive. This was the guy following me?
* * *
I limped up to the threesome and Lance glanced at me. “God, woman, you are out of shape.”
* * *
I ignored him and made eye contact with Rick, who nodded at the stranger. “He’s a private eye. Won’t say who he works for.”
* * *
"It's not against the law to follow someone." The old guy spit on the ground, then looked at me as if I was the criminal.
* * *
Lance stepped closer to the vehicle. “I’ve got his name and tag number. I’ll make some calls.” He yawned, obviously disappointed. No doubt he’d wanted a fight, a chance to liven up his Wednesday with something more than a senior citizen with a saliva problem. He opened the Tahoe’s passenger door and the old guy whirled around.
* * *
“Hey!”
* * *
“Easy.” Rick caught the man’s arm and held him in place, his fingers biting into the man’s leathery flesh. “Just stay right there.”
* * *
Lance leaned inside the vehicle. When he straightened, he held an insurance card in his hand, satisfaction stamped on his face. “MJS Holdings owns this car.”
* * *
The name meant nothing to me. I turned to Rick, who still had one hand clamped around the man, the other on his phone, his thumb working over the display. “Give me a minute... Got it.”
* * *
He looked up. “MJS Holdings is an asset management company.”
* * *
Lance shut the car door, the insurance card still in hand. "What assets do they manage?"
* * *
"Looks like real estate across the state and casinos." Rick’s last word caught my attention, the tightness on his face held it. "They own The Majestic."
* * *
“The Majestic,” Lance repeated. “So... Dario Capece.”
* * *
Rick nodded. “Dario Capece. Or maybe… his wife?”
* * *
They turned to me, their eyebrows lifted in question. Between them, the old geezer smirked.
Rick put his hands on his hips and looked at me as if I had the key to the Dario Capece vault of understanding. “This is fucking bullshit. Following you? What the fuck for?”
* * *
Lance ran a rough hand through his hair. "You think this is about us? Or her?"
* * *
I sank into Rick’s couch. "It can't be about me. I walked him in and brought him a drink. That was it."
* * *
“He hasn’t contacted you since?"
* * *
I frowned. “Since a couple of days ago? No.”
* * *
“You are pretty sexy.” Rick leaned against the stone column that helped divide the living and dining room. “Maybe he’s smitten.”
* * *
I coughed out a laugh. "Smitten? What are we, in eighteenth-century England? No. But thank you for the compliment.” I blew him a kiss and he tipped an imaginary cap in response. Prying off my sweaty heels, I flopped my bare feet up on the couch. "Is this a valid excuse to be late to work? Because I still need to eat and shower."
* * *
Lance frowned and completely ignored me. "Maybe he's trying to get dirt on us. Maybe we're all being followed."
* * *
The room fell silent in the face of this new possibility. I shifted against the leather, half-pleased at the possibility that I wasn’t the main target. I was also half-disappointed, which made no sense, as there was no good situation that involved me being the sole focus of a surveillance operation.
* * *
Rick shifted his attention back to me. “Bell, you said you were coming from a friend’s house, right? Who, specifically?”
* * *
I lifted one shoulder and freed my hair, which had gotten pinned underneath me. “A guy I’m sleeping with. My stats professor.”
* * *
"Wow." Lance looked down at his hands. "We just dived right into that."
* * *
I shrugged. “It’s the age of sexual empowerment, Lance. I’m not ashamed of it.”
* * *
Rick shook his head. "Dario Capece doesn't care about a college professor, so it’s not about that."
* * *
In the back of my mind, something nagged at me. I tried to capture it, but Lance's phone rang, and it was gone.
I laid in bed, my hair still damp from my shower, wide awake at four a.m. Somewhere else in the house, I heard the quiet sounds of a sitcom, one which would probably play all night.
* * *
It had been a good shift at work. Some big winners, the sort who tipped heavy and laughed a lot. Some big losers, but the kind who didn't bitch about it and could afford the loss. I'd earned just over three hundred bucks and had forgotten—for those ten hours—the creepy smile of the private investigator. Dario Capece. Or maybe… his wife? When the PI had smirked, I’d wanted to shove him against the car, wrap my hands around his neck, and force him to tell me everything. I’d almost los
t control and ignored the fact that I was such a tiny, vulnerable kitten in a city full of beasts.
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