Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel

by Stephanie Tyler

  His name was listed as Theodore Bane. For a minute, the introduction of Grant Loughlin echoed in my head, but I dismissed it. There were many different reasons—legitimate ones, ones with no suspicious motives—why brothers could have different last names.

  It listed survivors as a brother and a father, whereabouts unknown for both. Apparent cause of death was listed as suicide. Motives were given, scrawled words like depression, manic, drugs.

  Bane had jumped off the building he'd lived in, off the same roof he'd been sitting on with Lucas just hours earlier, just before dawn. He dove off, headfirst from the roof of his own building onto concrete. Five stories high. The coroner concluded that death was instantaneous.

  My body reacted, felt the impact of that statement with a deep shudder. I wanted to put the paper down, to believe everything Grant and Lucas had told me. I had no reason not to.

  Still, I read farther.

  In scrawled writing that was from the cop who'd been on scene, he stated that there was evidence that Bane was pushed, and that the case would be reviewed after the medical examiner inspected the body and the crime scene was gone over thoroughly.

  It stated that the police had spoken with Bane a week earlier and he'd made statements that he believed someone was trying to kill him. In Bane's apartment, they'd discovered a note that he'd been supposed to meet with an insurance agent about his art that he'd believed had been stolen.

  The insurance man's name was Dan Turner, and he'd confirmed the eight a.m. breakfast meeting that Bane would never attend.

  I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath the entire time I'd been reading that section. I exhaled dizzily and finished with the final note on the page. A lone Post-it on the bottom with a handwritten sentence:

  You wanted to know.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Three days after Lucas walked away from me, I was still in defensive mode, hiding from any and all reality. I barely let Brayden in to check on me and he respected my space. He even held back on his feelings—how angry he was at Lucas—but I could see it in his eyes.

  I'd been painting almost nonstop, because I didn't have to think to do that. Everything I did was dark and dreary, which wasn't a surprise. I'd never told Lucas to find the house in the commissioned picture and there were times over the past days where I nearly dropped it into a Google image search.

  But a part of me didn't want to know. Not yet. Not now.

  So when my phone rang and Gabrielle's number came up, I almost didn't answer it. She didn't know about me and Lucas, and I decided I wasn't ready to tell her.

  But I picked up anyway, to see if she had any news about Jared. Gabrielle rushed in with, "Ryn, it's me. I only have a minute alone. I'm hiding in the bathroom—they'd kill me if they knew I was telling you this. Or anyone.”

  I knew exactly what she was about to tell me, but I still asked, "What's wrong? Are you okay?" because she might not be.

  "I'm fine. I want to make sure you're okay." I wasn't sure how to answer that, but thankfully, she bulldozed past her question immediately. "Jared's missing."

  I guessed that Jared’s agent was done trying to keep his MIA status from the cast and crew and ultimately, the press. "He's still hiding out from you guys?" I asked tentatively.

  "We thought that's what he was doing, but apparently he's actually missing."

  My heart sank, because I’d been hoping that Jared was just hiding, out of embarrassment or even revenge against Lucas. "Missing? Are you sure?"

  She lowered her voice even further. "The story was that he'd gone to his cabin to work on the script. He needed a couple of days, and we all figured we knew why. He checked in with his manager and his agent the night he left—the night of the fight with Lucas—but then he didn't show up for work today. He's not at his house either, and his computer and car are still at the cabin. His agent was pissed at him for missing an important talk show he'd been scheduled to do, and apparently she reported it to the police without anyone knowing, just in case."

  "Just in case what?"

  "I guess she thought that maybe Jared wasn't just in hiding."

  My stomach tightened. "What are people saying?"

  "That's why I'm calling you, Ryn. It's not good. The police were here earlier, before my call time. I heard Jared's agent mention the fight between Jared and Lucas. I heard they'd already sent someone to question Lucas."

  I hated lying to her, but I didn't want to explain that they'd already spoken with Lucas. For all I knew, they were trying to find him again. Maybe that explained why I hadn't heard from him once since he'd walked out on me several days ago…or maybe that's what I wanted to believe, because I couldn't accept that he was giving up on us.

  I didn't want to believe I could give up on us either.

  After I hung up with Gabrielle, I took a long, hot shower to get rid of the kinks in my muscles and the fuzziness in my mind. I stayed under the spray for a long time, attempting to wash away all the bad feelings, but not wanting to leave the warmth.

  Eventually, I did. Mainly because Brayden was bringing me dinner tonight, and he was coming into the apartment as I pulled my robe on and met him in the kitchen.

  Grant was with him. I stared at both of them, confused. Brayden looked pale, and there was no takeout.

  "What happened? What's wrong?" I demanded.

  "I saw it on the monitor, Ryn, but I didn't see it happen," Brayden said. "We tried to rewind the tape but there's nothing there. One minute, nothing and the next…"

  He pointed and my eyes followed.

  On the carpet, another innocuous photo of the commissioned house.

  Beyond that, a trail of daffodils along the hardwood floor.

  The trail of my past led directly to my studio and filled me with fear and rage, a combination I wasn't sure what to do with.

  You knew this could happen.

  My body shook. I had a knife in my hands, certain I'd use it if called upon, despite the fact that both Brayden and Grant were here with me. I still stalked the apartment—my apartment—staking my claim.

  It was only on my second round that I noticed there was blood on the flowers. Fresh blood.

  Just like in your dreams.

  "I think we need help," I heard Brayden say from behind me.

  "Were you two together when you saw this?" I asked. The look that passed between Grant and Brayden was almost a dare. The tension threaded through me, but at least this soap opera was far more entertaining than the stalking crap.

  Still, I didn't get my answer, not with Grant telling Brayden, "You need to tell her what you told me."

  "Not yet," Brayden told him through gritted teeth.

  Grant motioned in my direction and this Mexican standoff wasn't going anywhere without help. "Tell me what?"

  Brayden cut his gaze in my direction and finally relented. "I've been getting letters at the gallery."

  "Letters?"

  He pressed his lips together in a grim line and my stomach plummeted. "That same photo of the house. And flower petals."

  "What else?" I demanded.

  He pulled a letter out of his pocket and handed it to me. I forced my fingers not to tremble (unsuccessfully) as I pulled out the heavily weighted vellum paper. Three words in clipped, striking penmanship.

  There's no escape.

  I don't remember much after that. I might've sunk to the floor or screamed or cursed or hit someone. But when I surfaced, I was lying, curled in a protective ball against the couch. My heart thudded heavily, but my body was numb.

  Brayden had given me my pills. He'd had no choice. He'd called Dr. B and in the end, I'd agreed to the heavy darkness they'd bring me.

  "Sleep, babe. We'll figure it out after you rest."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  "Lucas?"

  "No sweetie, he's not here."

  It took me a moment to surface from the heavy, numbing effect of the anxiety meds. It was like swimming in syrup, my eyelids dragging open slowly at the sound
of Brayden’s voice.

  Brayden, not Lucas.

  Brayden pressed his lips together in a small, concerned frown and handed me a ginger ale with a straw. I took a big sip.

  It was tasteless and I was still floaty. "When will this shit wear off?"

  "Soon. I only gave you half a pill. I had to."

  "I know." I swallowed. "I can't stay here. I have to go."

  Brayden didn't look surprised.

  I went to the woods. Brayden didn't bother trying to talk me out of it—instead, he let Grant hire a driver to take me there and be at my disposal. The man's name was Deacon and he was a brick wall. Solid. Nothing would get through him, and Grant basically promised me as much.

  Deacon checked my Catskills apartment before I went inside. He left me his number and a phone dedicated to him and then he went down the road to the inn. Because I'd told all of them I refused to work with a car sitting outside and watching me. My landlady was awesome—and an early-to-bed, early-to-rise, heavy sleeper, but I didn’t want her to worry as to why I suddenly needed a bodyguard.

  Of course, that didn't mean it wasn't happening.

  After several hours of pacing and staring at the paintings I'd left here from last time, the thunder rolled outside. I tasted the electricity in the air that streamed in from the opened windows. The gauzy curtains filled with air, fluttering back and forth with the impending storm.

  Danger was mounting, swirling around me. So was the frenzy and I was caught in its grasp, quite willingly. I gave myself over to it, sank into the creation and perversely let it sink its teeth into me and not let go. It would shake me around, leaving me beaten, bruised, exhausted…and oddly satiated. It wasn't unlike rough sex—amazing, intoxicatingly rough sex.

  Hours later, covered in paint, the buzz in my brain returned, like a call that had been put on hold but now refused to wait any longer. Goose bumps covered my skin.

  I felt watched.

  He's here.

  The feeling intensified as I walked outside, the damp morning air clinging to my skin. Everything was still fuzzy, including my head, but I wouldn't sleep for hours.

  He's here, my mind persisted, unable to not listen to it. I kept painting.

  He was closer than where the original man I'd seen all those years ago stood, close enough for me to know not to be frightened.

  And yet, I was just as vulnerable now as I was then. I'd thought that would change over time.

  It might've actually gotten worse.

  He stood there, watching, waiting to be invited instead of simply barging in. I realized how long I'd been painting for, nearly nonstop since I'd arrived here…and that was well before sunrise. Now, I was seeing Lucas by the light of the moon.

  "You're so beautiful," I murmured as he climbed up to the deck gracefully and closed the distance between us. In a flash, he'd lifted my T-shirt over my head, leaving me naked and raked by his gaze.

  The rain, powerful and cleansing, began to pour down on our skin. Water droplets electrified and illuminated by lightning as the push-pull of nature against itself only intensified the feelings I had for Lucas.

  I was still so angry with him. For hiding things from me. It still didn't make sense. What else were Lucas and Brayden hiding…about Bane? About each other?

  But none of that mattered, because he was here. Protecting me, and letting me protect him.

  Lucas held my hips, a crushing grip I savored, even as I knew I'd see his fingerprints on my hips in the morning. I wanted to. They were my badges of honor, my proof that Lucas Caine was mine. All mine.

  Proof that I was all his.

  I was up against the wall, helpless, legs spread, impaled on him as he drove into me with powerful, purposeful strokes.

  When I came, it was with a yell, his name on my lips and it was Lucas and yes and love you. The look in his eyes, that pure masculine satisfaction, was unmistakable.

  He came with a groan, a roar of need that echoed in the woods that surrounded us.

  He's here.

  When the sex ended, reality began to sift back in, slowly. Still, what would've been an angry demand tapered to immediate concern as I asked, "What are you doing here? What's wrong?"

  He looked tired. Haunted. There was a bruise on his cheek and I didn't know why. "You weren't at your apartment," was all he said.

  "I didn't expect you back." There was no recrimination in my tone but he finished my thought for me.

  "Because I never let you know when that'll be."

  "Yeah, but that's okay. I didn't leave to scare you."

  "You came here to paint."

  "Yes."

  "I won't bother you."

  But I was tugging him inside. He didn't put up much of a fight. The rain ultimately pushed us inside. Soaked, we stood together for several minutes and I knew I needed to do whatever it took to wipe that haunted, hunted look from his eyes.

  Later, I would learn that Lucas was far from hunted, and that this was a situation when I could discover what happened when a hunter got captured by his prey.

  For now, we had things to discuss, things that could come between us, rip us apart, but I refused to harp on.

  All the hours I'd spent alone here, wondering who was out there watching me—from the beginning, Lucas had felt like that man. Now, I wasn't sure I wanted to know if he was…because he'd become that man for me. That's all that mattered. "Where have you been?"

  "Work," he said distractedly. "Things to take care of."

  "You look tired."

  "Just a rough couple of days. Haven't been sleeping much." He rubbed his eyes.

  "Do you want to sleep now?"

  "Not sure I can."

  "Come on." I brought him into the bathroom with the big, old-fashioned claw-footed tub and ran the water. He stood obediently—not like him at all—until I helped him undress. He shrugged off the layers and climbed into the tub, rested his head back and groaned.

  A good groan. A contented one. I'd caused them enough to know.

  Gently, I began to massage his feet, using the body wash he used. I'd brought it with me, telling myself that was because I didn't have soap here. But that was a lie. I wanted to bring a piece of him here with me.

  I moved to his shoulders. He leaned forward, catching his arms around his knees, letting me knead the sore, tense muscles. The knots disappeared under my fingertips.

  "You're wasting your hands on me," he protested, but he didn't make a move to stop me.

  "Comforting you's never a waste." I soaped up his hair, washed it, poured water from a pitcher to rinse it.

  "One day, you might feel differently," he murmured. His words made me cold, but when his eyes opened and his gaze met mine, it was so full of fire I could burn in it.

  "Never," I told him fiercely. "Never."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Drained, we lay together on the soft braided rug. Lucas pulled the comforter over us and we remained skin to skin as the rain drove against the windowsills as if it wanted in so desperately.

  But we were protected from the elements, or so I believed at that point. I'd started to drift off when the knocking woke me. I tried ignoring it, but it was loud and persistent, and I opened my eyes to see if Lucas was hearing it.

  But I was alone. The bathroom door was closed, a sliver of light peeking out from under it. The shower was running. Sighing, I wrapped the comforter around myself and jerked the door open, sure it was either Susan or the landlady, both of whom were known to bring me food at odd hours.

  But it wasn't either woman. It was Dan Turner. I went to slam the door, but he was fast, his meaty palm preventing me from doing so.

  "Jared Connor is dead," he said bluntly.

  I took a step back—stumbled, really, as the breath rushed from my lungs as though it'd been forcibly squeezed out. "What…how?" I finally managed.

  "He was murdered."

  "Murdered," I repeated.

  "Lucas Caine is a primary suspect." When Turner mentioned Lucas's name
, I instinctively glanced toward the bathroom door. Before I could protest, Turner was walking through my place, slamming his fist against the bathroom door, gun drawn.

  Gun drawn.

  "What are you doing? Why do you have a gun?" I demanded, but he was ignoring me in favor of opening the door.

  "Because your boyfriend's a dangerous man," Turner finally told me as he stared into the empty bathroom. Lucas was gone. I didn't have time to ponder why before it was Turner's turn to do some demanding of me. "Where is he?"

  "I don't know." I pulled the comforter tighter. "You're not the police. You can't come in here with a gun and arrest him."

  His expression tightened menacingly. "Little girl, you have no idea what I can do. You'd better get your story straight or you'll be sitting in a cell next to him."

  My back went up. "I'll call the police right now to discuss it. He was with me all night."

  I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth.

  "You're alibiing Lucas Caine." Turner smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'd be careful, Ryn. If he comes back, call the police."

  But Lucas wouldn't—I knew he'd never put me in danger like that.

  It didn't mean I wouldn't be there for him. "It's a far cry from fistfight to murder," I told Turner as he walked out the door.

  He looked over his shoulder as he kept walking. "Not if he's been convicted of murder previously."

  I shut the door so Turner wouldn't see me sink to my knees, the bile rising in my throat as his words echoed in my head.

  <<<<>>>>

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of Book 2 in the trilogy,

  PIECES OF ME,

  coming Fall 2016 from Stephanie Tyler.

  PIECES OF ME

  A Shelter Novel

  Book 2

  We could destroy each other…

  Lucas Caine is the most complicated, intense man I’d ever known…and the only one capable of freeing me from my past.