12. Blake
12
BLAKE
I let Georgia-May out at her sister’s place. She mentioned earlier that I could take the couch, and honestly, that’s a relief. I had half expected her to suggest I sleep in the car, given the friction between us. I can sleep anywhere, for her sake, but the couch is a far better option. Despite my fitness, age seems to have a direct line to my lower back.
Resisting the pull to follow her inside, I still catch a glimpse of Coco being handed to her by a woman who must be her sister, Anne. I’m too far for them to notice, and I’m somewhat thankful because that little girl, seen only as a fleeting shadow, has melted the frost around my heart. It’s certain—what she means to Georgia-May means just as much to me. Regret might be a lifelong burden, but it won’t hold me back. In fact, it strengthens my resolve to be everything they need.
After getting an update from Ryker, I knock on her door. Georgia-May opens it but doesn’t invite me in.
“Whenever you’re ready,” I tell her. “Remember, I’ll be with you.”
She retreats inside while I make my way back to my car.
A few moments later, she exits the house. Maintaining a discreet distance, I observe as she makes her way to the bus station. Opting for public transport from Colorado Springs to Denver is, admittedly, a clever strategy. It’s less conspicuous and blends her seamlessly into the crowd, thwarting any attempts to single her out.
As she boards the bus, I decide to shadow her by road, keeping my own profile low. The drive to Denver drags on, offering me ample time to ponder everything that’s unfolded. The burglary, the looming threats, and that kiss. A kiss I’m mandated to forget, yet it haunts my thoughts, more poignant than I dare acknowledge.
Following her isn’t merely about protection. It’s more personal than it ought to be, and I’m painfully aware of it. Despite my stern warning to Georgia-May about rethinking this arrangement if she couldn’t maintain our limits, I’ll never pull back. Not when so much is at stake. She and Coco are too important.
Never once does Georgia-May glance over her shoulder. She doesn’t even seem to wonder if I’m nearby. “Good girl,” I mutter under my breath. It’s better this way. She can’t afford to show the police I’m shadowing her.
When she arrives in Denver, she heads to her apartment first. A smart move, especially since she couldn’t have known about the situation given the police’s phone call never reached her. Despite her own admission of not being good at lying, she has the presence of mind to keep her story anchored in reality.
I follow her discreetly, acutely aware of any unwanted attention that might compromise our safety. I opt to stay one floor below her, ensuring I’m close enough to intervene if needed yet distant enough to avoid detection.
Every shadow makes me tense, every sound puts me on high alert. My eyes constantly scan the surroundings, catching even the smallest movements. The twitch of a blind, a flicker of light. A surge of adrenaline fuels my heightened awareness. I’ve never been this hyper-vigilant, not even while keeping an eye on my bosses, Rob and Clayton. Whether I like it or not, Georgia-May embodies a bond that digs deep into my soul. My resolve to maintain a professional distance begins to crumble under the weight of my own feelings—feelings for her that are ingrained and increasingly difficult to resist.
Inside the building, I maintain a discreet distance. Police tape crisscrosses her apartment door. She pauses, her silhouette framed against the tape’s warning, then turns around without touching anything. She exits the building and heads back to the bus station, boarding a bus that I’m sure is taking her to the police station.
As I continue to follow her, my instincts scream at me to wrap my arm around her and guide her through whatever awaits. But I rein it in, forcing myself to hold back and stick with the plan.
Outside the police station, I sit tensely in my car, resisting the impulse to go inside and follow Georgia-May. Each second she’s out of sight ticks by like an eternity. My gaze keeps shifting to the station’s front doors, anticipating to see her step out.
I channel my restless energy into a vigilant sweep of the surroundings. Leaning back against the seat, I try to appear casual, a nondescript part of the street’s daily scene, even as my mind races with concern and strategy. My eyes scrutinize every face that passes, each vehicle that slows near the entrance, and anyone lingering too conspicuously. This watchfulness is a practiced discipline honed from years of not allowing personal feelings to compromise safety.
All is quiet. I don’t think her pursuers are around. They could be deterred by the police presence, a lingering effect of the raid at her apartment, or perhaps they believe she’s still in California.
The silence stretches with unbearable slowness. Then, Georgia-May finally emerges from the police station. She looks unscathed, yet her movements are quick, almost furtive, as if she’s ready to flee the place. Ensuring no eyes follow her, I hold back just outside the bus station and signal for her to join me. Every moment she’s not beside me gnaws at me with sharp teeth.
Her gaze flicks around the area, a brief scan before she approaches me. The tension in her posture melts away as she approaches.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my hand aching to touch hers.
“Yeah.” She almost slumps into the passenger seat, her relief palpable. “You were right. They’re treating it as an attempted burglary. They seemed casual about it, knowing I didn’t lose anything.”
As we start driving back, I keep my eyes on the rearview mirror, watching for any sign of a tail. The streets bathed in the fading light of the evening seem to cooperate, offering us a smooth passage.
“They asked about the check and the money,” she continues, her voice a murmur against the backdrop of the moving scenery. “I told them the truth, that I sold a program to Hartley Marine and used the money for Coco’s operation.”
“Good.”
“They said they’d call me if they found something. Non-committal.”
“For the first time, I’m glad for the police’s inaction.” I smirk slightly, allowing a rare glimpse of relief to cross my features.
Then she holds her breath before saying, “They showed me the CCTV from the bank. There was a man dressed in black, hooded up, gloved, and everything. He showed up twice. I told them I didn’t recognize him. They weren’t even sure if he was involved in the break-in at all.”
“Medium build, medium height? Could be just about anyone?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I’ve seen him, Georgia-May.”
She shifts herself to face me. “Where?”
“I was on your campus, about to meet with your supervisor. I spotted him right away. Like the one guy who brings a salad to a pizza party. That hooded man was asking about you, but I didn’t catch his face. The only thing that stood out was his accent. Kind of British, but not quite.”
She sighs, her gaze flicking away before locking back onto mine. “Where else have you been to find me?”
“Any place you might have gone, any lead that might bring me closer to finding who you really were.”
She licks her bottom lip as if pondering something on her mind. “I’ve seen him too,” she admits.
A tide of panic rises in my gut. “Where and when?”
“A week before I had dinner with Rob and Clayton, it was the first time in weeks that I planned to check my phone, which I’d left in my apartment. The hooded man was tailing me as I entered downtown Denver. I managed to shake him off, then circled back and drove straight to Colorado Springs Children’s Hospital.”
“You sure he doesn’t know about your sister’s place?”
“I’m sure.”
“Huh…a week before that dinner?” I muse, lost in thought. “We could’ve crossed paths then, you know. I was at your place, waiting hours to catch a glimpse of you, but you never showed. And that was the same day I spotted that hooded man on your campus, too.”
I recall the closeness of our missed connection, wondering what would’ve changed had I seen her then. A lot—at least the incident that night at the L.A. motel wouldn’t have happened. A mirrored flicker of realization passes over her face, but she simply says, “I guess he found out about my apartment after those men who attacked me saw my driver’s license.”
“So now we can say with certainty it’s all Bertram.”
“I don’t want to give him what he wants, but I know he won’t stop until he gets it.”
Her resolve is commendable, but the possible consequences leave me unnerved.