by Penny Dee
When he finally looked at the photograph, his frown lifted. “He sent this to you?”
Before I could answer, the door across the hallway opened and Eamon, my creepy neighbor, appeared in the doorway. Wearing a plaid robe over pajamas buttoned up to his neck, at first, he didn’t say anything, he just stared at us with his usual vacant expression. He was strange and aloof, but every time we crossed paths, I made an effort to say hello and be friendly. Not that it made a difference because he’d never said a single word to me.
“What’s the problem, officer?” he asked.
Harrumph. Well, there you go.
Officer Johnson crossed the hallway. “You live here?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been home all night?”
“Yes.”
Eamon was as rigid as flagpole. His back straight, arms fixed to his side, his face expressionless, and his eyes black and cold.
“You see or hear anything unusual tonight?”
“No.” His emotionless eyes moved to me. “Why?”
“Miss Vale here thinks someone has been inside her apartment. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No.”
“Didn’t see anyone out of place going in or out of the apartment?”
“She has a lot of visitors.”
“I see.” Officer Johnson’s tone was heavy with judgment, so was the glance he threw my way before he turned back to my neighbor. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
With the quiet click of his door, Eamon was gone, leaving Officer Johnson and his abundance of judginess standing in the hallway. I could feel his assumptions about me cross the floor with him.
“I’m going to be straight with you, Miss Vale. There ain’t a lot we can do in these situations. I’ll write up an official report, but it’ll be up to you to make sure you keep your doors locked.” He gave me a condescending smile. “Double check, even triple check if you need to.”
It was clear he thought I was making this all up.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot to go on. Until this person actually—”
“Murders me?”
He blinked a few times with annoyance before continuing, “Shows his face, there is very little we can do.”
I folded my arms across my chest to protect me from his lack of interest in doing his job. Serve and protect, my ass.
“What about the messages he sent to my cell? Can’t you trace them somehow?”
He gave me a look that told me it was hardly worth the effort.
“Most likely a burner phone.”
“So that’s it?”
He studied me for a moment. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, for an unempathetic douchebag—blond, strong jaw, full lips—but there was a harshness about him. Something dark. As I looked into his hard blue eyes, the familiar tingle of anxiety started at the base of my spine.
“You been in Nashville long? You got friends you can stay with?” he asked.
“How do you know I’m not from here?”
“That accent of yours. What is it, eastern Tennessee?”
“Flintlock, Cooke County.”
“You don’t say. You and me we were practically neighbors. I was born and raised in Johnson City.” A hint of a self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips. “Look, perhaps I could swing by after work to check on you. Make sure your place is secure. Maybe go grab a bite to eat together. I could be someone to confide in. It might be nice having me around. People see you spending time with a police officer might be less inclined to pester you with Polaroids and whatnot.”
I stared at him.
Was he seriously asking me out?
Before I could reply, the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs turned both our heads, and Riley came running along the hallway, panting as she stopped beside Officer Johnson. “I got here as quick as I could. Are you okay?”
After ringing the police, I had called her.
I nodded. “Yes. Officer Johnson was just leaving.”
“What, so soon?” Riley asked, looking at him. “Aren’t you gonna dust for fingerprints or something?”
“Apparently, The Poet actually needs to do me bodily harm before they can help.”
Officer Johnson threw me an unimpressed look, but after putting on his hat, he handed me his card. “It has my number on it. Don’t be afraid to use it.”
I ushered Riley inside my apartment but turned back to watch Officer Johnson disappear down the stairs and out of view.
Closing the door, I turned to look at Riley to tell her about his invitation but stopped cold when I saw her face. She had drained of color as she studied something in her hand.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, an uneasy feeling spreading through the pit of my stomach.
She looked at me and swallowed deeply. “I think you’d better call Officer Johnson back.”
“Why?”
“I just found this on the floor. The corner was poking out from under the couch.”
She handed me the Polaroid she was holding, but my hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it still to look at it.
My heart went to my throat.
It was an image of The Poet dressed all in black with a balaclava over his face and a knife in his hand. It was taken in my bedroom while I was asleep in my bed.
Scribbled on the bottom of the picture were the words, “Next time.”
I looked at Riley. “Oh, God, Riley… he’s going to kill me.”
BRONTE
When he pulls into the driveway, I’m waiting for him on the porch. Again.
The sun is setting as I watch him park his bike and saunter up the concrete path to where I’m sitting, my body buzzing with anxiety, and I know he can see it written all over my face.
“Two days in a row, I’ve come home to you waiting for me on my porch.” His brows draw in when he reaches me. “What’s got you rattled, wildflower?”
Watching him sit on the step next to me, I hand him my cell and study his face as he reads the message.
His brows pull tighter. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s the reason I came here. I call him The Poet. He leaves me creepy messages, poems, riddles—”
“There are other messages?”
“Yes. Amongst other things.”
Jack’s jaw tenses. “You’d better tell me what these other things are. Is some fuck stalking you?”
I look away because stalking is such a terrifying word to face, but I nod because there’s no turning back now.
Jack’s fingers find my chin and lift it, so I have no choice but to look at him. As soon as my eyes meet his, I want to fucking cry. Tears spring forth, and I have to fight them back. I hate that The Poet is turning me into mush.
I see the concern in Jack’s dark blue eyes. “Do you have any idea who might be behind this?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Have you been to the cops?”
“Numerous times, but they seem to think it’s all in my head.”
“Come on,” he says, unfolding his big body to stand.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to get your things from your grandmama’s house because you’re staying with me from now on.” He hands me my cell. “And then we’re coming back here, and you’re going to fill me on everything that’s happened. Right from the very beginning.”
“It started with a poem pinned to my front door,” I say, dropping my bags on the dining room floor and sitting at the little dining table beside the window.
“Do you have the poem?”
“No, I thought it was creepy, so I threw it away. It freaked me out but not enough that I thought about keeping it for evidence.”
Jack sits across from me at the dining table. “Can you remember what it said?”
Unfortunately, I can.
“Roses are red, violets are blue, you’ll be both when I’m done watching you.�
�� I shiver, recalling how random and weird the words had seemed at first, then how sinister and dark they became when I realized what they meant.
Red with blood, blue with death.
“At first I didn’t get it, but when I realized it was a threat, it really scared me.” I hadn’t been able to sleep that night. “But Sebastian and Riley kind of brushed it off when I told them. They said it was just someone messing with me and not to worry.”
“Sebastian and Riley?”
“They’re my friends.”
His eyes search my face. “But then something else happened.”
I nod. “About a week later, I came home to find two Polaroids pinned to my front door. They were of me walking from the school library to my car. Of course, I freaked out, and even Sebastian and Riley started to take it more seriously.” A cold lump lodges in my throat when I recall how frightened I was that day.
“Did you speak to the police?”
“I spoke to campus security first, but they said it was probably someone playing a stupid prank. So, I went to the police, and they pretty much said the same thing.”
His eyes narrow. “You showed them the photographs?”
“Yes. But they didn’t think it was anything I should worry about. Even when I told them about the poem attached to my door the week before.” I bite my lip. I’ve never regretted throwing something out so much in my life as I do with that damn poem. “Because I didn’t have the poem to show them with the photos, they seemed to think I was making a big deal out of nothing.”
Jack shakes his head and folds his big arms over his chest. “What else has he done?”
I take a deep breath and brace myself because walking through the events of the past four months isn’t going to be fun.
I tell him about the text messages and the sensation of being followed.
Of the phone calls from an unidentified number.
Of the heavy breathing of someone on the other end of the line.
Of the fear and paranoia.
Of the profound loss of who I am, day by day, because I’m scared.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Four months, give or take a couple of weeks. Then a couple of nights ago, this happened.” I hand him my cell again, opened to a picture. “He took this photo.”
Anger burns on his face when he sees the picture of me asleep in bed. “He was in your apartment?”
I nod, biting back the fear rising in my gut when I think about The Poet standing over me while I slept. I was so unaware. So vulnerable. He could’ve done anything to me.
“My friend, Riley, came over that night, and she found this on the floor.” I hand him another Polaroid.
Jack’s face grows stormy, his brows tighten as he studies the picture.
“What do you think?” I ask. “Should I be worried?”
“It could be a prank,” he says.
I have a feeling he’s said that more to ease my fear than what he truly believes. Fear tingles in the base of my stomach.
“But in case it isn’t, you need to take precautions.”
Struggling to swallow my fear back, I wrap my arms around my knees. “I’m scared, Jack.”
I watch the muscles in his jaw tighten. “You’re safe now. You understand me? You’ll stay with me until we find out who the fuck is behind this.”
“I don’t want to put you out. I can stay next door—”
“The hell you are. You’re staying here with me, and I’m going to make sure you are safe. Got it?” He presses a few buttons, and I realize he’s adding his number to my contacts and then sends the picture to himself.
“You can trust me, wildflower.” He gives the cell back to me. “If it’s one thing I know how to do, it’s hunting people down and making them pay for fucking with the wrong person.”
BRONTE
It’s too hot to rest, and I’m too rattled to sleep, anyway, so I give in and take a cold drink out to the porch. The night is bright with moonlight, the air sweet-scented with Carolina jasmine growing wild down by the creek.
I sit in a wicker chair with my feet on the railing and stare out into the silvery night. It’s funny because if I were a few yards to my left, sitting on my own porch and looking out into the street, I would be terrified. Hell, I wouldn’t have come outside in the first place. I would’ve put up with the heat and the heavy air and stayed inside with all the doors locked and the windows bolted.
But here at Jack’s house, I’m not as scared.
As if stepping out of my thoughts, Jack appears in the doorway, crumpled from sleep and wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. He leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms over his bare chest, his hair hanging in messy, chestnut waves past his broad shoulders.
He yawns. “Can’t sleep?”
“I forgot how hot the summer nights are up here.”
His brow creases. “You thinking about the creep?”
“It’s kind of hard not to. He’s been making my life hell for the past four months.”
He steps onto the porch, and I can’t help but notice the muscular back and thick, strong arms covered in tattoos.
“You’re safe. He won’t hurt you, okay? I’ll make sure of that.” The rich comfort in his voice washes over me like warm water. I look up at him and seek comfort in his eyes. “Let him come, and I’ll make sure he wished he didn’t.”
His words aren’t said with bravado. They’re calm and matter of fact.
My eyes drift down his body, secretly appreciating the broad shoulders, the wide, hard chest, and a six-pack that tightens and releases with every little movement he makes. I look away because a shirtless Jack is making my stomach tingle.
“You mentioned a boyfriend you had in college. Any chance he’s the guy doing this?”
I think back to my ex, Rhys. Our relationship hadn’t ended on good terms. He was an incredibly needy and demanding boyfriend, and when I broke it off shortly after Cooper’s death, he didn’t handle it well. He got emotionally desperate and started to do a bunch of crazy shit, like ringing me in the middle of the night, crying and pleading, or showing up at my work to confront me about some wild scenario he’d created in his mind. His parents eventually took him out of college and moved him back East where they lived, to get him some help.
That was four years ago, and I haven’t heard anything from him since.
I tell Jack about Rhys.
“I think we need to find out where your ex-boyfriend is,” he says. He disappears inside and returns a few minutes later with his laptop. Handing it to me, he adds, “We need to find out what he’s been up to for the past few years. Look him up and see what you can find.”
I type in Rhys Peyton-Rutherford into Google and net quite a few results. But they’re all for the same reason.
“Prominent local businessman’s son dies in a car wreck,” one of the headlines says. I click on it. Immediately, Rhys’s face comes into view. It’s his high school yearbook photograph. Beside it is a black and white image of a wrecked car. It had slid down a steep ravine and was crumpled against a tree. According to the news article, Rhys died a year ago after his car lost control and crashed, killing him instantly.
Regret pours through me.
I didn’t know.
It had been a dark time in my life, so I’ve never wanted to think about it. About him. I left him in the past, tucked quietly away inside the deep recess of my brain, not knowing he was dead. Damn. I had wanted him to get help and find peace, but now he’s gone.
“Well, that eliminates him as a suspect,” Jack says. “Can you think of anyone else?”
“I can’t think of anyone,” I say.
Trying, I can’t keep the hopelessness out of my voice and hate that I can’t. I’m not a weak person. I’m strong. Practical. Levelheaded. But The Poet and his crazy messages have me wanting to cry at the drop of a goddamn hat.
Jack crouches down in front of me and puts a hand on my knee. It’s warm and gentle, just li
ke his eyes as he says, “We’ll find out who’s doing this to you, wildflower. You have my word. Until then, you’ll stay with me. I’ll speak to the club tomorrow, and we’ll begin looking into this. You’ll have the support of the entire club behind you. And you know Paw is basically a bloodhound. There’s nothing he can’t find out.”
Glancing at Jack, our eyes linger, and something crackles in the balmy air around us. My smile fades as an urge to kiss him sweeps through me like a sudden summer shower. My gaze drops to his lips and an aching need takes up in my chest. Despite the circumstances, I feel my attraction toward Jack growing.
Lifting my eyes, I draw in a deep breath. He’s looking at me. And even though I can’t read his expression, it’s dark and beautiful, and little fires ignite all over me.
But he breaks the spell when he rises to his feet. “You need to get some rest. Things will seem a lot better in the morning.”
He’s right. I’m tired. Right through to my goddamn bones.
I follow him inside, but even then, my eyes sweep over the big form of his muscular body, and my heart startles with a wicked appreciation.
When we say good night, he disappears into his bedroom and closes the door behind him, and I feel an urge to open it and crawl into the warm bed beside him, just so I can feel his strength and safety beside me and those strong arms tucking me into his protective embrace.
Instead, I go to Cooper’s old room and close the door quietly behind me. I slip into bed and try to sleep, but despite my fatigue, I know sleep isn’t going to come easy. My mind is a whirl with emotion as I stare at the fan lazily cutting into the heavy night air.
I don’t know what time I fall asleep or if I really sleep at all. All I know is that the fog in my head has lifted and clarity has sunk in.
I want Jack.
I want him in every way possible.
JACK
The following morning, I wake with a raging hard-on and a belly full of guilt.
Lying in bed, I’m at war with myself.
Straight up, I’m hard because of her. I know it but refuse to admit it, so I start lying to myself. I tell myself that me being hard as fuck has nothing to do with seeing her sitting on my porch in the middle of the night, near-naked in her tank top and tiny panties. It has nothing to do with the feel of her warm skin beneath my palms when I’d placed a reassuring hand on her leg. Or the dream I’d had about her last night where I’d gotten to touch those plush pink lips with mine.