Hidden Obsession (The Club #2)

by Missy Johnson

  “Just thinking.” I smile. I turn slightly so my lips connect with his.

  He grins and runs his hand under my hair, gently gripping the back of my head as he kisses me again.

  “You know what they say,” he murmurs, guiding me backward toward the sofa.

  I giggle as my feet shuffle in sync with his as I clutch onto his shirt to avoid falling over.

  “Why think when you can act?”

  He falls onto the soft cushions, pulling me down on top of him. I laugh, placing a knee on either side of him. I can feel he’s hard and that excites me. Shivers race through my body as I press myself against him.

  Just then, his phone beeps. Groaning, he lifts me off his lap and stands up. His brow creases as he checks his message.

  “Shit, I have to go.”

  “A case?” I guess, trying to hide my disappointment.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he winces. “I shouldn’t be too long though. Call me if you need me, okay?”

  After Conrad leaves, I wander around his place, my arms crossed over my chest, checking out his things. I hate to think what I’m doing is snooping, but let’s face it—that’s exactly what it is. I’m curious to learn more about him, and what better way to do that than through his things?

  The first thing that strikes me is the lack of photos from his childhood. I count one of him with his parents in a nice wooden frame in the living room, but that’s it. It’s not that strange, I suppose, but for someone like me who was always close to her family, it feels odd. Shaking off my questions, I move onto his bedroom. Everything is perfectly placed, from the smooth, crease-free duvet to the neatly folded stack of clothes sitting on his dresser. He’s so damn neat. I wander over to the table sitting under the window and pick up a book. It’s a novel by Alex Maestro, bookmarked about halfway through. I set it back down, careful to place it in exactly the same position in case he notices.

  I leave his room, leaving the door a crack open as it was, and make my way back down to the living room. I pass another door and, curious, I stop and turn the handle, gently pushing it open. My heart thumps loudly in my chest as I fumble for the light switch. My anxiety levels are so high that I feel like I’m in the middle of a horror movie and about to get slashed. I tell myself I’m being stupid and push my anxieties aside. Light fills the room. I spy the ironing board and the spare single bed that lines the far wall and laugh, no idea what I’d been expecting to be in here. I’m about to close the door when something catches my eye. I step closer, sure I must be imagining things. Lying on the floor next to the full-length mirrored closet is a photo. Of me. A photo of me that was taken outside my old apartment back in Orange County.

  He’s a cop. He probably has my whole file somewhere around here. Having my photo in his spare room doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure there is a logical explanation.

  I stand up, the photo still in my hand, and stare at the closet in front of me. It’s ajar just enough for me to see there is something in there. My hands shaking, I gently push the door along the run. My eyes widen as I take in the contents. Stacks and stacks of folders and photos lie on the two middle shelves. I grab a handful and flick through them, my heart sinking. All me. Every fucking last picture is of me. There are photos of me inside my apartment—both here and back in Orange County—pictures of me leaving work, the gym, the bank, everywhere.

  There are way too many photos for these to be part of my file. I push them back inside the closet and shut the door, the mirror rattling as it slams closed. There’s only one explanation, and it’s the worst one I can possibly think of.

  I back out of the room and race down to the kitchen. Grabbing my phone off the charger, I dial the police station.

  “Hello?” a friendly woman answers.

  “Hi, uh, I was hoping to talk to a detective you have working there, Conrad Livingstone?” My voice trembles as I force the words out. I close my eyes and brace myself, ready to hear the words I know are coming next.

  “I’m sorry, miss, are you sure you have the right precinct? We don’t have anyone here by that name.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “My mistake.”

  I drop the phone and fall to my knees. This has to be a bad dream, but I know it’s not. As much as I want to wake up and find none of this is real, I need to face up to the reality: Conrad is my stalker.

  My hand flies to my mouth. I feel sick and so violated. I’m struggling to my feet to rush to the bathroom when I hear the telltale click of the front door. Oh fuck. What the hell am I going to do now? One look at me and he’ll know I know. God knows what he’ll do to me.

  Panicking, I run to the bathroom and close the door, pressing my weight against the back of it. I listen as his footsteps get closer, ignoring his calls for where I am. I close my eyes and focus on breathing.

  “Raven, let me in.”

  I close my eyes as he pounds on the door, his voice becoming more urgent. I clap my hand over my mouth, trying not to scream. Why didn’t I bring my phone?

  “Rave, I’m going to have to break the door down if you won’t let me in.” His voice has softened. He almost sounds like he feels sorry for me.

  Sliding down the door, I sit on the floor, clutching my stomach. I have no idea how to get myself out of this mess, but what upsets me more is how angry I am that he lied to me.

  “I know you know. I need a chance to explain.”

  Explain? As if there is anything he could say to fix this.

  “If you want a chance to explain, I need you to give me some space, Conrad. I can’t handle hearing whatever it is you have to say to me right now.”

  He sighs, the sound of his fists connecting with the door making me jump.

  I spy the open window on the far side of the room and carefully get to my feet. All I know is I can’t face him right now. With every step I hold my breath until I reach the window. I breathe out as I frantically climb through the small space while listening to him talking to me through the door.

  I storm down the fire escape, not sure about where to go from here. I need to think. Running around to the main road, I hail a cab and ask the driver to take me to work. I can’t go home and I have nowhere else.

  At least this way if he comes after me I won’t be alone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Work is the last place I want to be, but the only place I can be.

  I’m disgusted at what he’s done, but what messes with me even more is that I haven’t reported him. I try and tell myself that I’m still in shock, and once I process everything that’s happened I’ll call the police, but I can’t even convince myself.

  I don’t want the police involved because I’m hoping there is a small chance that we can work this out. At the very least, I alerted security about him and requested he not be allowed in the club. That way I can figure this out knowing I’m safe from running into him. I sigh and rub my temples, frustrated with myself. How can I be into someone who has done what he’s done? What kind of person does that make me?

  I trudge around the club, barely able to keep my mind on doing my job. I arrived pretending I thought I was scheduled, and by coincidence someone had called in sick. I’m probably not in the right frame of mind to be working, but it’s a distraction. A permanent frown is fixed to my face, except when my managers walk by and I plaster on a smile. I feel like I’ve been here for hours, but the reality is my shift isn’t even half over.

  People filter in and out of the VIP rooms, which I’ve been assigned to cover for the night. It’s taken to this point for me not to jump at every little sound, convinced it’s him and he has somehow gotten in. I’m finally calming down, though I’m far from being okay.

  This whole time it was him. He was always there, watching me. He befriended me and let me believe he was someone else. Yet, in spite all of that, I’m not sure I’m ready to let him go. I let out a laugh, which earns me an odd look from a passing member. I’m completely fucked up. The guy I’ve gotten to know over the last few weeks couldn’t have been
a complete lie. But what do I trust more—my judgment over the last two years or that of a guy I’ve known for less than a month?

  “You left your phone.”

  Conrad. I freeze as his fingers trail up my arm.

  He tilts my neck upward, pressing his forehead against mine. I’m trying to fight the urge to respond the way I so desperately want to, but I can’t. No matter how fucked up I feel about it, I can’t deny how glad I am to see him.

  “How did you get in here?” I ask, my voice trembling. I hate my body for responding to his voice. I grab my phone as he holds it out, shoving it in my pocket.

  “Let’s just say I have my ways,” he chuckles. “You didn’t have to run from me, Rave. I just wanted to talk.”

  “I needed time to think,” I whisper, breathing in his scent.

  His grip on my neck tightens slightly, but I’m not afraid. I can’t explain why, but I know he won’t hurt me.

  “And I needed to be able to explain,” he replies, his voice a low growl.

  “What’s to explain?” I ask, turning around to face him. I search his eyes. “What could you possibly tell me that makes all of this okay? You lied to me, Conrad. Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through these past two years? Stalking me, pretending to be a detective, and then making me fall in love with you—”

  “I didn’t pretend to be anything,” he interrupts, his dark eyes piercing mine. “I am a detective. I’m on leave at the moment for…something that happened that was out of my control, but I am a detective.”

  I laugh and try to push him away. “I called the precinct, Conrad. Is that even your real name?”

  He reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wallet. My eyes widen as he pulls out his license and his badge and shoves them into my hand. I tremble as I drop my gaze to the cards. Conrad Livingstone. Senior detective, LAPD.

  “How did you know I’d called the cops that night?” I ask, shaking my head.

  “I was in the hall when you arrived home,” he admits. “Once you finished the call, I called and canceled the complaint.”

  “You can do that?” I laugh. I shake my head. “If this is about wanting to be with me then why…why not just approach me like a normal guy? I don’t understand why you would do all of this. I don’t get what you were hoping to achieve.”

  “I fucked up. I know I fucked up, but by the time I realized it, my chance was gone. I was obsessed with everything about you. I convinced myself you’d never give a guy like me a chance.” Those deep green eyes penetrate my soul, almost taking my breath away. “I’d do anything for you, Raven.”

  “I could have you fired. You know that, right? I could have you thrown in jail for what you’ve done to me.”

  “But you won’t, will you?” he says, his thumb caressing my cheek.

  I close my eyes and swallow hard, hating that he knows me that well, because he’s right: I won’t do that.

  Why won’t I do that?

  “How do you know I won’t?” I ask, my voice cold.

  “Because you didn’t call the cops when you left my house.”

  “You had my phone. I couldn’t call them,” I shoot back, and he smiles.

  “True, but you came here and not to the police station. Or you could have called them from here.” He’s right, but I don’t want him to know that. “I’ve let you down. It’s going to take a lot for you to trust me again and I know that. All I want is that chance. Think about us before you throw us away.”

  He takes my hand and pulls me toward him. I let him, exhaling as my body hits his. I’m so confused. Is this really what I want? He brushes the hair away from my face, his green eyes burning into mine.

  “Can I kiss you, Raven?” he asks, his voice thick.

  I nod, closing my eyes as my heart pounds.

  His soft lips meet mine, sending tingles through my body. As we fall deeper into the kiss, I can’t deny what I feel for him. As fucked up as it is, this being with him feels so right. Does it make me weak that I want to forgive him, or stupid that I might? His fingers creep around my neck as his forehead presses against mine. He stares into my eyes and I don’t look away. My heart races with every glance he offers me, my skin jumps with every touch. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Part of me can’t believe what I’m about to say.

  “I can’t promise you anything,” I begin, the words sticking in my throat. “But I’m willing to give you a chance. To give us a chance. But I swear to God, if you lie to me again I’ll slice your balls off and feed them to my dog.”

  “You don’t have a dog,” he chuckles, planting a kiss on my lips.

  I narrow my eyes at him and I swear I see him shiver. “Then I’ll get one.”

  “I promise you won’t regret this, Rave,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around me.

  “I hope I don’t,” I mutter, closing my eyes. “I really hope I don’t.”

  The End

  The Club

  I hope you enjoyed my novella from The Club. If you would like to read more from The Club series, check out the website: www.theclub.website/

  Please also take the time to like our Facebook page: www.facebook.com/theclub

  Other books by Missy

  See full backlist, links and full blurbs at

  www.missycjohnson.com

  Wildcard: A three part serial (see over page for chapter one)

  Has the bad boy of tennis finally met his match?

  Volume One: http://amzn.com/B00MR2MK98

  Always You

  A sweet student/teacher romance that will make you appreciate love.

  http://amzn.com/B00HDZOTM0

  Wicked Innocence

  He’s a twenty-five year old rock god who thinks I’m twenty-one. I’m only seventeen…

  http://amzn.com/B00MDLKQ62

  The Tease Series

  Male escort. That got your attention.

  http://amzn.com/B00GP0SB8W

  Out of Reach (see over for excerpt)

  My best friend is dying and I’m in love with his girl.

  http://amzn.com/B00K6Y3SDQ

  Provoke

  Mace is hiding something. What would you forgive the man you love for?

  http://amzn.com/B00J1HNFMS

  Wildcard: Volume One excerpt

  Chapter One

  “Ryder, you’re becoming more well-known for your behaviour off court than your actual career. Do you have anything to comment on that?”

  I raise my eyebrows at the reporter. Flashes from cameras are going off everywhere, as you’d expect in a post-match press conference—especially for a game I’d been very lucky to win.

  “Not sure what you mean there, Stan,” I say, reading his nametag. It’s been less than two minutes, and I’m already sick of where this is going. “I came here to play tennis—that’s it. It’s a damn shame that reporters like yourself having nothing better to do than focus on what I do in my private time.”

  “But is it private time when you’re out until three a.m. the night before a big match?” he persists.

  I shrug, and wipe my mouth in an attempt to hide my smirk. “Players prepare for matches in different ways. I’m sure for some a good night’s sleep does the trick, but for me, I’ll take an evening of rough and sweaty sex over a quiet night any day of the week.” I ignore the glare of my manager, Matt, and nod at the next reporter.

  “Ryder, do you think your pre-match actions showed disrespect for your opponent today?”

  “How?” I fire back. “I treated the build-up to this match just the same as I would if I were playing Nadal or Federer. You all seem to want to focus on my life outside of the court. Does anyone here have any questions about my actual tennis?”

  I cross my arms over my chest as Matt bows his head and sighs. A murmur rises through the crowd before someone puts their hand up. I nod, my eyes locking onto hers. She’s a pretty little thing with long, dark hair and stunning blue eyes. I can tell she’s feisty, and I find myself wondering if that attitude carries over into t
he bedroom.

  “You play the number two ranked player in the world tomorrow, and your fellow countryman, Jason Dillard. Will you be having an early night tonight?” she asks. Her full, red lips curve into a grin, and I can feel myself harden.

  I shift in my seat and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table in front of me. “Well, that depends.” I smirk.

  “On what?”

  “On whether or not you’ll give me your phone number.”

  **

  “What the hell, Ryder?” Matt groans and drags me out of the room. I’m sure it’s a preventative measure—before I can get myself into any more trouble.

  “What?” I protest, a gleam in my eye. One of my favourite hobbies is stirring him up. He makes it so damn easy. “You’re the one who insisted I go up there and answer some questions. I told you I wasn’t feeling it.”

  “You’re going to kill me. My other ten clients put together cause half the trouble you do,” he mutters, running a hand through his short hair.

  “Yeah, and I probably make you more money than all of them put together,” I smirk.

  He glares at me, but he knows I’m right. “You do understand it’s a requirement that you do a post-match press conference? You know, being the professional player you are, and all.”

  Matt is in his late fifties, and one of the best managers in the world of tennis. He worries too much and always focuses on the negative, but I guess that’s part of what makes him so damn good at his job. He is my complete opposite.

  “Oh, calm the fuck down. They love me. Everyone does. I’m the bad boy of tennis, right?” I laugh, not concerned in the slightest by his bad mood. I know he won’t stay mad at me; he never does.

  “Yes, but you don’t know when to pull it in,” he says. The frustration in his voice is obvious. “Propositioning a reporter? Not a good move, Ryder.”

  I laugh. It might not have been a smart move, but it hadn’t stopped her slipping me her number as I walked through the crowd.