by Shandi Boyes
Regan sighs a long and disappointing moan. Some good comes of it. The whiskey fanning my face ensures me I’m doing the right thing.
“I’ll take that as a yes—?”
“I’ll take that as your solemn vow that you’re gay?” Regan bites back, stunning me with her quick-wittedness. “Goddammit, my gaydar is usually rock-solid.”
Even aware she is goading me for the hundredth time tonight, I can’t harness my ego. “Did our kiss not assure you I’m straight? You couldn’t feel the effect it had on me?”
I’m two seconds away from being charged with indecent exposure when Regan screws up her nose and gags, as if turned off at the prospect of another grind up against her front door.
“Mercifully, I’m saved from prosecution when she faintly mumbles, “I felt it. Why do you think I want to see it?”
My ability to reply is lost when the taxi pulls to the front of my building. When I attempt to hand him some bills from my wallet, he gestures for me not to bother. “The entertainment more than covered the fare.”
“I bet he wouldn’t say that if you had whipped your cock out like you wanted to,” Regan murmurs into my ear, the alcohol heating her veins making her forget the serious reason we’re here.
Not wanting any resident of Ravenshoe to owe me a favor, I squeeze a bundle of bills through the partition separating the driver and me. He grumbles something under his breath but pockets my money all the same.
"It's a little shady for a PI," Regan insults when I join her on the sidewalk of my building. The slur of her words proves my assumption that she's tiptoed from tipsy to drunk during our travels. "I guess it makes sense. If you live amongst the riffraff, they won't be as suspicious about your loitering eye."
Her fake snotty tone forces a smile to crack my mouth. “It’s definitely not up to your standards, but it has a bed, toilet, and hot water. What more do you need than that?”
The creak of a security gate drowns out Regan’s reply. She remains as quiet as a church mouse when we make our way up the cracked concrete stairwell of my building. Thankfully, the department adhered to my request for a mid-floor dwelling, as Regan sounds two seconds from passing out. For a woman who runs every morning as if she’s outrunning the boogeyman, she’s a little unfit. We’ve barely scaled four flights of stairs.
I realize my assumptions are way off the mark when Regan mumbles, “Have they heard of security lighting? This place is really dark.”
After switching her bag from my left to my right hand, I curl my other hand over hers, halving its shake. “Just one floor to go, then we’re in the open.”
She nods but remains silent. Her pulse stops thrumming through our conjoined hands when we reach my floor. I had an outdoor security light fitted the day I arrived in Ravenshoe. It flicks on the instant our feet hit the landing.
“Is this you?” she asks when we stop at my door, but her tone relays she already knows my answer.
I nod anyway.
She takes in the two doors next to mine. “How many other tenants are on this floor?”
“It’s just me right now. Ms. Emerson moved out a couple of weeks ago, and Carly’s away visiting her parents.”
Regan’s eyes snap to mine. “Why doesn’t Carly get a fancy salutation?” Jealousy energizes her tone.
I smirk, loving her possessiveness but hating it at the same time. I’d give anything for our situation to be different, for her to work for anyone but Isaac, but I learned a long time ago that wishes are never granted to men like me. I have to work for everything I have—including relationships.
“Carly is twenty-four. Ms. Emerson is sixty-five,” I explain when anger stretches from Regan’s stomach to her face from my delay.
She spreads her hands across her cocked hip, making my night even more torturous. “Your point being?”
My smirk morphs into a genuine smile. She’s extra cute when she’s green with envy. “My momma taught me to respect my elders, that’s all,” I force out through the annoyance clutching my throat. She’s not cute. She’s not yours. She’s an assignment—nothing more.
“Oh.” Her lips twitch, but not another syllable leaves her mouth.
It’s for the best. The only solution I could think of to tame her sass was sealing my mouth over hers. That’s not a sensible thing for a man in my predicament to do—again. I broke god knows how many rules kissing her, but the backlash I could endure if anyone discovers I brought a target to a government building would be mammoth.
I could have protected Regan at any hotel of her choosing, but the apartments stacked above and below mine are swarming with agents—old and new. She’s safer here than she’ll be anywhere. For that reason, and that reason alone, she will stay here. I’d rather lose my position than put her life in jeopardy. I can’t explain it any more simply than that.
Regan’s hands fall from her hips when my front door pops open with a creak. The floor plan of my apartment is modest, but it is clean and nicely furnished.
I enter and flip on a light. One bulb lights up my entire property. “My bedroom is through the hall; the bathroom is opposite it.”
“The bathroom, as in you only have one?” Regan gingerly shadows me into the manly space.
When I nod, she groans, making it apparent tonight won’t just be hard on me.
“The kitchen is to your left, the living room to the right. That’s pretty much it.”
Regan stops so abruptly, I crash into her. “What about the guest room? Where’s that?” Her eyes scan the dimly lit space as if she’s willing an additional bedroom to magically appear.
When several blinks fail to summon one, I notify her, “There is only one room.”
Her eyes rocket to mine, but the lust quickly dims when she hears my reply. “I’ll take the couch.”
Her cheeks redden as a growl rumbles in her chest cavity. “Three strikes and you’re out of the game!”
I don’t have a chance to question her cryptic reply before she snatches her bag from my hand and hotfoots it to the only hallway in my apartment. I can tell the exact moment she discovers my bedroom. It isn’t because she slams the door with the same dramatic edge as when I forfeited our game of tonsil hockey. It is the lack of door slamming that gives away her location. Because the hinges on my bedroom door were broken, I removed it two months ago with the intention of replacing it. The hinges are now brand new, but I never got around to putting the door back on.
“If I discover the toilet seat up, I’ll murder you in your sleep,” Regan shouts in warning before violently shutting the only door in my apartment. It is attached to the microscopic bathroom that’s been lacking fresh towels since I moved in months ago.
I gulp loudly. I thought my biggest battle tonight would be getting Regan to my apartment. Only now am I realizing keeping her here will be the real challenge.
Chapter Fifteen
I don’t know why I’m showering. My skin is so clean, it’s gleaming like I’m vying for a part in Twilight.
It’s a pity soap can’t clean my insides just as well.
The whiskey heating my veins has me feeling fearless, but the shake of my hands started long before alcohol scorched my throat. When I walked into my apartment this evening, the same odd feeling I got at Substanz years ago bombarded me. Instead of validating my intuition, I brushed it off as a consequence of my botched attempt at seducing Alex. I thought my lack of mojo had me misreading the facts but I should have known better. My intuition has never led me astray. Not with Luca. Not with Alex. And not now with the deranged person who wants to cut off private regions of my body and send them to hell where I supposedly belong.
Angry women I am used to. No matter how many times I pledge that taken men are not on my radar, they never believe me. I'm not out to steal your husbands, ladies. Even a faint discoloration on the ring finger has me running for the hills. So if your man is out trawling for a date, project your issues onto him instead of the poor, unsuspecting victim he wants to buy a drink. I didn't
ask for him to sit next to me, just like I didn't ask for you to call me every derogatory name under the sun. We women should stick together when it comes to lying pieces of shit who pretend they’re single the instant they leave home, not drag each other down. We are sisters, so how about we start acting like it?
Although I’ve dealt with my fair share of ill-informed women. I am fairly sure tonight’s incident isn’t a revenge-seeking wife. It had a personal edge to it, like the assailant knows me better than half the people in my inner circle.
What gives it away?
The fact they called me Rae. No one calls me Rae anymore—not even my dad. The instant he discovered it was my "stripper" name, he went back to calling me Regan. Even though I assured him multiple times that cabaret dancing isn't stripping, he claimed the amount of cleavage on display made it seem as though it was.
So that only leaves one person who calls me Rae: Alex. You'd think that would make him suspect number one. But for some reason, he isn't on my hit list. Although stupid to admit considering I hardly know him, I trust him. He reminds me a lot of Isaac. He is protective, stern, and has a heart bigger than Texas. He also doesn't want to touch me with a six-foot pole.
Whining at my inner monologue, I remove the suds from my body before stepping out of the shower. The knocks keep coming when I realize I forgot to bring a towel in with me. I could use my satin slip to dry myself, but then what will I sleep in? It is freezing in here.
“Alex!” I shout, hoping there is a magic way he can bring me a towel without seeing me naked—again!
My hands dart up to cover my breasts when Alex answers not even two seconds later. His voice is so clear, I swear he is just outside the bathroom door.
My suspicion is proven spot on when I notice a shadow under the door. He either bolted to the door the instant I called his name, or he’s been standing behind it the entire time I’ve been showering. Recalling his snooping ways in the hospital months ago, I’ll go with the latter.
“Did you need something?” Alex asks, shocked by my delay.
“Uh.” I scan his bathroom one more time to make sure I haven’t missed seeing a towel. “I need a towel.”
“Uh-huh. Do you want me to bring it in?” Hope rings in his tone. . . or is it wit?
Wanting to test a theory, I reply, “No! I’m naked. Just leave it by the door.”
Alex groans. “Okay. Party pooper.”
His shadow doesn’t budge an inch—not even for a second—before he says, “It’s by the door, waiting for you.”
“Thanks.” I grimace, having no idea what to make of this. I wait for Alex’s shadow to disappear. It’s a long and cold minute.
“Alex?”
“Yes, Regan.” He answers me in the same manner he did when I shouted his name. It is virile and hot, and it makes me squirm.
Hating the lust-crazed idiot I’m becoming, I snarl, "I can see your shadow under the door, you nincompoop!"
The need for a towel is lost when Alex replies, “I know.” His voice is laced with self-assuredness.
People see confidence as a bad thing. I do not. Games, on the other hand, they piss me off something major. I don’t play games. . . unless I’m the one instigating them.
After throwing my satin slip over my bone-dry body, I toss open the bathroom door with just as much force. Alex is standing on the other side, looking as smug as a lion in mating season. He keeps his eyes locked on my face, but I know he doesn’t need to lower them to take in the whole picture. The snarl of his top lip is all the indication I need to know he is disappointed about my covered frame.
His eyes return to my face when I bark, “I don’t play games, Alex. Haven’t since I was a child.”
I barge past him and storm into his room, only to remember halfway there his room has no door for me to hide behind. Peeved, I spin back around. Except for the cozy living room on my right, there is nowhere for me to go, and Alex knows it. His smile is stretched ear to ear, his chest puffed high.
“Is this why you brought me here? To add to my torment?” He physically shunts from my snappy tone, but it doesn’t stop me saying, “I’ve been fucked around multiple times tonight, so unless you intend to fuck me for real, leave me the hell alone!”
“Hey, come on, this wasn’t my intention,” he replies when he spots stupid moisture looming in my eyes. “I thought a little playfulness would loosen the tension between us, not make it worse.”
“Well, you were shit wrong!” I push out through the lump in my throat.
I hate dramatics; I’m just too scared by tonight’s events to reel in my feelings. The hate in the note scrawled across my vanity mirror scares the shit out of me. A madman was in my house. If Alex hadn’t showed up when he did, who knows what would have happened.
“Obviously, I have a lot to learn when it comes to comical acts,” Alex remarks, stepping closer to me.
“Clearly.” I’m shocked at his submissiveness. He took the reins so well tonight, I would have never guessed he’d hand them over just as quickly.
While he bridges the distance between us, my eyes drift to the wall, hating the sympathy brimming in his. “What’s going on, Rae? You were in that shower so long, I was growing worried you had escaped via the exhaust fan vent.”
A smile cracks my lips. His question was laced with worry, but there was pure panic in his last statement. He truly believes I’d crawl through a vent to elude him. Apparently it isn’t just his comedic schtick needing some work—my flirting skills also need some. I’m not running from him. I’m struggling not to chase him.
“I tried to escape.” I rub my cheeks with my hand to ensure no tears have fallen. They haven’t—thank god. “The hole wasn’t big enough for me to squeeze through.”
Alex shakes his head, barely concealing his smirk. I flinch for the quickest second when he raises a towel to my shoulders to dry the water puddled there. Although the heavy decline of his Adam’s apple discloses he noticed my cowardly response, he acts oblivious.
Once my shoulders are as dry as my throat, he switches his dedication to my hair. While he pampers me as no man ever has, I take in another slow breath. I study him carefully, confident he will not only protect me—he could utterly destroy me. Before him, I didn’t care if my actions were seen as slutty. I was who I was. Nobody was going to change me. But as I stare into Alex’s endless dark gaze, my thoughts turn dangerous. I want more—I deserve more. He just doesn’t seem willing to give me what I want.
My eyes stop dancing between Alex’s when he asks, “A penny for your thoughts?” His old saying leads to the first genuine smile on my face all night. That is an adage my great grannie always said. She was the light of my life before she lost her battle with cancer two years ago.
I answer Alex’s suggestion in the same manner I always did to my gran, “My thoughts are worth more than a penny, so I’m inclined to counterbid.”
His oceanic eyes drift around his clean but bland apartment. “Look around, Rae. I’ve got nothing but pennies to offer.” His saying seems more directed at the thoughts I kept in my head than the ones I vocalized. When he returns his eyes to mine, he adds on, “Unless all you’re after is an ear? I’ve got two of them.”
For the first time tonight his voice sounds genuinely sincere. “Is this on the clock, or. . .?” I leave my question open for him to answer how he sees fit.
I can see myself talking to him as a friend. I have a lot of male friends—way more than female—but if our chat is part of the secret life he doesn’t want to disclose, his offer will be a no-go for me. If I want someone to rush in and save me, I’ll call Isaac. I don’t want that. I want someone willing to help me sort through my confusion, not eradicate it on my behalf.
Although Alex’s to and fro routine frustrates me, the fact he knew I was in a low place without asking what crawled up my ass proves he could be the man for the job. He just needs to decide if he’s man enough to accept the challenge.
He proves it without a doubt when h
e pledges, “I’ll never be on the clock with you, Rae. Ever.”
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 is a perfectly normal thing for him to do. It is 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 is 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?