Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
MASON
T he sun is just starting to set, glaring golden light through the floor to ceiling windows of the Willis Tower. I look down at the city I’m sworn to protect, watching cars drive and boats sail out on Lake Michigan. We grew up north of here, and came to Chicago a few times. My mom and Rory liked the museums and my dad took my brothers and me to a Cubs game way back when I was in middle school.
I was drawn to the energy even back then and felt like Silver Ridge was the most boring place ever to grow up. Now that I’m an adult, I appreciate the quiet safety of a small town, though I still prefer the nightlife of Chicago.
And the crime.
Not that I like it, I don’t, but it keeps me busy. There's never a dull moment around here, that’s for sure. I’ve bounced around all over the country, not staying in one place much more than a year. This is the longest I’ve been in one place and I don’t know if I’m ready to admit how much I like it.
I’m not all too far from my parents—which they like—and I’m only about an hour and a half drive from my nieces and nephews. One of Chloe’s publishers has an office right in the Loop and she’s been like a sister to me since our childhood, so it’s nice to be able to see her a few times a year as well.
Stepping closer to the glass, I turn my head, looking out as far as I can, wondering what kind of awful things are happening right now that we’re not aware of. My life view might be more than a little jaded. I’ve seen the worst of the worst of humanity and have seen those same scumbags justify the things they’ve done. And speaking of scumbags, I did a little digging into Mira’s ex husband, pulling up police reports and court records.
She was telling the truth about the divorce taking a long time and it was obvious by all the filings through the court system that they delayed it on purpose, not able to let go of control. He filed contempt of court charges over and over—all for petty, stupid things—and Mira was never found guilty. He even tried holding her in contempt three months after the divorce finalized for “damaging his reputation” because she spoke about how he was physically abusive on her podcast.
If you don’t want people to know you’re an abusive asshole, then don’t be an abusive asshole.
There were three police reports filed: the first time the cops were called was about a month before Mira filed for divorce. Her friend was on the phone and heard Cory—her ex—screaming at her and throwing things. She called the cops to go do a wellness check. The second time, Mira texted 911 herself after her ex dragged her by the ankle out of bed so he could scream at her and tell her that everything that went wrong in their marriage was her fault and she needed to “forget about all the bad stuff” he’d ever done. Two weeks after that, she filed for a protective order that was later worked into their divorce decree, though it doesn’t seem like Cory is the type of man—or boy, really—who respects the law.
The third time the cops were called was when Cory came to get his stuff out of their house. He got angry because he forgot to put something on the list of items he was allowed to take and shoved Mira backwards into a wall. He denied it, not realizing Mira had security cameras in every room. He was charged and released less than twenty-four hours later, ordered to take domestic violence classes. Knowing abuse cases like this, I know a lot more went on that didn’t get reported. Or it got reported and not taken seriously.
Checking the time, I move to another side of the building and look out at the horizon. It’s busy up here as it always is around sunset. Taking a few steps to the side to avoid being in the background of someone’s selfie, I turn right as she comes my way.
Fuck , she’s gorgeous. I inhale but get no air. Golden sunlight bathes Mira’s body as she walks forward, shoulders back and chin up. She’s looking around, taking everything and everyone in, as I should be, but right now I can’t peel my eyes away from the slight bounce of her breasts with each step.
She’s wearing a short black dress with a low-cut neckline to show off those perfect tits. Her hair falls in loose curls around her pretty face and her eyes—emerald green—shine in the light. A smile comes to her face as soon as her eyes lock with mine, but she shakes her head ever so slightly and looks away.
Getting her phone out to take selfies, she stops just a foot from me but doesn’t turn around.
“Did anybody follow you?” she whispers and smiles for her camera, taking a photo.
“Are you seriously asking me that?”
Laughing, she lowers her phone and turns around. “Just making sure. I mean, you are a professional and all.” Cocking an eyebrow, she smirks and goddamn, that look does something to me and all I can think about is pushing her up against the window, grinding my hips against hers as my cock hardens and inching that short dress up until my fingers cup her ass.
“Were you followed?” I force myself to speak and to look down at the city again, not into her hypnotic eyes. I need to get laid, that’s all. It’s been a while, for me, and anyone with eyes would be attracted to Mira.
“I might have been. My Uber driver, who was a very nice older gentleman from Uganda, was very concerned that I was walking around without a husband.” She laughs. “I told him I was meeting him now.”
“Good. Drop your phone in two minutes.”
“What?”
“Drop it and make it look like an accident. Two minutes.”
“Uh, okay.” She tips her head and I turn, looking back down at the city as I count, moving a few paces down right two minutes goes by. She drops her phone and I bend over to pick it up.
“Thank you,” she says, taking the phone and the earpiece at the same time. “I’m so clumsy.”
“Luckily, it didn’t break.”
“Yeah.” She puts her phone in her purse and then reaches up, pretending to mess with her hair. She does a good job acting nonchalant. It’s impressive for someone without training, really. People think they can watch a few spy movies and know how to move without drawing attention to themselves, but it’s not that easy.
A group of young twenty-something year old girls pushes forward, giving me a good excuse to move back next to Mira.
“Black Honda Civic,” I say. “Michigan plates. Starts with E and ends with number eight.”
“E-eight,” she repeats and nods. “Got it.”
“Nervous?”
She inhales, considering her words and I look at her just in time to watch her breasts rise and fall. My dick jumps and I blink, getting a mental vision of her standing with her back to me as I unzip her dress. God, Harris, keep it together.
“Kinda since I know the truth, but also no. I’m trying to tell myself this is just any other job I’ve been hired to do.”
“You know PIs need to have licenses, right?”
“I don’t call myself a PI.”
“You just go all Jessica Jones for fun? You do realize how dangerous that can be.”
“I’m a girls’ girl.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Come again?”
“A girls’ girl. You don’t need to have a license or go to school to learn how to stick up for other women. Sometimes just sitting next to a guy at a bar and asking if he has a girlfriend is all you need to do to catch a cheater.”
“So you don’t ever follow people, do a deep dive on social media, or wear a wig so you’re not noticed?”
“None of that is illegal,” she retorts.
“Sounds a little stalkers.”
“I would argue social media deep dives aren’t even stalking. It’s important to do your due diligence before you go out with someone.”
“Right. You could think you’re going out with a regular ol’ therapist only to discover you have a surprising amount of followers on TikTok.”
“Hah. And interesting you looked me up. Now who’s the stalker?”
I shrug. “Social media deep dives aren’t stalking. And it’s my job to look into things and people.” The group of girls taking selfies crowds around the window and Mira moves closer, close enough for me to feel her body heat coming off in waves. “You’ve never been recognized while pulling one of your little stunts?”
“Little stunts?” Her brows go up. “What I do might not be a high-stakes, undercover mission, but I’m helping people.”
“Yeah. I suppose.”
She inhales, pursing her lips together for a moment. “And no. While I have a bunch of men following me on social media, the majority of my followers are women. My podcast demographic is ninety-two percent female. Though if someone did know who I was, they’d just know I’m a therapist with a podcast. I don’t particularly advertise my, uh, other services.”
I nod, wanting to ask her more questions. It’s definitely interesting, and picking people apart to get to the why comes naturally to me. Though with just the little bit of background info I was able to get on Mira, I have a pretty good idea.
“Ugh,” she groans, looking at her phone after getting it back out of her purse.
“Something wrong?”
“No.” She rolls her eyes at whatever message she just read and drops her phone back in her bag. “My ex husband won’t leave me alone.”
“Even though you’re divorced?”
“Yep. The guy’s a narcissist. A real one,” she presses. “I know everyone calls anyone they don’t get along with a narcissist, but he got the diagnosis of a sociopathic narcissist when we were trying to salvage a sinking ship in couple’s therapy.”
Ahh, so that’s where her whole why put people through therapy outlook came from. “And he’s probably fighting with his girlfriend, if he has one?”
“Yep. It’s like you have a degree in behavioral studies or something.” She playfully elbows me. “Which you do. From Purdue University.”
“You looked me up.”
“You’re on LinkedIn. It wasn’t hard.”
Inhaling, I glance at my watch. She should leave soon and I need to meet Diego at the restaurant. He’s bringing his wife and her sister, so it’ll look like we’re on a normal double date. They’re already there and I’ll come in after Mira, once Enzo is distracted by her beauty—because how can he not be?
“Ready?” I ask her.
She takes a deep breath and I lose my battle against not looking at her breasts again. “As I’ll ever be. Now, let me go charm the pants off a hitman. Not literally, just…you know what I mean.”
I laugh. “I do.”
Her eyes lock with mine and she nods. “It’s showtime.”