Kenna
“I’m totally not a stalker,” I reassure myself as I cinch the ties of my black satin dress into an artful bow. And really, I’m not. I’m just… inquisitive to a fault.
After I lost Jonas on the highway last week, I’ve been bursting with curiosity. It’s torture not knowing where he was going and it’s not like I can just ask him about the suit. That would be as good as admitting I was spying on him. Not a good look.
This dress, on the other hand, is a very good look for me. I figure if a man is wearing a suit, a little black dress is always a safe bet. And while this dress isn’t exactly little, it is revealing. The slit cuts dangerously high up one thigh, and the only thing holding it to my body is the tie around the middle. I’m all plunging cleavage and exposed leg.
I put on way more makeup than I usually wear, praying that if I’m over the top, maybe Jonas won’t recognize me? That’s wishful thinking, but hopefully he’s going somewhere big enough that I can fly under the radar.
I feel a little stab of guilt for spying on Jonas, but I try to push it aside. I’ll just find out what he’s up to and sneak back out. Curiosity slaked.
Easy peasy.
* * *
Yeah… not so much. Two hours later, I’m still sitting outside the house of Jonas Flynn. There are a lot of words I could use to describe the object of my surveillance. Bossy, stoic, and secretive come to mind.
Ooh, restaurateur.
I snort out a laugh in the quiet of my car. I can just imagine the look Jonas would toss my way if he heard me describe him as a ‘restaurateur.’ He’d grunt at me for sure.
‘Panty-dropper’ is also fitting, not that I’d admit that to anyone else. I touch my lips, recalling for the millionth time the way he kissed me. What was it? Two seconds? Maybe three? No question it was short; too short. That brief, heart-wrenching kiss from eight years ago has more replays than any other moment of my life. Hell, losing my virginity was less memorable. I try to recall the way Jonas’ fingers felt on my skin, but then I shake my head and shove the memory back down as deep as I can get it.
I pull my jacket closer around me and eye my Kindle. I’m tempted to pick it up, but any light inside the car would give me away for sure. Stakeouts look like fun on tv, but I should have known better. I finished my coffee and snacks an hour ago. This one-woman Law & Order performance is getting old fast. I’m bored, cold, and the necessity of finding a bathroom is quickly becoming a priority.
But then a flicker of movement from Jonas’ house catches my attention, and I sink down in my seat. The moon is just a sliver in the sky and even with porch lights doing their best, the street is dark. I’m hoping he can’t see me, but I’m not taking any chances. Not after that close call last week.
Jonas steps out his front door, turning to lock it before jogging down the steps of his porch. He has a small duffel bag thrown over one shoulder and, just like last time, he’s wearing a suit.
“Jackpot,” I whisper.
The suit alone would be cause for concern. As long as I’ve known Jonas, and it’s been a hell of a long time, I’ve never seen him wear anything other than worn-in jeans and plaid flannel shirts.
I’m not going to lie, the tie works for him. The whole look suits him, no pun intended. In his comfortable daily uniform, the beard he’s been sporting is scruffy. Kind of adorable. But paired with a suit and tie, that scruff comes across on a whole other level of sexy.
He tosses the duffel bag in the passenger seat and fires up the truck before buckling himself in. From my hiding spot, I watch him peer around before putting the truck in gear and pulling out of the driveway.
I wait as long as I dare before starting my engine and following. Letting a couple cars get between us, I enter the freeway, trailing Jonas toward Portland again. He weaves in and out of traffic, but I keep my eyes on him. Not a stalker, I chant in my head.
He drives to a quiet area of downtown, pulling into a small parking lot. I pass the lot, driving a couple blocks before circling back, killing my lights and parking on the road a couple cars back. I’m just in time to see him knock on a black door. It opens, and he disappears into the dark beyond. The door shuts behind him, leaving me clueless and burning with intrigue.
“What the hell is he up to?” I murmur. I sit back in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest as I keep watch. A couple gets out of an expensive-looking BMW and approaches the same door. The man is in a dark, well-fitted suit and the woman is in a slinky red lace dress. From the set of her shoulders and her quick little walk, she appears excited. I catch her date leaning down to whisper in her ear and, as he knocks, she shivers, leaning into him.
I can’t help but wonder what dirty things he must have whispered, but then realize she might just be cold. I look up the address over the door on my phone, but it’s just listed as ‘Tango’ with the designation: ‘private night club.’
I laugh out loud; the sound dampened by the car interior. Dancing? Jonas? I mean, the image of Jonas dancing certainly holds appeal. I just can’t imagine why Captain Grunts-a-lot would voluntarily take up ballroom. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do so much as a box step.
I scroll through the search results and can’t find anything else. Even the website is crazy stealthy. The home page features a background image of black silk pooled over a female body and a place to enter a username and password. There are no other pages. No hours. No info. Nothing.
Why would a dance club need to be so hush-hush? Eyeing those cars, I think I have an idea. Anyone with that much money can afford to keep out the low-rent peasants. It’s annoying and elitist and I can’t imagine why on earth Jonas would be joining them… But I intend to find out.
* * *
Istroll through the parking lot, holding my shoulders back and trying to look like I belong here. Though, if we’re judging by the high-end cars, this crowd lives in an entirely different world from mine. Jonas’ old truck stands out even worse than my little hybrid.
“The plot just gets thicker and thicker,” I mutter, carefully sliding between a Maserati and a Porsche. A chilly gust of wind sends goosebumps over every inch of my skin, and I feel so exposed. Couldn’t Jonas have picked a hobby with more clothing? Of course, the men get suits. This silky little dress is providing exactly zero warmth.
Another gust of wind hits me and a piece of card stock skims the pavement, hitting the toe of my shoe. I stoop to pick it up, turning it over. Ornate black lettering shimmers over the cream paper in the dimly lit parking lot like it’s written in liquid metal.