Why (Stalker Series Book 2)

by Megan Mitcham

  “Evening.” A menu sailed through the air and smacked onto the table, jarring every bone in Gen’s neck as it snapped up to a twentysomething waitress wearing black pants and a black long-sleeve shirt. “I’m Lulu, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Will you be dining solo, or are you waiting for someone?”

  Genevieve stared at her as though she’d asked her to solve the world’s hunger crisis. Words refused to come.

  Lulu plucked a pencil from her bun and pulled a pad from her apron. A smile softened her sharp cheekbones. She propped a hip onto the seat opposite Gen and leaned in, revealing a silhouette of bountiful cleavage on her tiny frame. Pencil to pad, she waited for words that refused to flow.

  “How about I get you started with something to drink? Coffee?” Lulu offered a sweet smile.

  A nod took the place of proper words.

  The girl twisted around and hustled for the counter. Within seconds, she was back with a mug and a carafe of dark roast.

  “This should help.” Steam curled off the stream of coffee she poured into the mug. The nutty, rich aroma wrapped around Genevieve’s shoulders like a blanket, easing the tightness in her jaw.

  “So much. Thank you.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

  “My pleasure.” Lulu winked. “Drink that. I’ll come check on you in a few minutes. Okay?”

  She nodded again, and the young woman trundled off to help the men near the entrance. Her phone screen offered no hint as to Libby’s location. If her friend’s traffic estimation had been accurate, she had fifteen more minutes to hold herself together. Fifteen minutes seemed like an eternity. Her eyes caught a glimpse of herself in the dark brew, and she stared at the harried reflection. This wasn’t her. She wasn’t a sniveling waif. She was a woman about the world. About business. She got shit done. All day and all night. Holiday or none.

  Genevieve hugged the mug between both hands. Warmth radiated up her fingers and seeped into her palms, chasing away a cold no one else in the city noticed. Slowly lifting the cup to her lips, she blew and then carefully took a sip. When the liquid didn’t scald, she sipped again. Comfort in a cup rolled across her tongue, heated her cheeks, and cascaded down her throat. As though the trip through Perry’s house and the cab ride here had been a lucid dream, the world around her snapped back into view. A light above the register hummed. The tread of the cook’s shoes squeaked with each step he took. Beyond the window, a sporadic viewing of pedestrians rushed past. And from the counter, a man stared.

  On any other night, Genevieve would snap her ghoulish green gaze on him and tell him exactly where he could fuck, but not tonight. Everything was raw and exposed, so she just kept her head down.

  Long, heavy jeans-covered legs hung casually off the stool. One propped on the bar’s metal footrest, but the other one … It was nearly in her direct line of sight. A big, black boot sat at the base of the leg that propped him more on the ground than in the chair. One thick arm hooked over the stool’s back, obscuring its existence. A network of tattoos made an already imposing thing downright menacing.

  “Your hands are shaking because you did the devil’s work.” His voice rumbled over her like storm clouds. Terrifying and powerful while soothing and familiar at the same time.

  She’d dealt with storms before as well as Detective Owen Graham. But he was a devastating storm for which she had warning to prepare.

  “Go away.” Her gaze remained on the coffee mug. It was safer than Owen.

  “I will as soon as Lulu gets my order ready.” He swiveled the chair to face her and spread his legs out wide, consuming the walkway.

  Genevieve braced her right hand on her chin to still its shaking and placed the other in her lap because they were, in fact, quaking rather aggressively. So what if her hands shook. They weren’t, and she wasn’t, any of his concern.

  “How was the party?”

  Her head snapped up so quickly she nearly pulled a muscle. His grin was as wide as his extended legs. His eyes were as blue as the canton of the American flag inked into his right arm. Blue also popped out at the top of the collar of his T-shirt on the arch of his trap. On his left arm and collar, the colors of the fly end of his flag were muted black and skin white.

  The instinct to fight and flight warred. Any other night, she’d fight, no question, but right now, she might lose. Unbuttoned from the day job as he was, her mouth watered for a taste. He was so much more complex than she ever realized, and she was so stripped.

  “How’d you know about that?” She didn’t have anything to hide, yet she sounded defensive.

  “Ah, I hit a nerve.” He dragged a palm over the thigh of his pants. “I’m good at that.” The smug grin remained.

  Gen straightened, rising to the bait. But then, a lion must hunt. “The women you associate yourself with must have pathetic expectations.”

  “Man.” The detective’s smile skidded, and he clutched his chest over his heart. “You don’t pull any punches. Not in court. Not in life.”

  “Not in the bedroom either,” she growled. It felt good. This back and forth made her feel more like herself than she had all evening.

  “Fair enough.” The detective nodded and used the back of his hand to wipe the hint of moisture away from one eye. He cleared his throat. “I was just shooting in the dark. I mean, a stunning woman in a sexy outfit too sophisticated for my diner, and all alone …” One bulging shoulder bobbed. “I didn’t make detective off my looks alone.”

  “Screwed your way to the top?”

  His laughter was rich. It created creases around his stunning eyes and carved a groove out on either side of his mouth. The sound sang over her skin, shifting every unpleasant thought along the way.

  “Low standards,” he reminded her.

  “Oh, yeah.” She tapped her forehead with her index finger and found that her hands operated normally.

  He gestured to the seat across from her. “May I?”

  Genevieve didn’t answer right away. While she loved their banter, it didn’t need to escalate to anything more. She didn’t want to hate him for the interrogation that was sure to come.

  “No, Detective Graham, you may not.”

  Those intense blue eyes studied her for several seconds, and for the first time, she cared—if for no more than a fleeting second—about what he didn’t see when he looked at her more than what he did. When he looked at her, he didn’t see the “marrying kind.” When he looked at her, he didn’t see maternal instinct. When he looked at her, he didn’t see any standards; high or low.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had a shitty night, counselor. I hope it gets better.” He turned back to the counter.

  She stared after him, shocked at the kindness of his words and sincerity in his tone. Muscles bulged and contracted under his T-shirt, giving a tantalizing preview of what was beneath. His ass filled out the well-worn blue jeans like a piece of art. A hint of another tattoo design peeked out of the back of his collar. Her throat worked on a large gulp. When her interest became too acute, she tore her gaze away and focused on the safety of her cup.

  Her eyes struggled to stay in the safe zone. They flickered toward the door, looking for her friend. They skittered toward Graham’s fine backside. Then they locked on to the smaller, sweeter, kinder, younger, and less irritating Lulu. The woman placed an order slip in the clip of the small window into the kitchen and then headed for Graham.

  Lulu’s steps were long and exaggerated, almost childlike. Her head canted to the side, and her brown gaze pinned him. Too soon, she was in front of him. Gen couldn’t see her face nor Graham’s. The two spoke softly and quietly as though the conversation was intimate. He propped his tatted arms on the bar and leaned in, highly interested in what the woman was talking about.

  Did Lulu inform for the detective?

  Graham’s forearm pressed onto the bar, bringing his face closer to Lulu’s. The gesture was so personable, she pulled her gaze away.

  Maybe Lulu was one of his low standards love
rs?

  But it wasn’t that overt. They didn’t touch. She didn’t flaunt her largest assets. He didn’t ogle, which made the exchange even more intimate.

  Gen grabbed her mug and gulped while she scrambled for her phone.

  “I’m here.” Libby shoved the rest of the way through the door and ran toward her, long legs eating up the tile. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I parked on the curb three blocks away and had to pull my badge on a cop.” Her friend’s green eyes rolled skyward.

  Genevieve was so thrilled to see those vibrant eyes she didn’t care that every eye in the diner centered on Libby and would soon be on both of them.

  “I mean, girl trouble is an emergency. Am I right?” Lib reached the booth, unwound the purse that crossed her body, slung it in the open seat, and grabbed her hand. Her friend pulled with a might the slight woman shouldn’t possess. Willingly or not, Gen stood, and Libby’s arms encircled her.

  “Thank you for coming.” Despite the crowd and her usual reserve, Genevieve sank into the affection, allowing herself to be hugged, and clung to her friend in return.

  “He should’ve never had the party at that house. Christ, he doesn’t pay you so much that he couldn’t afford a venue.” Libby’s fast talk had the words in the air before Gen had time to stop them.

  “Libby,” Gen gritted.

  “What?” Lib eased back and followed her gaze toward the bar. “Oh, shit.” She pulled her into the booth, and whispered, “What’s he doing here?”

  Genevieve shrugged, tossed up a hand, and bulged her eyes. “Eating, I guess.” Less than whispering, she mouthed the words.

  Her friend scrutinized the detective, who’d turned back to his conversation with Lulu. Gen didn’t think for one second he wouldn’t have an ear turned toward her table. He may have presented her with a genial manner tonight, but one hint of a scoop on Perry, and he’d pounce.

  “Who’s she?” Lib covered the side of her mouth with a hand, but Gen would swear it amplified the question. “She’s cute.” Her friend’s lower lip pouted. “She’s young.”

  “You’re young.” Gen jabbed her shin with the toe of her Choo.

  “Ouch.”

  In their little friend group, Genevieve was the senior by five to seven years. College and paying dues in some pretty shitty post-law school jobs had taken a while. When she’d finally made something of herself, all the other girls her age had been strapped with a husband or divorced with a kid or two. Their friendships fell into place because they were all on the same wavelength, no matter their age.

  “Stop talking so loudly,” Genevieve whisper-screamed.

  “Well, you start talking.” Libby leaned forward and rubbed her leg. “I didn’t run here, literally run here, to get abused. Spill.”

  She looked at Libby, then at Detective Graham’s fine ass, and then back at her friend. Her thoughts drifted back to the party, back to the images, back to her whatever it was—a freak-out, a panic attack—and her chest tightened once more. Desperation to expel her thoughts and feelings bashed against her tongue.

  Gen shook her head.

  Graham stood, handed Lulu two bills, told her to keep the change, and headed for the door with his takeout as though he knew she wouldn’t talk with him in the diner. He gave her what peace he could, and a small well of respect puddled for the man. She watched him leave, staring at the door even after his frame disappeared from view.

  Libby leaned over and grabbed her hand. “It was pretty bad, huh?”

  “I probably overreacted.”

  Her dear friend glared at her so hard Gen feared her face would freeze in that expression. But the tactic coupled with her silence helped her admit the truth.

  “It was the fucking worst.”

  Seven

  “Eh, sweet tits, waggle those things this way!” A fair looking, if not supremely archaic male specimen with a shaved head leaned out the window of a delivery truck parked on the curb. His ’roid bloated bicep flapped in the air, begging for her attention.

  Should’ve wore the damn suit jacket instead of draping it over my arm. Where the hell are the promised autumn temps?

  The moment the thought crossed Genevieve’s mind, she placed it in the crosshairs and shot it down. Hell no, she shouldn’t have to smother in sleeves to ward off unwanted advances. He should’ve learned some fucking manners, and she was just the girl to teach him some. It didn’t matter what a woman wore, nor how much she drank, nor her career path. Consent mattered.

  On any other morning, she’d engage in a bit of warfare. Depending on her mood, she’d spout off, shouting over the crush of pedestrians about how she wasn’t interested because his dick was the disappointing size of a basic ballpark wiener. Or she’d lure him in with false interest, get his number, and post it on an ad for gay escorts. Sure, she felt bad about the men who took up the offer. They’d done nothing wrong. They didn’t deserve to deal with the archaic, most certainly homophobic asshole with the ad, but it was justice being served. Justice was no victimless game.

  As of late, her favorite thing to do with their number was submit it to every call service she could get her hands on. The sex addicts hotline. The gender identity crisis hotline. The erectile dysfunction hotline. To name a few.

  Genevieve battened down her inner warrior and marched on with the crowd. The man yelled out a few more suggestive offers, but these were professional New Yorkers with which she migrated, and nothing got in the way of their morning commute. Not traffic, not snow, and certainly not limp-dick hecklers. She noted the place and time. If the mood struck her, she could battle another day.

  This morning, however, she needed to get in the building before Perry and barricade herself inside her office once more. She had no time to waste thanks to the emotional hangover that beat all actual hangovers. Her gaze locked on the front of The Ashford Building, which housed the Carter, Cleary & McMellon Law Firm Inc. among many other companies. One more block and she’d reach her destination.

  Yesterday on her first day back to work after the surprise partnership party, her subsequent breakdown, and escape, she’d used a side entrance and a service elevator to avoid Perry. She hadn't been ready to explain herself. She still wasn’t ready, which was why she ignored the asshat. Gen broke from the crowd headed for the main entrance, scrambled through a side door, and rode one of the ugly but operable service elevators up. The car lifted her to the small rectangular foyer of the law firm’s rear entrance. It was bare and undecorated with the exception of an end table with absolutely nothing on top of it on her left and an oversized, very fake tree in a planter in the corner to the right of the door.

  Hand extended, she was ready to shove through the single door until the sharp edges of a hushed and heated conversation hit her ears and stopped her cold.

  Perry was already here. She’d know that voice anywhere, though she wasn’t accustomed to his whisper. He was a confident, assertive man with no cause for appeasement.

  Gen’s heart dropped into her stomach, adding something inedible to an already putrid situation. Her hand fell from its journey to the door and smacked over her belly. With a shuffle, she sidestepped the door. Perry in a great mood would be bad enough, so she certainly didn’t want to see him while he was agitated. Her shoulders met fabric leaves that crackled and groaned against her. She winced and stilled, hoping beyond hope that Perry hadn't heard.

  Through the small window of the metal door, Gen saw Perry and the quarter profile of a blonde woman whose stature exceeded her boss by two inches in her high-rise heels. She wore a knee-length dress that accentuated her long legs, an ample backside, a tiny waist, and nice breasts. Uniformly straight hair hung well below her shoulders, and long bangs hid most of her face from this angle.

  In a flash, Perry drew down on the woman. His new and imposing physique dwarfed her thin frame. His finger stabbed the air inches from the woman’s nose. His face followed close behind the accusing digit. Thin lips moved in a strict line. The words, though, refused to
reach her ears.

  Had she ever seen him like this before? She’d known him long enough to have witnessed a range of his character traits. The majority of them were variations of jovial and determined. On occasion, his voice hit a boom that commanded a room. He lived in a jostling city, owned a business, and headed a family. Had. He had headed a family. Those tasks sometimes called for a firm hand. This quiet menace left her mouth gaping and her eyes wide.

  “Go.” Perry’s finger swung toward the door, demanding the woman leave.

  Luckily, their gazes remained deadlocked. Gen jerked back from the window, causing a leaf to poke her ear. Her gaze jumped to the elevator. There wasn’t time to call the car and flee. She scanned the sparsely decorated room. It left no place for her to hide except where she cowered. Cold sweat broke out over her skin. She was completely exposed with no explanation as to why she hadn’t simply stridden through the door. Damn Perry’s meeting, heated or not.

  What she found interesting was that Perry never met clients without another lawyer present. Lawyers were occasionally hit with suits from their own clients, much like physicians. Everything was fine when you were healthy and winning, but the moment either of those things changed, the accusations flew. To her knowledge, Perry never conducted a meeting in anything but the nicest of their offices. Clutter, the likes of which her office currently boasted, and subpar décor, the like of which the rear entrance always boasted because no one ever used it, were forbidden to clients’ eyes at Carter, Cleary & McMellon.

  Image was everything to Perry. At least, it had been. It wasn’t like he’d asked for his family to be murdered. It wasn’t like he’d asked for the media scrutiny. Some things were outside of anyone’s control, even Perry Carter’s.

  This lady wasn’t one of them.

  The door swung wide, pinning Genevieve on three sides. Wall. Door. Plant. Her mouth clamped shut, silencing her breaths. A flash of blonde and blue sailed past the window, and then a smack reverberated in the anteroom. She’d called for an elevator. Slowly, the door eased toward its frame, exposing Gen inch by mortifying inch. There wasn’t even a fucking magazine in which she could feign interest. Maybe she should retrieve her phone and pretend to be on an important call.