“In my defense, it isn’t the only time I bought her a gun.”
“Guys,” Phoebe tries to interrupt and fails.
“That’s right, there was her eighteenth birthday and then her college graduation. How could I forget?” her mother retorts.
“Guys, if this is going to turn into an argument, I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
“It won’t, baby. Tell us how it’s going,” her dad urges.
They talk for a few more minutes, and I stay in my little corner like a stalker. I can’t get to my GT without drawing attention, and I’d rather not interrupt her if I don’t have to. Besides, I don’t really want to move. I soak up the sounds of her talking to her family like I’ve been in the dark for most of my life and her voice is a precious ray of sunshine.
Maybe that isn’t too far from the truth.
After a while, she ends the call, and I finally break from my spot to head to my GT. Only it kind of seems like I’m following her since I’m parked a couple of spaces away from where she’s waiting—I assume for a ride. I frown when I realize she’s out here all alone. She should have had Emily or someone wait with her. The set is secure, but nothing is ever one hundred percent secure.
Ambling up to her, I decide to wait until she’s safely in a car. I can’t in good conscience leave her in the dark this late, alone.
“Hey,” I say, and she startles us both by damn near jumping out of her skin.
When she glances up at me, her face is ghost white.
Chapter Five
Phoebe
My heart still hammering, I stare blankly at Griffin before I find my voice again. “Oh, wow, I must really be jumpy today. Too much caffeine. Heading out for the night?”
“Yeah. I don’t mean to pry, but are you okay? You seem spooked.”
He’s dressed simply in a hoodie and jeans. I imagine this is what he looks like when he’s alone, away from the set and the spotlights. Relaxed. His expression, though, is anything but. Seeing him this way, it isn’t hard to imagine him on the front lines as a Marine.
“Phoebe,” he prompts when I don’t answer right away.
I clear my throat, my cheeks burning. Had he caught me staring? “Yes? Oh, God, I’m sorry. My mind is all over the place.”
“Are you okay?” he repeats. My apology doesn’t seem to assuage his studied interest. Having his eyes on me, I swear he can read my thoughts.
“I’m fine, I swear. Just spacing out.” There’s a tremble in my voice I hope he can’t hear. I’m certainly not an actress, and hiding my ruffled nerves is proving to be harder than I thought. The message from this morning must have spooked me more than I realized. “It’s been a long day.”
Naturally, he hears something, and the worry in his face deepens, causing him to frown at me. “Yeah, I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
Before I can refute him, my phone vibrates in my hand. I unlock it automatically, the screen opening to my Instagram messages. There’s another one from that Smith Johnson person. Like an idiot, I hadn’t blocked their account after the first message, simply writing it off as a prank or a dumb joke. People can be heartless and cruel on the internet when they’re behind the safety of their screens. But it’s just trolls. I don’t have anything to worry about.
Right? I swallow hard.
This time, the message reads:
I warned you.
That’s all.
What more do I need, really? The subtle threat underneath the message is evident. I’d been stewing about the first message in the hour or so since as I finished up a report and proposal for the social media launch to send to Catherine. The work helped distract me . . . for a while. But the worry came right back to the forefront when I came outside to wait on my Uber.
And my phone vibrated again.
Another message.
This one is a picture.
At first, I don’t recognize it. It’s a simple snapshot of a front stoop. Nothing special, pretty nondescript, really, which is why I had such a hard time placing it. That and I’d only lived there a few days. The picture is of the front door to my apartment. I can’t help it. I gasp in shock. How would they know where I live? There’s a paper from a neighbor’s apartment still on the stoop in the edge of the frame. I remember seeing it this morning before work. They’re at my apartment right now. I’m sure of it.
Then Griffin is in front of me, his worried eyes searching mine. Hard hands grip my shoulders and give me a little shake. “Phoebe, babe, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Before I can stop him, he slips my phone out of my hands and scans the messages open on the screen. His expression hardens into a mask of fury as he scrolls through the short one-sided conversation.
“No, don’t,” I protest and try to retrieve my phone from his grasp, but he’s too fast for me and evades in one agile movement.
“What the hell is this?” he demands when he finishes.
“It’s nothing. Really.” I reach for my phone again, but he easily evades me. Temper flares in my gut. “Can I have my phone back, please?”
“That’s not a good enough answer. You look like someone just died. What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, crossing my arms and feeling suddenly and exquisitely tired. All I want is a long bath and a gigantic glass of wine. If I had a cat, I’d want to cuddle it, too. Maybe I should think of getting one. “Just some stupid prank.”
“Where is this?” he asks and flashes me the picture of my front door.
I can’t hide the flash of fear that crosses my face. The more he questions me, the more worried I become. It’s been easy to write it off as a stupid prank until now. “It’s my place. My front door.”
His eyes widen marginally. “Someone is threatening you and sending you a picture of your front door, and you think it’s a prank?”
“I think someone’s just trying to scare me. It’s probably nothing.”
Griffin finally relents and gives me back my phone, which I pocket so he can’t snatch it again. “Someone threatening you isn’t nothing. Where do you live?”
“Look, I appreciate the concern, but I can take care of myself. I have a concealed carry. I know how to call nine-one-one. I’m fine, I promise.”
He repeats the question, and I have a feeling he’s not used to being told no. “Do you have someone who can go home with you to make sure you’re okay? If you aren’t going to report this to the police tonight, then you should tomorrow.”
I think of Emily in passing, but she went home hours ago. “Did you hear what I said? I’ll be fine.”
“You shouldn’t take chances with things like that. I’ve dealt with my fair share of enthusiastic fans. C’mon. I’ll get you home. It’s getting late.”
He takes my hand and starts guiding me to the parking lot. What little resistance I can manage seems like nothing compared to his grip of steel. “N-no, really. You don’t have to do that.”
My phone vibrates again, and my stomach does a sick roll. There’s another picture. This time it’s of my open door. I give up fighting and let him pull me to a sleek sports car.
“Was that another message?” he asks as he guns the engine to life.
When I can manage to unstick my tongue from my suddenly dry mouth, I say, “Yes.” We reach the security gate, and I flash him the picture. His mouth hardens again.
Before he can even say anything, I call the police. As I’m on the phone explaining the situation, I manage to give him directions to my apartment. They keep me on the line throughout, and it’s a long, tense drive through the dark, barely populated streets.
We pull into my complex, and Griffin asks, “Which one is yours?”
“That one.” To the operator on the other end of the phone, I say, “We’re here.”
“The police are still on their way. Please stay clear of the residence until they can confirm there’s no one inside.”
My stomach leaps. I’m starting to feel sick. I didn’t even think about
them still possibly being here. Maybe it’s a good thing Griffin demanded to come along with me. If I’d been thinking clearly, it would have occurred to me, but I haven’t been.
“Okay, we won’t. We’ll be outside.”
He pulls into the parking spot in front of my building and starts to get out. “Oh, no, they said we aren’t supposed to go inside.”
“I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself,” he says. “You stay here so I can make sure it’s clear.”
“Still, they said you shouldn’t go in—” The words from the operator turn into an indistinct buzzing in my ears.
My words cut off as I get a look at the inside of my apartment when he pushes the door open. It’s been ransacked. Clothes are strewn all over the floor. The couch that came with the apartment has been gutted, the stuffing bleeding out onto the floor in waterfalls of fluff. Dishes are ground into the tile, and glasses are in pieces everywhere along the dining room floor, glittering like diamonds as Griffin turns on lights and makes a sweep through the room.
“Don’t touch anything.”
When did he pull out a gun? I didn’t even realize he had one on him. I pick my way through the mess without drawing mine, my phone hanging from my limp hand, forgotten. Whoever did this is long gone. The apartment is silent, deadly silent.
Someone definitely wants me gone.
But who? How could I have made an enemy here already? I’ve been in L.A. less than a month. I haven’t even been here long enough to piss anyone off.
Have I?
Chapter Six
Griffin
If she’d been home when her place had been broken into . . .
I push the thought from my mind.
She wasn’t.
She’s here.
She’s safe.
I keep one ear tuned for her in the living room as I do a sweep of the other rooms in her apartment. The bathroom, bedroom, and laundry are clear, but I keep my gun drawn. All of the rooms are as equally trashed as the living room. Whoever did this took their time to destroy as much as they could. I make a mental note to ask her if she knows anyone who may be keeping a grudge.
When I’m done, I find her in the living room, sitting on the destroyed couch and holding a framed picture I recognize to be of her family.
“Is anything of value missing?” I ask. When she doesn’t answer, I go and kneel in front of her. With my free hand, I touch her shoulder. She finally looks up at me, her gaze shuttered and wrecked.
“Huh?” she says.
“I asked if you had any valuables in the house. Something a thief may have been after.”
She shakes her head, her expression dazed and wan. “No, nothing. I didn’t bring much when I moved. Anything valuable I left with my family in Florida. They were going to send it once I got settled in.”
“Can you think of anyone who may have a grudge? Maybe someone at work who wanted a job of yours or an old boyfriend.”
“W-what?”
“Is there someone who may want to hurt you? Someone who knows where you live or someone from work?”
“I barely know anyone here. There is no reason for anyone to hate me this much.” She gestures to her trashed apartment.
“Someone from home, maybe? An ex-boyfriend? A former friend.”
Something flickers behind her eyes, but she shakes her head. “There’s no one, I promise. I don’t go around making enemies. All I do is work. I haven’t had time to piss anyone off.”
Before I can ask any other questions, she gets to her feet, her hand expertly and efficiently gripping a gun. When she moves in the direction of her room, I follow. “What are you doing?”
She turns, her eyes dead tired and a little annoyed. “I’m going to get whatever clothes weren’t ruined so I can stay the night at a hotel. Then I’m going to wait for the police so they can take a statement and see what prints or whatever they can get from here. You can go home. Whoever did this is long gone, but thank you so much for everything you’ve done. I really do appreciate it.” With that, she turns and heads down the hall, and I bite back my reminder for her not to touch anything because she could ruin evidence.
If I expect her to burst into tears and fall into my arms, I’m sorely disappointed. And so will she be if she really thinks I’m going any-fucking-where at a time like this.
While she packs a bag, I take out my cell phone and type out a quick email, hoping to pull in a favor. Maybe we can pull some strings and get this made a priority. There’ll be questions, sure. I’ve never pulled a favor for a woman, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m just finishing up the email when Phoebe comes back into the room with a small bag slung over one shoulder.
There are dark shadows beneath her eyes. She looks wrecked. I don’t blame her. This sort of violation is intimate, harrowing. Someone wanted to hurt her, not only physically, because I’m sure they would have if they had the chance. But they wanted to hurt her in the one place where she should feel comfortable and safe.
“I thought you left,” she says.
“Nope. The cops should be here soon, though.”
She nods. “Thanks. Do you want a cup of coffee, if it survived? Take the definition of cup loosely because I’m not sure what dishes I have left at the moment.”
Wanting to keep her busy, I say, “Sure, that’s fine.”
Phoebe puts her bag on what used to be her dining room table and begins to hunt through her cabinets for dishes that aren’t smashed beyond recognition. There aren’t any, but she does manage to find some Dixie cups for us to use.
Giving me an apologetic smile, she says, “I’ll deal with the police a lot more coherently if I have a shot of caffeine. Otherwise, I might keel over right here on this mess.”
“They shouldn’t take up too much of your time. Do you know if you have a security system?”
“I do. I hadn’t had the chance to set it up, though. I haven’t been here that long, and I honestly didn’t think anything like this would ever happen. My father will probably tell me I-told-you-so once he tracks down whoever did this, Taken- style.”
“I won’t say I told you so,” I tell her, and she manages a small smile.
She settles onto the couch next to me and takes long sips from her cup of coffee. She could have panicked, broken down crying, or become hysterical, but she seems as calm as I am. Maybe calm isn’t the right word. She’s alert. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. I wouldn’t have judged her for breaking down, don’t get me wrong. A break-in is an egregious violation of personal space and privacy. Hysterical would be a valid response.
Once the cops arrive and begin taking her statement, my admiration for her grows. She’s clear and concise as she recounts the events of the night, starting from when she left work, and doesn’t blink an eyelash when they request to see her license to carry her weapons. Almost two hours later, they finish and take an SD card from the complex’s security footage for review as well as her phone, and she closes the door behind them.
“You didn’t have to stay the whole time. I know it’s late.”
“It’s no problem. Besides, you need a ride to whatever hotel you’re going to.”
She seems to deflate in front of me when she realizes I’m right. “Fine, but that’s it. This isn’t your responsibility. I hope you know of a decent one for me to crash at while I deal with getting this place cleaned up.”
I lay a hand on her shoulder, and she glances up at me. “You don’t mean you’re going to continue to stay here.”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s my apartment, and I’m not going to let some psycho drive me away from my own home. I’m not an idiot. I plan to beef up my security system and get another lock or two for my door. If someone really is out to get me, and this isn’t just a random break-in, then it doesn’t really matter where I am, does it? They’ll find me wherever I go.”
I want to shake some sense into her. “At least stay at the hotel until the police finish their investigation. Maybe they’ll catch whoever
did this in a few days.”
“I’ll have to do that anyway for my landlord to get this place cleaned up. Thank God I have renter’s insurance and didn’t have a ton of stuff here yet.”
There’s no point in locking the door, but she does anyway. The police learned that whoever had broken in had busted out the back sliding door to gain access. The sliding glass door in Phoebe’s bedroom. If she’d been home, she would have been as vulnerable as a lamb for slaughter. The thought makes my blood run cold. I want to point this out to her, but she’s been through enough tonight. I’ll bring it up when she’s had some more sleep.
Once we have more information from the police about the security footage, I’ll find a way to press my advantage and convince her to move somewhere else until the creep is caught. Until then, a hotel will be as safe as anywhere else.
I take her to the best, most exclusive hotel in L.A. because I know it has top-notch security.
“No, I can’t stay here,” she says when she notices the name on the building. “I can’t afford this place.”
“Who said you had to afford it?” I give my key to the valet, which means she has to get out or be driven away with the GT.
“Griffin,” she says to my back as I walk away. “Griffin!”
I ignore her all the way up to the front door. I ignore her again as I talk to the clerk at the front desk. And I push her hands away when she tries to use her own credit card to pay for the suite. When she tries to object, I talk over her to the slightly amused desk clerk, who hands me the keys to the penthouse, which can only be accessed by a private elevator. No one without a key to the elevator can get to her room.
“Are you always this stubborn?” she asks when we reach her room. “Or is today extra special?”
“Pretty much always.”
“If I weren’t so tired and didn’t have to get up in”—she checks her phone—“four hours, I’d march you right back downstairs and make you get a refund for this place.”
Reckless: A Salvation Society Novel Page 4