He lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Is this about the stripper?”
I exhale. Lollipop, or Mary Fordham, messed me up. She sent threatening letters, stalked me, stalked Courtney, showed up at my mom’s living facility. Thank God security didn’t allow her inside. The last time was when she showed up with a knife. It was night, and I was coming from dinner with friends when I walked around the corner of Wickham to go inside. She had been waiting on a bench across the street and ran for me. I managed to catch her wrist before she stabbed me. It’s not something you forget.
Francesca isn’t Lollipop. She’s not a stalker.
She lives here. Darden and Herman adore her.
But there’s still a tingle of unease ...
I rub my neck, trying to loosen the muscles there as I circle back to the coincidences that have brought us together. I don’t believe there’s some magical force in the sky watching us, moving us around like chess pieces to put us in the right place at the right time.
Fate is bullshit. Stars don’t align.
I can’t believe in it because if it’s real, then it means I was meant to be the cause of my father’s death, that I was meant to be everything my mother says. Just like him. Like her. My nose flares. Everything I have, I got on my own, not because destiny decreed it.
“Tuck? You there?” Ben asks.
“Yeah.” I step into the elevator and tap the pass code to get to the penthouse. “Just some red flags popped up. Do you have someone you can trust to take care of it?”
“We have investigators, sure. What’s her name?”
“Francesca Lane at Wickham, apartment 20E. She used to work at a place called East Coast Ink & Gallery. Age is unknown, maybe late twenties. Petite, dark hair, nice ass, big eyes—”
He chuckles. “That’s good; we can get the rest. How did you meet?”
“NDA.”
A pause. “Okay, I’ll get a guy on it and let you know. Back to the Tampa game. Don’t beat yourself up about the loss. We can—”
My jaw flexes. “I dropped two passes and fumbled in the end zone. My contract is up at the end of the season, and it’s not looking good.” I stare down at the last Super Bowl ring on my finger. It’s been downhill ever since Ronan left our team.
“Maybe you need a fresh start. Tennessee is looking for a wide receiver—”
“This is home.” I lean against the wall in the hallway outside the penthouse. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong, but we’ve lost three games in a row ...” I rub my face.
“Ankle?”
“Scans are fine.”
“Your forty-yard-dash time?”
“Four point four was my latest. Good as hell. I’m beating the boys fresh out of the draft.”
“Mental?”
“Still in therapy.” My coach demanded I attend sessions after I punched a player last season. The doctor’s diagnosis? I’m experiencing “open aggression” and anxiety because I feel out of control.
He sighs. “When Ronan was quarterback, you two were on fire. Jasper—”
“Is talented. It’s me.”
“Don’t stress. Come in, and we’ll brainstorm—”
My phone beeps, and my body tightens as I see the name on the ID. “Gotta go. Thanks for the help. Get on that investigation. Later, Ben.”
I click over to the next call. “Nella? What’s wrong?” The director of Greenwood, a state-of-the-art private facility for people with mental illness, Nella chats with me weekly but never at night.
“Tuck. We had a small incident.”