by Naima Simone
The reminder raced through his head like a mental rap on the knuckles. He even nodded as he pressed his lips to her forehead. Breathed her in.
Remain professional.
He murmured an agreement against her skin as her arms circled his neck, and he tugged her closer and into his embrace. Her warm breath bathed his throat, and her tears dampened his flesh.
“Please, God, not again. I can’t go through this again.” Her broken whisper punched a hole in him. He recognized the fear cracking her voice—was fucking intimate with it. He tightened his arms around her trembling body, seeking to somehow absorb the terror into his own skin by emotional osmosis.
“I have you, baby,” he said into her hair. “I have you.” He continued to softly reassure her, promising himself that any minute—any second now—he would let her go.
Any minute.
Chapter Seven
“Damn it, Aslyn,” Liam ranted in Aslyn’s ear. “Photos, trespassing—this is more than a teenage prank. Please, come home. We can keep you safe here.” From the concerned panic in Liam’s voice, she knew he was probably wearing the skin out under his antique ring as he twisted it like a screw.
Yeah, because protection against her previous obsessed fan had worked so well last time. Rubbing her forehead, Aslyn lowered to the living room couch. Her initial irrational fear had subsided. Quinton Lakes had died in a prison fight; he hadn’t risen from hell and come back for her. But for a year, he’d tormented her with letters, photos, phone calls. He’d managed to scale the six-foot-tall gate and had been yards away from her back door before he’d launched his final attack and had been caught.
Her insistence on staying in Liam’s rental home might not make sense to her manager, but how could she explain she felt even less safe in her Los Angeles home? The place that had been the site of so much terror. While part of her loved the idea of returning to L.A. and reclaiming her life, she had no intention of going back to her home—no, house. It’d ceased being a home long ago.
She scanned the room, zeroing in on Chay, who stood near her piano, mired in a deep conversation with Raphael. The tattooed security expert had arrived about an hour ago, missing the police by only minutes. Thank God. It was bad enough Chay, and now the cops, had seen those pictures. Having another pair of eyes view them might have sent her into another meltdown. Right now she prayed the images wouldn’t stare back at her from the cover of some trashy tabloid because the Boston Police Department had a leak.
As if sensing her scrutiny, Chay glanced up, and their gazes intermeshed, entwined. Like lovers’ limbs. Heat flooded her face at the intimate thought. He’d held her like a lover while she’d broken down. He’d eased onto the floor and scooped her into his arms, setting her on his lap while she’d cried. And he’d silently pressed her to his chest, not embarrassed or judgmental. Instead in his silent, strong way offered her his arms and body as shelter.
The warmth in her cheeks subtly changed from desire to mortification. She hadn’t cried in months. Not since she’d returned to the house from her last stint in the hospital. Not since she realized tears did nothing but make her look like shit-on-a-stick. Correction. Snot-slinging shit-on-a-stick.
“Aslyn?” Liam barked. “What’s wrong? Are you listening to me?”
She swallowed a sigh. “I’m sorry, Liam. There’s just a lot going on here. Thanks for giving Raphael permission to install security cameras around the house.”
Liam uttered an impatient sound. “Of course. Anything. But if you came home, none of this would be necessary. I’m worried.” He huffed a breath, and she detected his frustration and anxiety. She hated being the cause of his apprehension. But not enough to leave here when she wasn’t ready.
“I know, Liam. Me, too,” she murmured. “But I’ve already hired protection, and it will be round the clock. And besides, I have a security expert living right next door to me.”
“I still don’t like it. I should come out there—”
“No,” she objected, and winced at the quickness of her reply. “No,” she reiterated, more gently this time. But Jesus Christ, she had enough to handle with the possibility of another crazed stalker, recovering from a previous obsessed fan’s attack, and healing enough to be able to play the damn piano again. Adding Liam’s mother-hen smothering on top of all that just might send her running naked and screaming down the quiet residential streets. “I’m fine, Liam. Please, if something else happens, I’ll call you right away. But for now, I’m going to stay here, and you should stay in L.A.”
A beat of silence pulsed across the line. Then a heavy, disgruntled growl echoed in her ear. “Fine. But one more thing, Aslyn. One more, and I’m coming to Boston. And if I have to pack you up and drag you back to the West Coast myself, I’m more than up for the task.”
In spite of the threat, she smiled, imagining elegant, distinguished Liam Ahearn throwing her over his shoulder and toting her to the airport. He wouldn’t make it as far as the door, probably too upset over the wrinkles abusing his suit.
“Okay, Liam. I have to go, but we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
“All right, Aslyn. Please,” he said quietly. “Please take care of yourself. I don’t think I could forgive myself if something happened to you.”
She blinked away the sudden sting of tears as she disconnected the call. Yes, she’d suffered after Quinton Lakes’ attack, but so had Liam. He’d never left her side through the surgeries and the recovery. It’d been difficult for him to let her leave when he’d seen to her welfare since she was fifteen years old—first as her manager, and then after her parents died when she was eighteen, her manager and family. Aslyn recognized his sacrifice. And while she’d needed her space, she still needed him.
“Everything okay?”
She lifted her head to find Chay standing next to the couch. The cool reserve had reappeared, but the intense hazel study of her face belied the aloof distance. Concern radiated from the light depths.
“Yes.” She rose, uncomfortable with being loomed over. The sense of powerlessness transported her back to a San Antonio dressing room, hot breath on her cheek, and a knife caressing her face. God. PTSD much?
Chay contemplated her, probably attempting to ferret out the truth behind her simple “yes.” Finally, he nodded, and she loosed a silent breath, relieved.
“Rafe has some things he wants to talk over with you regarding the new security system.”
“Sounds good,” she stated, going for firm and determined and landing somewhere between “hold me” and damsel in distress. She gritted her teeth. And silently called down a curse on the dick of the sicko behind the photos. If God was merciful and fair, the bastard would wake up tomorrow morning horrified by his incredibly shrinking penis. A vanishing cock still wouldn’t be enough justice for stealing the tiny bit of power and healing she’d managed to gather and hoard these past few months.
“Hey, Aslyn,” Raphael said when she and Chay approached him. The sympathy in his eyes—especially from this tattooed, pierced badass—nearly sent her exiting the room with some lame excuse.
“Hey,” she said, crossing her arms. “Before we start, I would appreciate it if you’d stop staring at me as if I’m terminally ill or about to PMS all over you. I’m. Fine,” she gritted out from between clenched teeth.
A half smile curved Raphael’s mouth, amusement lighting up his gaze. “This must be the fabled redhead temper.” He slowly lifted his hands, palms out. “Don’t hit me. I’m more tender than I look and bruise easily.
“Rafe,” Chay growled.
Not in the least intimidated by his friend’s warning, Raphael chuckled. “Capisce. Back to work. Seriously, though,” he said, all traces of humor fleeing. In that instant she glimpsed the BAMF who existed beneath the sarcasm and flippant teasing. “If this asshole comes anywhere near your house, we’ll catch him. You’re under our protection now. And we’re not going to let any harm come to you. Okay?”
“Okay,” she murmured, thanking God all th
at bad-assery was on her side.
“So”—he drew an invisible circle in the air and turned, heading for the rear of the house—“let me show you the alarm system first.”
For the next twenty minutes, he painstakingly and patiently guided her through how to arm and disarm the alarm, notify emergency services, or request assistance. Then he led her outside and pointed out the cameras that had been mounted around the property. By the time they reentered her kitchen she breathed easier, and the unease in her spirit quieted to a barely heard niggling.
“Rafe, when you get back to the office, will you run a check on the real estate and rental records in Canton within a twenty-mile radius?” Chay asked. “Run existing property owners and renters as well as those who have moved in the targeted area within the last three months. Then cross-check them with arrests for criminal trespass, harassment, stalking, and assault. I’m assuming the person I caught spying last night is the same person who took the pictures. And if that’s true, chances are he lives close by or definitely within easy driving distance.”
“Got it.” Raphael gathered his equipment and laptop. “I’ll send this off to the private lab.” He held up a clear, plastic bag that contained several of the pictures she’d received in the mail. Before the police had arrived, Chay had set the photos off to the side. He wanted to submit them to the private forensics lab his firm sometimes used since the police would probably take a while to test them for fingerprints or DNA. She understood—and was grateful—but still… She cringed at the thought of someone else seeing them. “And I’ll have the other information for you ASAP,” he promised. Then with good-byes to both of them, he left.
The massive amount of data Chay asked Raphael to collect swirled through her brain like illegible code from The Matrix.
“He can do all that?” she asked, frowning. “Won’t coming up with that information take a long time?”
Chay snorted. “No. Not for Rafe. What he can do with a computer is brilliant…and scary.” Again he studied her, and she fought not to raise her hand to her chest and verify the scalpel-like scrutiny hadn’t left her splayed wide open. “Your security detail is already in place. They’ll have eyes on your house at all times, as well as on you when you leave.” He paused. “Are you going to be okay?”
She understood what he was asking. After he walked out of her house, would she hole up in a corner, searching every window and nook and cranny for shadows? Would she shit a brick at every sound? Would he find her a huddled, terrorized mess the next time he saw her?
Yes, yes, and maybe.
“I’m fine,” she assured him with a strained smile.
“Fine,” he repeated, skepticism weighing down his tone like an anvil.
Don’t go, she silently begged as Chay exited the kitchen and crossed her living room. Please just stay for tonight. But the words remained trapped in her throat. Independence, self-reliance, strength, courage—she’d left California and come out to Massachusetts to somehow find and recover everything she’d lost. For three months, she’d managed to scrounge and squirrel away scraps of her old self. Yet with one envelope, she’d lost most of those remnants. And by reaching out to Chay, asking him to stay, she’d abdicate the scant amount remaining.
She would be weak again.
Wrapping her arms around her torso, she followed him into the living room, pausing next to the couch. Panic scratched at her chest and throat the closer he got to the front door. I’m not weak. I’m not weak…
“I—” The plea died on her tongue as the beeps signaling the alarm system being set reverberated in the room. “What are you doing?”
Chay turned around, an eyebrow arched.
“Staying.”
Chapter Eight
“Would you like coffee?” Aslyn asked Chay, rising from her chair at the kitchen table. When he rose to help her clear the dishes they’d used for the pizza she’d ordered, Aslyn shooed him back to his seat. “I have it.”
He ignored her and plucked up the plates and glasses. Shooting him an admonishing look, she headed toward the coffeemaker.
“Are you washing dishes?” Incredulous, she paused mid-scoop, staring as he poured detergent into the sink. “What the hell was in that pizza?”
He glanced up, a faint smirk curving his mouth. “I was raised by a single mother. I wash dishes, clean bathrooms, and cook spaghetti so good you’d swear you had a religious experience.”
“Braggart.” She laughed and dumped the grounds into the maker. After the hissing and dark roast aroma of brewing coffee filled the air, she leaned a hip on the counter. “But you had a stepfather. The man from the picture?”
A beat of silence pulsed in the room, and if she didn’t notice, well, everything about Chay, she might’ve missed the slight stiffening of his tall frame.
“My mother married Darion when I was twenty-five. They were married for ten years before he died.”
There was that note in his voice again—the same one that’d been there when he’d talked about his stepfather earlier in the afternoon. Not grief. Not anger. Something darker and more complicated than painful but simple mourning. Those same words could be applied to the man. Dark. Complicated. Far from simple. Her palms and fingers itched with the need to stroke the strong back she suspected bore a ton of weight. Some his, some not.
Common sense argued she shouldn’t become any more involved with Chayot Grey beyond this night of pizza and coffee. She didn’t do short-term flings—hell, she didn’t do flings at all, long or short term. And a brief lapse in judgment was all Chay could be. As soon as her screwed-up psyche decided to get with the program, she would head back to Los Angeles. Her home, her roots. The place she’d been raised by her parents. The frenetic town was her haven, her port in the midst of chaotic tour schedules, appearances, and concerts. There she’d been the brave, fearless woman she longed to one day become again. But right now, all her focus must remain on recovering, healing, breaking through the block preventing her from playing and creating music. Dragging Chay into the messy mix of her life would be damn stupid.
Too bad her body was all for boarding the Stupid Train.
Shaking her head, she grabbed a couple of mugs from the cabinet and leaned forward, inhaling the rich scent of the coffee. “My mother adored coffee. She was too prim to ever say this, but if she could snort it, she would’ve.” She chuckled softly, lifting the pot and pouring the brew into the cups. “She wouldn’t allow me a single sip, though. She said I was too young and already too hyper. If she threw coffee into the mix, she would have to nail me down. Not to the piano stool, though,” Aslyn murmured. “Passion and love kept me there, but everything else? Yeah, now I see her point. Still, I didn’t drink my first cup until I was twenty. Even then, though she was no longer here, I felt disobedient. Silly, I know.”
She turned around, steaming mugs in hand. Chay had paused in the middle of washing dishes and quietly studied her, his arms wrist deep in water.
“And now?” He dipped his chin toward the cups she held.
“Now, every time I have a cup, it’s like I’m sharing it with her.”
He resumed soaping and rinsing the last plate before emptying the sink. She set his up next to the edge of the basin and sipped from hers.
“Darion was crazy about motorcycles. He worked on them, rebuilt them. Rode them. My first motorcycle ride was beside him. It was the first father-son outing I’d ever had. I haven’t ridden since he died.” Again, that dark, complex note.
God, she wanted to touch him. Just brush that mass of waves away from his jaw and thread her fingers through the gold strands. Cup the face that revealed nothing while pressing a kiss above the eyes that screamed so much.
Turning away before he glimpsed the compassion she instinctively realized he’d reject, she settled on one of the stools. She raised her cup to her mouth and sipped, the hot brew easing past the knot in her throat.
“Maybe,” she said, her voice only slightly hoarse with emotion, “when you get ba
ck on a motorcycle, it will be your cup of coffee.” She loosed a short bark of laughter. “I would’ve never pegged you for riding a bike, though.”
“Yeah?” He lowered to the stool opposite her and across the wide landscape of the kitchen island. “And what would you have ‘pegged’ me for?”
She shrugged, twirling her free hand in the air as if attempting to conjure a sensible answer to him and for herself. “I don’t know. Golf, maybe?”
He coughed, choking on the gulp of coffee he’d just swallowed. She grinned. “Golf?” he rasped. “What the hell? Why in the world would you say that?”
“Wow.” She blinked. “Not a fan?” Her smile widened. “Must be the whole clubs-whacking-the-balls thing. I can see how that would make you squeamish.” Laughing at his baleful stare, she held a hand up, palm out. “Take Raphael. He’s got the whole badass thing going on. He can go from teasing and sarcastic to scary as hell in zero seconds—I’m still halfway convinced he was an enforcer in a gang somewhere, and there’s a wanted poster with his picture on it in somebody’s police department,” she muttered. “But following him around today and listening to him go over the alarm and security system, I saw his passion. His eyes lit up, he grew animated. All that techie stuff? It’s his love. Well, that and his wife. The man was absolute mush with her. But you…”
Uncharacteristically, she hesitated, cradling her mug while studying Chay. Speaking her mind had never been an issue. But purposefully hurting someone, poking into old wounds…so not her. She’d read the headlines and the numerous articles online about the twenty-year-old murder of his mother’s boyfriend. Attack. Stabbing. Pedophile. The secrets, pain, and memories locked away behind Chay’s aloof mask—Jesus, she could only imagine the depth of darkness. The ugliness.
Yet… She examined the lovely hazel eyes in a face as beautiful and stoic as an angel’s. She wanted to smash through the defense, to finally see the man behind the façade. Like the great and powerful Oz, the cool, detached security expert persona was the huge talking head. She longed to meet the man behind the curtain.
