Reckless: A Salvation Society Novel

by Nicole Blanchard

  Still, when he can, he’s in my closet of an office on set, pretending to be prepping for interviews. I had to wrangle a chair for him so he’d stop stealing mine. Even then, he barely has room to stretch out his legs.

  “You know I don’t need you to babysit me. There are plenty of people on set. I don’t think anything will happen to me here.”

  He doesn’t look up from the script he’s reading. “A lot of things can happen in a crowded room. I’ll stay out of your way, but I’m more comfortable when I have eyes on you.”

  Funny, but the thought of his eyes on me doesn’t send the same kind of shivers down my spine as the ones I get when I think of the person watching me.

  “It’s been a week since the last message, and you already have Jackson’s men patrolling set. Don’t you think something else would have happened by now?”

  The first night I spent back in my refurbished apartment after the latest message, I hadn’t been able to sleep. I’m still not completely comfortable there, but I refuse to leave. Maybe it’s dumb, but I don’t want to let them run me out of my new life when it’s only just started. I have my gun, the security system, and more locks than Fort Knox. Except, no matter how many times I tell myself I’m safe, it doesn’t seem to penetrate the revolving door of anxious thoughts.

  What-ifs have haunted me so often that they’ve become second nature.

  I thought starting my life over would also help me change my frame of mind.

  Apparently, running from your problems doesn’t solve them.

  Who would have thought?

  Griffin turns a page, his expression serious and his gaze focused on the script. “They could be waiting until you feel safe again to make their move. Maybe terror is a part of the appeal for them.”

  Gee, that’s so comforting.

  I sigh and try to focus on the email I’m composing, but it’s no use. The constant feeling of surveillance and anticipation has my whole body buzzing with nervous energy. It certainly has nothing to do with being stuck in a small room with Griffin. Okay, maybe that has a little to do with it, but I already have enough going on. I don’t have time for a crush on Griffin McNalley. Nope. Not at all.

  “If aggravating me is part of the appeal for them, they’re doing a great job because I’m thoroughly ticked off.”

  He meets my eyes for a second, sending a searing heat through my body. What is it about eye contact that can be so thrilling? I force myself not to react. “Try not to let it get to you,” he says and looks back at his script. “They’re bound to trip up at some point, and we’ll be ready when they do.”

  “So, that’s what you’re in here waiting for? Them to trip up? How likely do you think it is for them to try something with you posted up in here with me?”

  “I hope you aren’t suggesting that I leave you alone so they have the opportunity to get to you. Like bait.”

  “No. No, that isn’t what I meant.” I let out a huff. “I’m just saying that if we’re waiting for them to do something, they won’t do it if they know you’re around.”

  “I was around when you got the pictures of your front door.”

  “You were.” I hate that he has a point.

  “And you weren’t at home when they broke in. If they do something, they will do it when neither of us is watching, so think of this as me encouraging them to go after property instead of your person.”

  “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  He flips the page on the script. “How is Catherine taking everything?”

  “She’s been wonderful, of course. She even tried to sweet talk me into letting her come and work on Oswald some. The stubborn old goat still isn’t agreeing to any interviews. You don’t think he’d take some suggestions from you, do you?”

  “Still giving you the slip with that? That guy is a piece of work. I would think he would want to promote the movie he’s so invested in. And no, the last person he’d take suggestions from is me.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” I let out a light laugh. He shifts in his seat, trying again to get comfortable. “Griffin, you really don’t have to hang out in here. You can’t be comfortable.”

  At this, Griffin looks up from the script again, but this time, he sets it aside. He uncrosses his legs at the ankles and sits forward, keeping his gaze locked on mine. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, Phoebe. Whoever this is, has to be someone we know. Maybe I’ll see something that helps me figure out who it is.”

  “I can’t help but feel like I’m taking advantage of your help.” Maybe it wouldn’t matter if he backed off, but it would certainly make it easier if I wasn’t so distracted by his constant presence.

  He leans back again, straightens the pages of the script, and re-crosses his legs. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

  Heat that has nothing to do with nerves burns low in my belly. He doesn’t mean that in a personal way. He’s only being friendly. Probably the sort of guy who can’t help coming to the rescue when someone is in danger. I bet that’s why he joined the military. It isn’t because he has any sort of feelings for me other than professional ones.

  “Well, if this is how you want to spend your free time, then I guess I can’t stop you.”

  Griffin nods, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he smiles. “That’s right. See? Isn’t it so much easier when you just agree with me?”

  It’s no wonder the media has such a crush on him. The guy has an air of mystery about him that makes you want to know more. And I know enough based on my research. I know his favorite places to club. His favorite restaurants. Names, ages, weights, and Instagram handles for his last several girlfriends. I even know a little from Catherine about his time in the military and work with Jackson. But I don’t know him. The person that no one else gets to see. And the more time I spend with him, the more I want to know.

  The door to my office bangs open, and in one smooth movement, Griffin is on his feet and between me and whoever just barged in. He doesn’t pull a weapon, but his hand rests on his hip where I know he conceals an M9. My heart leaps into my throat.

  Arthur Oswald storms into what little space is left in my office, his face mottled with red and fury. “What’s the meaning of this?” he practically growls and shakes his tablet in my face, nearly hitting me with it, he’s so close.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I ask.

  “I just got an email from the Hollywood Examiner about an interview I’m supposedly doing with them tomorrow. I thought I made it clear I won’t be participating in any goddamn interviews.”

  Griffin relaxes a little, but his hand stays within reach of his gun.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what interview you’re talking about. I haven’t scheduled any for you.”

  “So incompetent. I have half a mind to report you to Catherine Cole,” Mr. Oswald seethes. “I’ve forwarded the email to you. See that it gets taken care of. Don’t let it happen again, or I promise you this will be the last production you’re affiliated with.” He whirls around and stalks off, leaving the scent of fury and cigars behind him.

  Sighing, I pull up my email and see the message in question right away. I check and double-check my schedule and notes, but I already know I won’t find anything there. Mr. Oswald made it perfectly clear he isn’t willing to sit for interviews. It would have been counterproductive to schedule something without his explicit permission.

  I send off a quick note to the journalist, asking to see the supposed correspondence between us. Then I check my sent messages to see if there is anything there, but I don’t find anything. All the while, Griffin keeps quiet. Alert and assessing, but quiet.

  The journalist responds within a few minutes, forwarding our “conversation” as an attachment. I notice the difference in email right away. Mine is phoebe.hart@cjj.com, and the email in the forwarded copy is phoebe.hart@cjj.org.

  Someone sent this on my behalf, knowing it would piss off the most important person af
filiated with the film.

  “I didn’t send this,” I say more to myself than to Griffin. “Can your friends track an email?”

  He studies me intently. “They can try, but if they faked the IP or used a dummy email, it may not turn up much.”

  “Attacking me is fine and messing with my stuff is whatever, but they crossed the line when they tried to fuck with my career. This is the most important thing in the world to me, and I won’t let anyone ruin it.”

  “That’s my girl,” Griffin says absently as he punches in a command on his phone. A few seconds later, he’s speaking to someone I assume works for Catherine’s husband.

  Whoever sent the email does know me and must work here. They know enough to sabotage my professional relationship with Arthur Oswald and what it could mean for my position at CJJ and this production. Whoever is doing this is trying to ruin every aspect of my life, but why? It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve only been in California for a few weeks, which is barely enough time to make any friends, let alone enemies.

  Griffin ends the call as I’m sending a conciliatory email to the journalist, apologizing for the mix-up. “They’re going to do what they can, but cloned emails aren’t exactly reliable.”

  “I understand. Once again, I appreciate your help, and thank you for offering to take Mr. Oswald’s place in the interview.”

  “You’re welcome. I told you I—wait, what? I didn’t say I’d take his place.” Griffin crosses his arms over his chest, making his T-shirt stretch over the muscles underneath.

  I tear my eyes away and try to inject some genuine pleading when I say, “You said you’d do anything you could to help me. Making sure I don’t lose my job because of this psycho would be extremely helpful.”

  “You aren’t going to lose your job if you back out of an interview you never booked,” he says.

  “If they pull another stunt like that with Mr. Oswald, you and I both know I might. No one will ever want to work with me again. The Examiner may be a tabloid, but it’s America’s favorite tabloid. If they refuse to work with me again because a legend like Arthur Oswald cancels, other publications will follow, and no amount of clout Catherine may have will ever save my reputation in this industry. Who would want to work with a unit publicist who can’t book any publicity?”

  He rolls his eyes. “I want to say you’re being dramatic, but fuck. That’s diabolical. Fine, I’ll do it. But you have to be there with me and then after you owe me dinner.”

  “It’s a date,” I say without thinking and offer my hand to seal it.

  We shake, and he frowns, thankfully without commenting on my poor choice of the word date. “I thought I was just going to help you with your stalker.”

  “This is helping me. Besides, it’ll serve two purposes. It’ll help me save face, and it will get you in a publication that holds weight. It’ll be good for your image.”

  “Since when did this turn into a consultation about my image? Don’t I have people for that?”

  “You do, and technically, I’m one of them. At least while you’re working on this film. Besides, you can never have enough friends.”

  He checks his watch, swears under his breath, and grabs his script. “Do you go on dates with all of your friends?”

  So he hadn’t missed that.

  Somehow we’ve gotten far too close, a certainty considering how small my office is, but still surprising when I find myself standing next to him in front of my closed door. He’s so near I can smell the woodsy scent of his cologne. I grip his chair behind me to keep my knees from buckling.

  “W-what?” I stammer, having forgotten the question.

  “Are we friends?” he repeats.

  From his tone, I can tell we have a different definition of the word friends, but I nod. “Of course we are. You’ve been very kind to me, and I appreciate you doing me this favor. I’m lucky to have you as a friend if you’ll have me.”

  His stare drags on for a tense moment. “We’d better go before we’re both fired.”

  I release a long breath when he turns and walks away.

  Griffin McNalley may be far more dangerous than any stalker.

  Chapter Ten

  Griffin

  The next afternoon, I wait for Phoebe outside the lot once shooting is complete so we can go meet the journalist for the interview I got suckered into.

  If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be going to a damn interview in the first place. I like interviews almost as much as I like journalists, which is to say not at all.

  But maybe it won’t be so bad with Phoebe there.

  I find I search out opportunities to be around her, not only because I think she’s in danger. The way she laughs—light and bubbly—makes me want to laugh along with her. I can’t remember the last time I laughed that way. Carefree. Full-bodied. I swear she all but sparkles when she does it.

  I shake my head.

  You’re so full of it, McNalley.

  As though to taunt me, the door opens, and Phoebe walks out, the sound of her giggle preceding her. The grip she’s talking to only has eyes for her. He stumbles off the sidewalk and into the road before he can look somewhere else. When he finally sees me step closer to Phoebe, his Adam’s apple bobs, and he makes a quick excuse to scurry away.

  “Do you mean to intimidate everyone all the time, or is it a power you can turn on and off?”

  “You need to be more careful who you’re with. We don’t know who is stalking you. It could be anyone.” I need to remember that myself. Any of these people could be the person stalking her. People I’ve worked with and trusted. It’s hard to imagine any of them with the capacity to say and do the awful things they’ve done.

  “Barry? He’s harmless.”

  “You can’t know that for sure.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Listen, I understand I need to be cautious, but I won’t turn this into some sort of witch hunt. Now, come on, we’re going to be late. Are you ready to go?”

  Phoebe speeds off before I can answer, and I bite back a growl. How she can be demanding and solicitous at the same time is a mystery. She shoots me a prim look, and I click the button on my fob to unlock the doors. She climbs into the GT with one graceful movement, only showing a flash of leg in her slim taupe skirt.

  Goddamn skirts.

  She doesn’t have to be near me for me to be thinking about them. The way her legs flirt around the hem when she walks or how they make her ass look so goddamn good it drives me to distraction.

  I push those tormented thoughts to the back of my mind and reluctantly join her in the GT. The sooner we get this taken care of, the sooner we can follow the leads about the email trace. Then we can catch whoever is stalking her, and she and I can go back to being completely professional. After our very nonprofessional date.

  The thought makes me frown.

  “So I’ve spoken with the reporter you’ll be meeting today, for real this time. It’s actually a really good opportunity to get some exposure for your career and promote the film. And they’re going to keep the questioning basic for the most part.”

  “It isn’t my first interview,” I tell her.

  “If they do throw a curveball, feel free to gloss over the question or relate it back to the movie. They may try to sneak beneath your guard, but I think you’ll be okay.”

  “After the interview, we have a date.”

  This gets her attention. “We do?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already. A deal is a deal.”

  “Fine, but only if we can make it Chinese. I’ve been dying for Chinese.”

  After the interview, I pull into a park near her apartment. Containers of fragrant food sit between us. She takes her chicken fried rice happily and digs in while I open a container of sweet and sour chicken.

  “Why don’t we start off this date—the only one you’ll ever get, by the way—with taking a break on all the stalking talk.”

  “I’m okay with that. I’ve wanted to get to know you fo
r a while.”

  Her face reddens, and she chokes on a bite of fried rice. After a sip of Coke, she says, “What? Really?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I mean, I don’t know. What do you want to know about me?”

  “What made you decide to get a concealed carry?”

  She snorts, and her tense muscles relax a little. “Of course, that would be your first question. Men. Well, my dad was in the military. Marines, like you. So were my Uncle Jack and my Uncle Logan, who isn’t really my uncle, but I’ve known him my whole life, so I call him uncle. Anyway, they all taught me how to use weapons growing up. Logan’s even a cop now back where I’m from, so I’ve always been around guns.”

  “You had three Marines raise you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I bet you were a little hellion as a kid.”

  “I was an angel…” I give her a look. “Most of the time,” she amends. “I can’t help it. I grew up with three brothers. There was no hope for me.”

  “What made you leave your family?” I ask, thinking of the phone call I overheard. “You seem like you’d be really close.”

  At this, she turns her gaze back through the windshield, even though the apartment complex parking lot is a ghost town. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I’m just making conversation.”

  She finishes chewing and takes a swig from her Coke. “No, it’s okay. It’s a normal question to ask, and I should be able to answer. The truth is, I was engaged.” At my shocked expression, she laughs a little. “Yeah, I know. Who’d put up with me, right?”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I’m just surprised, is all. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” I don’t have a right to know, but I can’t help myself.

  “He was a cop. Used to work with my Uncle Logan, actually. That’s how we met. We dated for a few years while I was getting my degree, and then he asked me to marry him after my graduation. My parents were thrilled. They loved him like another son.” She pauses, and I don’t push her. I’m not getting a good feeling about the ending to this story, based on the mournful tone in her voice. “He was killed in a burglary gone wrong. He wasn’t even armed or on duty. Just wrong place, wrong time. How sick is that?”