by Shandi Boyes
His reply seems more detrimental to him than me. I don’t know why?
His interrogation starts before I’ve had time to prep for it. “Do you have an inkling on your stalker’s identity?”
Disappointment darts through his eyes when I shake my head. “No, but I’m reasonably sure he’s from my past.”
"What makes you say that?" He continues drying my hair as if it's a perfectly normal thing for him to do. It's a smooth move on his behalf. His subtle nurturing is relaxing me so I can address his questions.
"Did you recognize him? If you saw him, a sketch artist could compose an outline of his face. You'll be amazed by the details unearthed when someone is asked to describe someone. Husbands recall things they failed to notice in day to day life when they depict their wives."
“All I saw was a blur.” The defeat in Alex’s eyes is pushed aside for hope when I quickly add on, “But the message left on the vanity mirror is more revealing than his face.” I swallow several times, hoping it will help me ease out my next set of words. “He addressed me as Rae. No one calls me Rae anymore.”
“Except me,” Alex fills in the words I couldn’t produce.
When I nod, he asks, “Are you suspicious of my intentions?”
The caution in his tone makes my lips furl. “No. Not at all. Even Superman couldn’t take up residence in my bathroom in the short period of time between our kiss and you breaking down my door. Although, I’m a little skeptical about a few things.”
I can see he's dying to ask me what I’m doubtful about, but he doesn’t want to push me. That has me opening up to him more easily than usual. “Why did you come back?”
I realize an hour long shower didn’t eradicate my tipsy state when Alex’s tongue delves out to replenish his lips. I’m in the process of the first deep and meaningful conversation I’ve had since Luca’s death, and all I’m thinking about is how I can get another taste of Alex’s mouth. What the hell is wrong with me?
My eyes lift from Alex’s mouth to his eyes when he says, “As I said earlier, I wanted to apologize—”
“Bullshit,” I shout, calling him out as the liar he is, while also praying he’ll mistake the conflicting emotions in my eyes as anger. “If you wanted to apologize, you would have done it over the phone. That’s how all liars cover their asses.”
When I push off my feet to head into his room, he shadows me. “We’re not done with our conversation, Rae.”
“Yes, we are. I’m too tired to handle this right now.” The way I emphasize “this” assures him I’m not referring to my home invader. “You should have just kissed me and left.”
"And let him hurt you? No!" The brutal shake of Alex’s head makes me dizzy.
I throw down the duvet on his bed with force. “What do you think you’re doing, Alex?”
He takes a step back, shocked by the devastation in my tone. He isn't the only one. I'm not needy. I don't cling to men and beg for their scraps. I'm fierce. I'm independent. I'm so fucking drunk on this man, he's more damaging to my senses than the whiskey I guzzled to forget his brutal rejection.
After folding down the covers to match my side of the bed, Alex discloses, “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
Honesty rings in his tone, but it doesn't stop me from saying, "By treating me like I have an STD. I'm clean, you know. You can't catch a disease from a dildo."
When he fails to respond to my taunt as I hoped, I stomp my foot down as if I am a child. “Why won’t you touch me?!”
“Because I can’t!” Alex shouts, his voice so loud I hear it twice when it bounces off the stark walls of his room. “I’m not a normal man, Regan. I have responsibilities, an oath to serve—”
“Believe me, I know you’re not normal,” I interrupt, hearing only what I want to hear. “Normal men don’t knock back the chance to bed a woman like me.” I freeze when a notion I haven’t considered before smacks into me. “You’re not married, are you?”
While cursing under my breath, I scan his room for evidence of matrimony. I can’t believe I was so caught up studying his super long eyelashes and devastatingly handsome face, I didn’t adequately evaluate his relationship status as I do every other man I’ve “dated.” I guess my lapse in procedure can be excused. We’re not dating. We’re not anything, really.
The color stops draining from my cheeks when Alex wiggles his ring finger in the air. There isn’t the slightest discoloration to be seen.
I wait for relief to engulf me.
It never comes.
I’m more confused now than I’ve ever been. If he’s not married, why is he holding back? I can see he is struggling as much as me, and his naughty thoughts aren’t being encouraged by alcohol either. I’m certain the heady scent of lust doesn’t solely belong to me.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
Anger fades from Alex’s face before he shakes his head.
“A semi-casual hookup?”
He continues shaking his head. “No, Rae. It’s nothing like that.”
I twist my lips to hide the sly grin I shouldn’t have before questioning, “What about a boyfriend?”
Alex glares at me, making me sticky enough for another shower. “I’m not gay.”
I know he isn’t; I’m just perplexed by why he looks at me as if he wants to devour me and curse the day he met me at the same time.
Realizing a woozy head won’t get me close to unraveling a man as complex as Alex, I slip between the sheets on his bed. I don’t know why I thought whiskey would be the answer to my confusion. I’m a cosmopolitan girl for a reason. Hard liquor causes a direct hit to my senses, making me more unhinged than usual.
“Is this bed even a double?” I grumble when my feet dangle off the mattress. I’m tall for a girl, but I’m still a few inches shorter than Alex. “How can you sleep in here? Your knees must be around your ears.” An alcohol-inspired giggle rolls up my chest. “Oh. Now it makes sense. Why let a woman please you when you can do it yourself?”
My faint giggle turns into full-blown laughter when Alex hooks my ankle to yank me to his side of the bed. He leans over me, bringing him and his six-feet-plus glorious body parallel with my suddenly aching frame. If he weren’t holding his weight off me with his elbows, vital parts of our bodies would fit together perfectly.
When our eyes lock, something changes between us. His gaze is hot enough to burn Satan and cold enough to freeze water. I don’t know how it's possible for him to have conflicting responses, but there's no doubt he’s torn.
I stare at him, doing my best to plead my case without words. My pleas will stop altogether if he’d just answer one of them—the most important one. The one thrumming between my legs.
My endeavor to seduce Alex without words is lost when he mutters, “Quit your whining. You’re not a baby. This is a bed. You sleep in it. That’s it.”
“Sleeping isn’t the only thing you can do in a be—”
He cuts off my sentence by pressing his finger to my lips. The zap of his touch could light the country for a week. “Sleep is the only thing you can do in my bed.”
If I could cross my arms over my chest, I would. Instead, I glare at him. Asshole!
He smirks as if he heard my inner monologue. Good. If his finger wasn’t glued to my mouth, I’d throw a few more choice words into the mix.
Believing he has me subdued, he returns to a standing position. He's discreet, but I don't miss his quick glance at my bare thighs. If I were a lady in waiting, I’d yank my negligee to a respectable level. Pity for all involved, I'm anything but modest.
Even more so when Alex murmurs, “Sleep, then in the morning, you can make me breakfast.” An arrogant wink finalizes his stone age statement.
“I’m not making you shit.” I sound like a spoiled princess. Rightfully so. I am one. My daddy treats Raquel and me as if we are royalty, so why shouldn’t every other man in our realm?
Alex continues speaking as if I never spoke, “Then, once you’ve cleaned up, we’ll g
o through the evidence Brandon gathered—together. If we put that big brain of yours to use, you might stop listening to its evil counterpart.”
I shouldn’t smile, but I do. Usually, it’s the guys who are accused of thinking with the head between their legs instead of the big one on their shoulders. This is the first time I’ve been accused of it. I like it.
When Alex gives me one final glance before heading for the door, the thrust of my lungs doubles. He's not being a bigoted pig because he's a narrowminded idiot stuck in the fifties. He knows there are only two options when it comes to tackling someone as defiant as me. He either fights me into submission or fucks me into it.
Before I can advise him I’d much prefer the latter, he mutters, “Goodnight, Rae.” His voice is mired with disappointment.
Not waiting for me to return his farewell, he exits his room without so much of a backward glance. I would go after him, but my limbs are weighed down by confusion. All I can do is stare at the tiny strip of flooring separating us. It's only a few feet in width, but it feels bigger than the ocean.
Chapter Sixteen
“Who did you say it was for?”
I scrub at my tired eyes while Brandon replies, “I used Isaac’s case file number on all correspondence. Technically, I’m not being insubordinate.”
An approving murmur vibrates my lips. That’s smart. Regan is part of Isaac’s team, so forensics wouldn’t be suspicious about a set of gloves collected from Isaac’s apartment being logged into his evidence chain.
“How long until we get a match?” I stretch to loosen the massive knot in my back. I haven’t slept on a couch since my college days, so my back is on a long list of body parts feeling the effects of my restless night.
I want to blame a lumpy sofa for all my restlessness, but it only accounts for one-tenth of the shit I've been dealing with the last eight hours. Leaving Regan untouched last night. . . frankly, I didn't think I had it in me. My chest tightens just at the thought of the sleepy smile she gave me in the seconds leading up to my departure. She knows I'm holding back; she just has no clue why. I could come clean and save us both a whole heap of heartache, but considering I’m more scared of losing her than keeping her safe, that option didn’t linger in my mind for long.
Brandon breaks my train of thought by disclosing, "We may not get a match. I handled the gloves carefully, but you know how finicky latex is. With the amount of powder coating the fingers, any evidence may be too degraded to process." His tone is as disappointing as the sigh parting my lips. "No useable hair follicles were found in the hat."
It pains me to say, but I somehow manage it, “That’s not surprising. Good perps don’t leave a contaminated crime scene.”
Brandon murmurs, agreeing with me. While raking my fingers through my hair, which is still in bad need of a cut, I drop my eyes to the evidence Brandon had couriered to my apartment over an hour ago. Regan's stalker is as smart as the woman he's harassing. Her apartment was spotless, even more than usual since he drenched every surface he touched with bleach. He even wore the disposable socks and overalls our forensic guys don while combing a crime scene. Unfortunately, they disintegrated in Regan's fireplace before Brandon could salvage them.
“What about surveillance? Are the security personnel at her building being cooperative?”
Brandon makes a pfft sound. “They say access can’t be granted without authority from the owner. He's supposedly on a business trip until next month.”
The slam of a van door drowns out my huff. “Lucky I don’t need his permission. I’ve got all the data I need right in front of me.” A keyboard stroke bellows down the line before Brandon asks, “Who do you want the unencrypted data sent again?”
"Dane Lieberman." I spell out Dane's surname to ensure it goes to the right person. "He's not officially in our agency anymore, but he has a way with computers. He’ll find an entrance no matter how tight their doors are shut."
A tense stretch of silence crosses between us. It's so long, I’m wary our call has been disconnected. If it weren’t for Brandon’s heavy breathing from his gallop down the stairwell of Regan’s apartment, I’d check our connection.
Brandon’s silence comes to an end when he asks, “He’s not a rogue agent, is he?”
A rumbling of laughter bubbles up my chest, more a pained laugh than one of happiness. It's similar to my laugh when I convinced myself over a dozen times last night that Regan didn’t want me to reenter my room to answer the questions I left wide open. She wanted me to return for the same reason I wished I could have. It's distressing how quickly she has slithered under my skin. Five years ago, I excused my stupidity based on my age and rookie status. I can’t use that excuse now.
Annoyed by both Brandon’s insinuation and the shitstorm I’ve thrown myself into, I snarl, “Dane is as far from a rogue agent as you can get.”
“Then why is he unofficial? There are only two ways agents leave: they’re either dead or on charges. Which category does he belong to?” The authoritativeness in Brandon’s tone shocks me. He's too demure to pull off such a tone.
“Your pulse doesn’t need to flatline for this job to kill you, Brandon.” I say his name with the same sternness he used when addressing me, but mine is more convincing of my anger. “Dane paid his dues in ways you’ll never understand, so I suggest the next time you consider insinuating he’s a corrupt, rogue scum, you stop and take a hard fucking look at yourself because Dane has more patriotism in his pinkie finger than you have in your entire body.”
Regan’s entrance doesn’t prevent me from continuing my speech. If anything, her presence adds gasoline to the fire brewing in my gut. “A hero is a man who walks into the gunfire—not the one directing him from behind a safety barrier.”
Stealing Brandon’s chance to reply, I disconnect our call. Unlike last night, Regan barely blinks at my temper when I peg my phone across the living room. It shatters on impact, scattering warped plastic and glass onto the carpet the Bureau had installed two weeks before I moved in.
I drag my hand across the scruff hiding my jawline while sucking in deep breaths. It takes several slow inhalations before I garner the strength to raise my eyes to Regan. Thankfully, she isn’t scared by my display of violence. She’s turned on by it.
That’s not something I can handle right now, not with Dane in the forefront of my mind. I’ve told myself many times the past five years that Regan isn’t responsible for Dane’s injuries, but I’m having a hard time swallowing that argument this morning. If I hadn’t gone after Regan, Dane wouldn’t have backed me up. If he didn’t always have my back, he wouldn’t have been shot. That makes Regan just as much to blame for Dane’s life-altering injuries as I am. We both played a part in that fateful day.
“Tell me everything you know. I need to know it all, Regan.”
When Regan shakes her head, either denying my request or advising she's unsure of my demand, I growl, “The perp is approximately twenty-six to twenty-eight years old. He has golden hair, similar to mine. From his slim build and lack of strength, he would have been the dweeb at school, someone people like you and your hotshot friends would have picked on—”
“Hey!”
I continue talking as if she didn’t interrupt me. “Stalkers don’t turn violent for no reason. You must have done something to him, pissed him off in some way. This could be as simple as denying an advance or circulating a dick pic he sent you, but it has to be something. He didn’t target you for no reason, but if you continually play the victim, we’ll never understand why he wants to harm you, possibly even kill you. . .”
I stop talking when an apple smacks into my chest. The hit is so brutal, my chest protests by making me cough up half a lung. My brain has barely registered the first blow when I’m struck again. This time, it’s an orange.
“Don’t you dare put this on me!” Regan snarls before tossing a pear, banana, and a thankfully ripe dragon fruit across the room. “I’m playing the victim because I AM the victim!
I didn’t ask him to stalk me, and I sure as hell didn’t ask you to rush in and save me!”
Out of both fruit and words, she charges for the front door. Her anger is so white-hot, she doesn’t register she's wearing only a satin slip and has bare feet. I guess she doesn’t need to be concerned about being harassed on the street. Her glare is sufficient to have any man running scared. Me included. Except, I’m not running away from her; I’m running to her.
Before she can escape my apartment, I slam the door shut and crowd her against it. She has the ability to take me down in under a second. I’ve witnessed her complete the necessary maneuver multiple times during the self-defense classes she takes twice a week at a local gym, but since she knows I have no intention of hurting her, she keeps her elbows tucked into her sides and forehead braced on the door. If I couldn’t see the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, I have no doubt she’d put up more resistance.
“You saw what I saw, Rae. You read what he wants to do to you. If you don’t open up to me, he will hurt you.” The honesty in my tone can’t be concealed. I’ve seen cases like this many times in my career. It rarely ends well for the victim. “I swear to you, you know who he is. You’ve just got it locked away as a bad memory or don’t want to recall it because it will riddle you with guilt, but I guarantee you, during some stage of your life, you have met the man responsible for what happened last night. It could have been last week, or it could have been years ago, but you know him. You’ve just got to dig deep to unearth his identity.”
When she remains quiet, I push back from the door, giving her enough room to slip away from me. With memories of Dane’s injuries holding my empathy bone hostage, I went in too hard. I shouldn’t have pushed her, I’m just. . . scared. You have no idea how hard that is for me to admit. I didn’t sleep a wink last night because all I could see was Regan’s stalker’s threat being played out. I’ve seen some fucked up things in my time, but this was by far the worst. Her stalker doesn’t just want to disfigure her, he wants to mutilate both her body and spirit. And in a way, I just played into his hand by placing the blame on Regan’s shoulders instead of the man truly responsible.