Chasing Her: A Stalker Romance (Dark Love Series Book 3)

by Kat T. Masen

  I was a fucking idiot to think she loved me enough that any ex who would stroll back into her life would be insignificant, but, of course, luck was never on my side.

  It had to be Lex Edwards.

  I knew who the fuck he was. I wrote an article about him which took me months to prepare with extensive research. I had studied his entire life. I could even tell you his damn shoe size. He was a force to be reckoned with. His intelligence drove him to become a mogul, and like all the other billionaires, he led the saddest existence. Random floozies photographed with him at all times. His dick had been in every blonde in sight.

  But even throughout all that, I had no idea Charlie and Lex had a past, and him coming back into her life would effectively end our relationship.

  I tried to trust her, but when I felt myself weaken, I ran. Just like the night of the charity ball, I was weak, and so I did what I had always done when I was scared I visited my dealer. Alone, in the dark, I’d do a line as I talked to Chelsea. I told her my fears, told her I missed her, that I loved her. I prayed for a miracle that she wasn’t really gone, that I was living a fucking nightmare, and I’d wake up at any moment.

  Those prayers were never answered, and the nightmares were only beginning.

  I wasn’t stupid. I knew Charlie was betraying me. And in some sick and twisted way, I thought, let her do this, let him hurt her, and then she’ll see him for what he really is. Lex Edwards isn’t the man she left behind in high school, his narcissist trait will eventually be found out, and he’ll break her in ways to the point beyond forgiveness.

  When she said she was going to The Hamptons, I wanted to hurt her—a side of myself to this day haunts me. My dealer just got in a fresh shipment, and the timing was perfect because I had no other way of escaping. I was on the verge of doing things, dark things I allowed my imagination to conjure up, but it was almost like someone was looking out for me, holding me back from destroying everything.

  I cleaned myself up enough to drive to The Hamptons, ready to fight for what was mine until I received a call from my mother dragging me back to South Carolina because Chelsea’s parents took their own lives. Tortured by the death of their only child, they had driven to the same spot where Chelsea died and drove their car into the lake, drowning instantly. It was twelve years later—what would’ve been Chelsea’s thirtieth birthday.

  It rocked the community, and the nightmares started again.

  I was spiraling out of control.

  The days became nights, and the nights became days.

  I knew I shouldn’t have let Charlie go when she handed me back the ring, but I was so high on coke, I had no idea what the fuck was happening anymore.

  I miss Chelsea. The pain is fucking unbearable.

  The nightmares plague me, the flames visible, and my lungs hurt from screaming her name.

  Life became a big blur. I lost my job in New York, and my landlord evicted me. My mother begged me to stay with her. I had officially hit rock bottom, a fatality waiting to happen.

  I needed to escape my drug dealer—as long as he supplied it, I’d take it.

  Moving across the country was the best decision I could’ve made for myself—fun in the sun, back to enjoying surfing and other outdoor sports that I used to love. California was the answer.

  The universe had other ideas, or perhaps it was fate. Charlie? Living in LA? You could imagine my shock. The signs were there—we were meant to be. I just needed to make sure I didn’t fuck up this time.

  So here I am today, exactly eight months after the gala when I last touched her. My gorgeous Charlie. She was glowing in her strapless black gown, and every part of me broke down the second we touched. Her smile was enough to erase all my bad history, enough to make me believe we were meant to be together.

  Enough for me to tell her I still loved her.

  She told me she loved her husband, not that I believed it for a second. There were too many pauses, and I knew Charlie better than anyone else—her marriage was falling apart. Rumors had begun spreading of Lex Edwards screwing his young assistant, Montana Black. Perhaps, I shouldn’t have mentioned anything to a fellow colleague who happened to work in our ‘gossip’ department. But nevertheless, Charlie’s life was falling apart, and she needed saving.

  The problem was, I allowed my insecurities to weaken my position with us, begging her to leave him for me. Every part of me prayed for a miracle, but it never came. Instead, she walked back into his arms, and I walked into another dealer’s stash after three months of being clean.

  I stand up from the bed and walk over to my closet. Behind my sports jackets is a slight cavity in the wall. I reach in and pull it out—the photograph of Charlie I took when we were together, naked, spread out on my bed. The lust in her eyes, the way she begged me to fuck her, I feel myself harden instantly. And with that, I reach into the cavity again and pull out the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t, the one thing I battled with myself not to do anymore, I pull out her panties, the ones I stole from her house a few months ago.

  I struggle with my morals. I know it’s wrong, but the obsession takes hold of me, and so I pull it toward my nose and inhale the scent.

  The scent belonging to Charlie.

  Like a shot of morphine, it spreads through me, igniting my senses, my greed, and my lust—all of the things I promised myself I wouldn’t allow myself to feel. Tonight, I’ll sneak into her place again, just to watch her one more time.

  He’s in London.

  I’ll be safe.

  I can protect her.

  Just one more night, then I promise to stop.

  One more night.

  But I’m wrong.

  The loud banging on the door wakes me from my deep slumber. I turn over to look at my watch—seven o’clock.

  Who the fuck?

  I rub my eyes vigorously, the memory of last night flashing before me, reminding me why I’m beyond exhausted.

  A faint glow filtered through the room. Her silhouette teased me, and my heart thumped so loud I was certain it would pop out of my chest. She lifted her blouse over her shoulders. Fuck, this was it. This was what I had been waiting for. Her hands reached for the bottom of her tank top, gliding it just above her stomach until she stopped. She focused on something else. Walking over to the nightstand, a smile widened across her face as she placed the cell to her ear.

  An hour later, I sat still behind the bushes, irritated by the length of the conversation. No doubt she was talking to him. Fucking asshole, can’t even leave her alone for an hour. Considering he was in London for an annual conference, you would think he’d be all business.

  Her movements changed, and my boredom shifted. I positioned my binoculars, hoping to continue what I had come here for. Instead, I saw the slow drop of the blinds covering my view, and she was out of sight.

  Fucking hell!

  I kicked the rock beside me in frustration, a stupid move as the pain ricocheted throughout me. God, you’re a fucking loser, Julian. Just like every other time I had done this, the lust was soon overcome by guilt. I was a sick bastard, and I knew the only reason I allowed myself to do it was because it replaced my addiction to cocaine.

  Surely, stalking Charlie was healthier, right?

  It was my perverse way of justifying what I knew deep inside was just plain wrong.

  I hear the voice from outside the hall, and it sounds vaguely familiar. I stumble to the door wearing only my boxers and a wife-beater. As I peek through the peephole, I see the face. Scrawny looking with an odd blemish here and there. I rub my eyes—no way, this can’t be who I think it is.

  “C’mon, Uncle Jools, open the frickin’ door!”

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Reluctantly, I open the door to Tristan, my nephew.

  “Tristan? Why and what the hell are you doing here?”

  He barges in, throwing his duffle bag on the floor and placing a small bag that was draped over his shoulder gently on the coffee table. Oh, fuck n
o, duffel bags are never a good sign. They are the sign of a drifter looking for a place to stay. He can’t stay with me. I’m a nomad born to wander the earth alone. I enjoy peace and quiet. I can’t have a kid living here.

  “Mom said you’ve gone off ya nut and need some company.”

  He makes himself at home, sitting on the couch, placing his feet on the table with his hands behind his head.

  I run my fingers through my hair to calm myself down, but, of course, it doesn’t work. “Tristan, you can’t stay here.”

  “Why not? Place is big enough for both of us.” He lifts a magazine from the table and cringes. I’m not wrong in thinking finance literature isn’t his taste.

  My place isn’t huge. It’s a one-bedroom apartment on top of some seedy massage place downstairs but it’s all I can afford right now. I’ve blown so much money on coke forcing me to downgrade luxuries like a secure apartment. It isn’t such a bad place, fairly modern inside but really cramped.

  He’ll have to sleep on the couch.

  What, so now you’re thinking he can stay?

  “I don’t have time to take care of a minor, Tristan. I’m busy enough with work and… stuff.”

  He will get in the way of your night activities. Find him somewhere else to stay, the sadistic voices in my head are screaming at me.

  “Minor? I’m twenty-one. I’m old enough to drink, gamble, and root. I’m in California, the babes here are bangin’ hot! Just outside there was this blonde… she wanted to invite me in for iced tea and shit, but I swear… and I swear… she was going commando. Totally wanted to fuck me.” His Aussie accent isn’t lost on me, although his slang is.

  “Tristan, why on earth are you back in the States?” I run my hands through my hair, bothered by his sudden appearance. “Josie wouldn’t just send her firstborn to her incapable brother. Remember the last time I took care of you? I almost dropped you on your head.”

  “I was like a year old… that was so twenty years ago.”

  I know my sister well enough to know she loves her son, and the thought of shipping him off would’ve sent her into a depressive spiral for days, not to mention Josie thinks I’m irresponsible with no future.

  “Truth? Husband number four doesn’t like me.” There’s a change in the tone of his voice. His eyes shift toward the window, my cue to change subjects and make sure I make that long-distance call to Josie to find out what the fuck happened. Fuck, that asshole better not have laid a finger on him.

  I let out a breath, not believing I’m allowing him to stay here. Where else can he go? I have been a lousy uncle, so I guess I at least owe him this.

  As I continue to look at him, I notice how much he’s changed since Thanksgiving five years ago. Josie constantly emailed me pictures of Tristan when they moved to Australia because of husband number three. That ended like a bad train wreck, and so she moved onto husband number four. Tristan has grown into a man. Well, okay, maybe a man-child. He’s slightly shorter than me, his physique hidden behind a baggy T-shirt with the Green Lantern symbol on it. His hair is scruffy and untidy, the bleached blond making him look like an Aussie surfer, and probably why he’s sporting a tan as well.

  “Okay, listen, you can stay here, but only for a couple of weeks, and I want to lay some ground rules.” Fuck, when did I become so parental?

  “Deal.” He smiles.

  “Number one… pick up after yourself. I don’t tolerate slobs.”

  “Well, how do you explain your bedroom?”

  “A momentary lapse of concentration that will not happen again.” No, Roxy will not happen again.

  “Right, so you screwed your brains out with a chick who gave great head, but in the daylight, her face belongs on a wanted poster?”

  “Rule number two… my life is private. You want to stay here, respect my privacy.”

  “What are you hiding, Uncle Jools? Some weird BDSM fetish? Somewhere in here is a secret entrance to your cave?”

  “Rule number three… please stop calling me ‘Uncle Jools.’ Fuck the respect bullshit. Yes, I’m your uncle, but Julian is acceptable.”

  “Okay, well now my rule, and I only have one.”

  “You’re kidding me, kid?” I have to laugh at this one. Tristan and rules?

  “Actually, two. No coke in the house. I don’t want to find you OD’ing on some line you did.”

  What the fuck? The nerve of the kid!

  “I don’t do that shit anymore.”

  “Well, you used to, so just don’t. Get some help or something.”

  “And two?” I ask, annoyed.

  “If I stop calling you ‘Uncle Jools,’ you stop calling me ‘kid.’” He holds out his hand to shake on it, something I reluctantly do.

  “Great, now for the pièce de résistance.” He opens the zip to his precious cargo and reveals his PlayStation 4.

  Video games?

  Talk about juvenile.

  The last time I played was Legend of Zelda back in the nineties. Right before Chelsea—don’t fucking go there, not now.

  “Listen, ki… Tristan. I’m not a video game kinda guy. Since it’s your first day in Cali, how about we head down to Venice Beach?”

  “Awesome, bro!”

  “Yeah, awesome.” I shake my head before letting out a small laugh.

  The first laugh I’ve had in months.

  ***

  We walk along the esplanade, and like always, entertainment surrounds us whichever way you turn. One can spend hours here just watching the different acts desperately trying to drum up a crowd for a little bit of cash. People of all ages glide past us on roller-skates, some on Segways. Ladies in shorts and bikini tops will casually walk by, their sun-kissed tans and long hair shimmering in the sun. Tristan stops every so often, his feeble attempt to flirt with the hoard of girls, not that effective.

  “So, you’re an Aussie? Do you know the Hemsworth brothers?” They giggle.

  “Sure! Jason and Keith? In fact, I went to school with them.”

  It’s cringeworthy. I don’t have the heart to tell him they are referring to Liam and Chris, but feel like I need to when they walk away in a fit of laughter.

  “Snobs,” he yells out.

  “Uh, kid… I think they were referring to Chris and Liam Hemsworth.”

  “Don’t call me that, and who?”

  “You know… the two Aussie actors.”

  “Oh… Thor! I knew that. Mate, the women here are hot! Damn, I’ve been missing out on so much in boarding school…” his voice trails off as we walk past the weights area where Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabes are showing off and trying to be the next big thing.

  “How do you think I can get guns like that guy?” Tristan points to a somewhat slim guy, though his forearms are nicely cut.

  “Gee, ki… Tristan, you’ll need to start taking steroids or something. Have you even finished puberty?”

  “Nice one… not! I might have to check out the local gym. You’re not bad, what do you bench?”

  “I don’t go to the gym. I do weights at home.”

  The gym is where you meet beautiful ladies who have a fucked-up past with a shitload of baggage. Lesson number one—the type of women who rip your heart out of your chest, stomp on it in front of your very own eyes, then throw it back in your face saying, “Ha-ha, loser.”

  “Like Bruce Wayne?” he blurts out, followed by a chuckle.

  “How original. I haven’t heard that before.”

  “Really? Because you really look like—”

  “Sarcasm, Tristan. Look it up.”

  We walk a little further past the juggling performers before stopping at a coffee cart. I order an espresso and offer to order Tristan one since the kid looks broke.

  “Coffee?” He raises his brow like I just asked him if he wanted a glass of cyanide. “Mate, that’s old people’s drink… I’ll have a milkshake.”

  “Milkshake? That’s a child’s drink,” I mumble beneath my breath.

  After grabbing his mi
lkshake from another shop and my espresso, we find a bench to sit at looking out over the ocean. It’s a lovely day, as beautiful as you can get in LA. I’m still not used to all the smog, not when you’ve visited some of the most picture-perfect beaches in the world. Still, it’s a refreshing change to be outdoors.

  “So, are you still a journalist?” Tristan asks.

  “Yes… for the meantime.”

  “Why the meantime?”

  “I’m looking into other things.”

  “Like?” He slurps on his milkshake, following it with a loud belch.

  Jesus, no class.

  Should I even bother going into my aspirations? He’s fucking twenty-one. His resume probably consists of a string of fast-food chains. I’m not used to these types of conversations with other human beings. After moving to LA, I struggled to meet friends, especially when I was so high on coke all the time. My dealer was my only friend, or enemy, whatever the fuck you want to call him. All my friends are still in New York living the high life I left behind.

  “I don’t think journalism is for me anymore.”

  It’s the honest truth, and it is something weighing heavily on my mind of late. The passion, ambition, and desire to succeed in journalism no longer ignites the spark within me. I’ve tried multiple times to put pen to paper. However, nothing but utter nonsense comes out. I have no idea why I told him I am thinking of changing careers. Maybe because there’s a part of me hoping Tristan can gain some sort of lesson from my mistakes.

  “But didn’t you go to college to study that shit? Isn’t it a bit too late to change your mind now?”

  “Perhaps… I don’t know.”

  “See, that’s the reason why I didn’t go to college back home. What’s the point?”