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9
Him
I stride across the street, holding back the need to shove my fist against something that will break bone. She’s playing me, I know that, but I still listen to her lies like a man starved of sound.
Problem is, I can’t tell what’s the truth and what’s bullshit. Decker couldn’t get a trail on her. Her apartment is owned by Brent Hendrix—the fucking bartender. Even the utilities are in his name. There are no ties to a Stephanie or Emma Stephens. She has to be paying him in cash to make sure she doesn’t leave breadcrumbs.
But I’ll find one.
Tomorrow.
I would bet my left nut she’s not going to Seattle to meet a guy. I refuse to believe she’s fucking me with a boyfriend a few hours away. But even with my nut on the line, the slightest doubt has furious jealousy streaming through my veins.
I want to kill this lover of hers. Real or imaginary.
The feel of her body against mine has become torture. The vanilla scent of her, too. All sweet and feminine. She’s pliable to my touch, molding into me like butter, yet tough as nails at the same time.
So many conflicting aspects. A fucking kaleidoscope. Or maybe that’s what she wants me to see. Smoke and mirrors.
I storm inside Atomic Buzz, slap my palms on the bar, and demand, “Scotch.”
Brent glowers at me and prepares the drink. “Bad day?”
“You could say that.” Every day has been a mix of heaven and hell since this woman walked into my life. I can’t stop thinking about her—who she is, what she does, and why we’ve been brought together.
“Have you ever heard her talk about a boyfriend?” The question escapes my mouth without thought, making me sound like a needy little bitch.
“Steph?” Brent frowns.
“Yeah.” I guess we’ll stick with that for now because I don’t believe her real name is Emma, either.
“No. Not at all. She doesn’t share that shit with me.”
So, having another dick on the side is a possibility. Great. Fucking perfect.
He hands over my scotch.
I throw down some bills before snatching the alcohol from the bar to go sit in the far corner of the room. Yeah, I’m sulking. For fuck’s sake.
I need to leave, but I’m stuck here maintaining the charade that I showed up to get a drink, when I was actually stalking a woman who just left her apartment for the first time in days.
Impeccable timing is my only advantage, which Decker gained by hacking the video surveillance outside her apartment door. It seemed to be the only hole in her secretive existence—she logs into her online feed via her neighbor’s unsecured internet.
So I have nothing on her—no name, no insight, no fucking clue—but I get notifications when there’s motion around her door and a crystal-clear, black-and-white view of when she comes and goes.
Like right now. My cell vibrates in my jacket, and I already know it will be her. I tap into the video app to see her standing in the hall of her building. She enters the pin code to her apartment and releases the locks. I clench my cell as she opens the door, then she walks inside, out of sight, but still visible enough in my mind to make my dick pulse.
I should be doing a million other things. I should be on the other side of the city, preparing for an impromptu trip to Seattle.
Fuck.
I’m over a week late getting back to Torian. I’ve dodged his calls for days, which means I’m a heartbeat away from a gun-barrel prostate exam if I don’t pull my shit together.
I gulp the cheap scotch and flick through my cell screen to call Decker. It’s time to level-up our game.
He answers on the second ring with a chipper, “How can I be of assistance, fuck face?”
“Listen up.” I’m not in the mood for his shit. Not that I ever have been. “I need you to be on the road tomorrow.”
“Okay… Where’s the party?”
I scan the bar, making sure nobody is paying me attention, and lower my voice. “Seattle.”
“Who are we dealing with?”
Her. The woman who drives me mindless with curiosity and hunger. “We’re still on the same project. Nothing has ch—”
“Are you serious?” He chuckles. “Torian is right. You’re slipping.”
Every muscle snaps taut. “When did you speak to Torian?”
“He called a few days ago wanting an update because you won’t answer your cell.”
Fucking hell. “What did you say?”
“What could I say? You haven’t told me shit.”
If Torian took the time to call, he would’ve pushed, demanded, threatened. He wasn’t the type to walk away empty-handed.
“What did you tell him?” I repeat, my tone lethal.
“I said you were following some lead on a woman. That she’s tied to Dan somehow… Which is only an assumption at this point, because it marks the time you dove headfirst into this weirdness.”
I suck in a breath and hold it until it threatens to break my restraint. “Did you give him any specifics? Did you say anything that could lead to her?”
He gives a derisive scoff. “How is he going to find out who she is when I can’t?”
Jesus. It’s not about finding out who she is. Torian won’t give a shit. If he knows about her, he’ll do what I should’ve done days ago—get the information she has via whatever means necessary.
“Look,” Decker starts, “I thought I was covering your ass. What was I supposed to do? Fabricate a story when I have no clue what’s going on? We both know he’d lose his shit if he found out I was lying. And as much as I love you, buddy, it’s not enough to take the fall when it comes to that crazy motherfucker.”
No shit. Why does he think I didn’t answer my phone? I don’t need the drama.
I down the remaining scotch and breathe slowly to lessen the aggression pounding at my temples.
“What’s going on, Hunt? Who is this chick?”
“I don’t have a clue.” It’s the truth. “I know she was in that hotel room. She beat the fuck out of him, and I’m pretty sure she gained our information while doing it.”
There’s a pause. A silent criticism. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Good question. The jury is out on that one. “Why did I need to? Would you have worked harder? Have you half-assed the background check because I didn’t give you enough info?”
I’m a weak prick, trying to distract him from the more important questions, like, why didn’t I get what I needed that first night? Why didn’t this end back then? And why did I let it continue?
“I’ve done everything I can,” he grates. “I don’t half-ass anything, asshole, and you know it.”
I do. But I don’t regret the diversion. “Then you don’t need specifics. You need to work with what I give you and remember who pays you. Me. Not Torian.”
“Please tell me you’re not sleeping with her.” His plea is almost inaudible and followed with more criticizing silence. “Fuck, Hunt. You are, aren’t you?”
I rest my glass on the table and massage my temples between my thumb and middle finger. I can’t answer him. No. I don’t need to.
“Are you still there, asshole?” he snaps. “What the fuck is going on?”
I don’t know. I’m so lost in her I can’t tell when common sense ended and obsession began. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. It started as a bit of fun. I was messing with the cocky bombshell with the sassy mouth. Then she flipped the fucking board on me and started to beat me at my own game. She had me chasing my tail and second-guessing myself.
I never second-guess myself.
“You need to sort this out,” he says. “And fast. Torian isn’t going to wait forever.”