Fuck.
Not wanting to wake her, I slip a cushion under her head and make my escape by dragging my ass down the hallway to my bedroom, my head already pounding with the beginnings of a hangover.
Frowning, I fall into bed and groan.
Bronte Vale is all grown up with curves that can bring any man to his knees.
Oh yeah, I noticed.
Apparently, so has my dick.
She had those curves last time I saw her, but this time, something in me doesn’t want to look away from them.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I scrub my hands down my face.
I’m not ready to dwell on just how fucked up that shit is.
And I’m definitely not going to act on it.
BRONTE
Something startled me awake.
Dazed, I sat up and felt the all too familiar buzz of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. What woke me? I searched the shadows in my room, the lamp from the living room giving me enough light to see. I stayed still, listening for unfamiliar noises, looking for out-of-place shadows down the hall. But there was nothing. Everything was still and quiet, and just as it should be.
Seconds ticked by. A minute. Finally, I shook my head with relief and let out the deep breath I’d been holding. But then my cell phone on the bedside table lit up with a message notification, and my anxiety roared back to life. I glanced at the clock, then back at the phone. It was two minutes after three.
It was him.
With a shaky hand, I reached for my cell, my heart pounding, my pulse racing through my ears. Struggling to swallow, I hit open, and fear tore up my spine.
The message was a photo.
Of me.
Asleep in my bed.
Wearing the Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt I’d put on fresh tonight.
He’d been in my room.
Ripping back the covers, I ran for the living room, terrified he was still in my apartment, lurking in the shadows and ready to make good on the threats he’d been tormenting me with for months. But at the front door, I came to an abrupt stop when I saw the door chain was undone. I had secured it in place right after I had locked the deadbolt and the door lock. I was certain of it. Because when you’re being stalked by some psycho who liked to torment you with messages and pictures of you going about your daily life, accompanied by crazy-assed poems of his obsession for you, you locked your damn door with as many goddamn locks as possible.
I reach for the door handle, already knowing that it was unlocked. Because the goddamn freak I knew as The Poet, had already unlocked them.
Still, when the door opened, a small sob escaped my throat. Because that was the moment, I realized I was never going to keep him out.
I had no choice.
I had to disappear.
I sit up in a rush, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m on Jack’s couch.
My heart’s racing as I rake my fingers down my face and fall back onto the pillows and close my eyes.
It was just a dream.
Somehow, the memory of that night has wormed its way into my brain, so it can replay in my dreams like some blockbuster reminder of why I am here.
Relax, he doesn’t know where you are.
Easing out the breath I’m holding, I feel the calmness spread through me like warm water, and I start to relax. But then last night comes back to me in little fractured snippets.
Hanging out on Jack’s porch.
Watching Braveheart.
The warmth of his big body next to mine.
Wanting to feel those big arms around me…
My eyes fly open.
I snap upright again.
Nope.
I’m not going to make this visit to Flintlock like my last one when I kissed him. Like he said last night, we were both hurting back then and it meant nothing. A second attempt at getting under him is only going to make me look pathetic.
Even if getting under him is exactly what I want to do.
Oh, yeah. I know that now.
If last night is anything to go by.
Lying next to him as we stared at the television, feeling his warmth and his breath as I used his lap as a pillow and losing myself in the closeness to him, it felt like I was home.
Excitement buzzes in my blood at the memory.
But nope.
No point in even thinking about it.
I tuck the thought away and stand.
The house is still. Jack’s gone, but he’s left a note on the coffee table.
You looked too peaceful to wake up.
Help yourself to the fresh coffee.
The note says nothing.
It’s simple.
Straight to the point.
But how I’m beginning to feel about my neighbor isn’t.
JACK
“Goddammit!” Caligula says, throwing his hand of cards onto the table. “These goddamn cards are goddamn rigged.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. Shooter has just made the first bet. A ten-dollar chip, and Caligula obviously doesn’t have a hand worth a damn.