Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
SERENITY
The air in our tiny Westwood apartment is thick with the scent of lavender candles and the sharp, clinical sting of lemon bleach.
It’s a scent that usually makes me feel like I’ve got my life together, but today it just smells like desperation.
I’ve scrubbed the floors twice in the last four hours, and my hands are currently trembling so hard I can barely hold the edge of the granite countertop.
It’s the kind of shake that starts in your marrow and works its way out, a physical manifestation of the fact that I haven't slept more than three hours a night since Tuesday.
Tuesday was when the photo arrived. Just a simple digital file, sent from an unlisted number, showing me asleep in my own bed.
The angle was from the window next to my bed.
My bedroom is on the second floor. Kirk Voss, a man I once politely shared a highlighter with in Advanced Accounting and nothing else, had climbed a trellis just to watch me sleep.
Now, every shadow in the corner of the room looks like a person, and every creak of the floorboards sounds like a footstep.
"Diesel will take care of everything, Ren," Alana says, her voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. She’s pacing the length of our living room, her long, dark curls bouncing with every agitated step. She looks like a caged panther in yoga pants.
"I know," I say, though my voice lacks its usual bite. I try to summon a spark of my trademark sass, the kind that usually keeps people at arm's length, but it’s buried under a mountain of exhaustion and fear. "But I’m not going anywhere. Diesel has a business to run. He’s a partner at the garage now.
He doesn't need to be playing bodyguard for his little sister’s roommate. "
Alana stops and fixes me with a look that's pure Walsh—blazing, stubborn, and entirely too observant.
"You aren't just my roommate, Serenity. You're my best friend.
And my brother? He doesn't just 'play' anything. Especially not when it comes to people he loves. And I can’t wait to see you tell him no. "
I can’t wait to see it either. I turn back to the counter and find something very interesting to focus on in the grout between the tiles.
My chest does the thing it always does when someone says his name with that particular weight.
Three years of memorizing the exact timbre of his laugh from across a crowded room, and I still haven't figured out how to make it stop.
A heavy, rhythmic thudding echoes from the hallway, followed by a demanding knock.
Before Alana can even reach the handle, the door swings open, and the apartment suddenly feels about half the size it was ten seconds ago.
Diesel doesn't just enter a room; he owns it. He’s wearing his Steel Sinners cut over a black sweatshirt, and the scent of him hits me before he even speaks.
It’s worn leather and that dark, woodsy spice that always reminds me of cedar forests and things that are too dangerous to touch.
He doesn't look at Alana first. His eyes find mine and stay there.
Then, slowly, they drop to my white-knuckled grip on the counter's edge, travel up to my eyes, and move down to settle for a moment on the side of my throat.
His jaw shifts. He doesn't say anything yet.
I become aware that I've let out a long, slow breath I didn't know I was holding, and that my shoulders have dropped about an inch from where they've been living for the past few days.
"Pack a bag," he says. His voice is a low rumble, the kind of sound you feel in your chest instead of hearing with your ears. It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order issued by a man who is used to being the final authority in any zip code he happens to be standing in.
"Hello to you too, Diesel," I say, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the fact that I’m still vibrating.
"Nice of you to drop by. We were just discussing how much I love being told what to do by men who think they're in a mid-2000s action movie. Can I get you something to drink? Or maybe a list of reasons why I’m not leaving? "
Diesel doesn't blink. He steps further into the apartment, his presence making our IKEA furniture look like dollhouse miniatures. "You've got ten minutes to get your essentials. After that, I’m packing for you, and you won't like my aesthetic choices. Move, Serenity."
"Diesel, I just picked up full-time hours at my job for the summer.
I need the money for next semester," I argue, even as my feet start to betray me by shifting toward the hallway.
"I can't just vanish to Las Vegas because some creep is leaving notes on my windshield.
The police said they'd patrol the area more often. "
"The police are reactive," Diesel says, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something cold and dangerous. "I’m proactive. That piece of shit took a picture of you while you were sleeping. He was right outside your window. That’s a fucking threat. And I don't negotiate with threats." He takes a single step toward me, closing the distance until I have to crane my neck back to look him in the eye. "You’re coming to Vegas. You’re staying at my place. If you need money, you can work at my garage where I know you’ll be safe. It actually helps me out. My business partner’s wife runs the office, and she’s out on maternity leave.
We’ve all been taking turns doing her job, and it sucks.
I need help, you’re available, and it gets you away from this asshole.
Win-win. End of story." Then he turns to his sister and growls, “You need to pack a bag and come with us.”
"Oh, hell no. I'm staying here," Alana returns, shaking her head. "My summer teaching assistant position for Professor Marks starts on Monday. Housing is part of the salary package, and I already talked to the school administration. They're letting me move into the dorms for the summer. It’s a locked-down building, D. I’ll be fine. But Ren… she’s the one he’s fixated on.
She needs to be somewhere he can't find her. "
Diesel cuts a look toward his sister, his expression softening by exactly one percent. "You're sure about the dorms?"
“I’m sure,” Alana says. “I’m actually looking forward to it. Dorm life, late nights, maybe a cute TA who needs a little mentorship.” She wiggles her eyebrows and lets the last word hang in the air with a slow, deliberate smile.
Diesel’s face goes through several distinct phases. He holds up one hand, turns toward the window, and says nothing for a full three seconds. “I swear to God, Alana. I don’t need a visual of that flashing through my mind.”
“Get over yourself.” Alana rolls her eyes. “I’ve already packed my stuff. I’ll head out when you guys leave." She turns to me, her eyes softening. "Go, Ren. I can't focus on my work if I’m wondering if you're being watched. Do it for me?"
I look at Alana, then back at Diesel. He’s standing there like an immovable object, his arms folded over that massive chest, waiting for me to yield.
It’s infuriating. It’s arrogant. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel secure in days.
I hate that I want to lean into him. I hate that I’ve spent the last several years of my life fantasizing about him.
He’s my best friend’s brother. He’s off-limits.
He’s a line I’ve spent years making sure I didn't cross.
"Fine," I snap, throwing my hands up in a gesture of total defeat. "But I’m earning my way. I’ll need full-time hours at the garage.”
"We’ll negotiate all that when we get to Vegas. Ten minutes," Diesel repeats, his jaw finally relaxing just a fraction. "Clock's ticking, sweetness."
I rush to my bedroom, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
It’s not fear anymore—not the cold, paralyzing fear of Kirk.
It’s something warmer, something that tastes like adrenaline and bad ideas.
I shove clothes into a duffel bag with no regard for folding.
Jeans, T-shirts, the one sundress that Alana swore made me look like a goddess, and a stack of books that weigh more than the rest of my luggage combined.
My hands are still shaking, but the focus of the task helps.
I grab my laptop, my chargers, and the small, framed photo of Alana and me at the Velvet Scars concert that sits on my nightstand.
When I walk back into the living room, Diesel is standing by the window, peering through the blinds.
He looks like a predator surveying his territory, his body coiled and ready for a fight that hasn't happened yet.
He turns when he hears me, and his eyes drop to my duffel bag and rolling suitcase.
He reaches out, taking the heavy duffel from my hand like it weighs nothing at all.
Our fingers brush for a fraction of a second—a micro-beat of contact that sends a jolt of static electricity straight up my arm.
I pull back, but the ghost of his heat lingers on my skin.
"Ready?" he asks.
"As ready as I’ll ever be," I say, clutching my purse tighter.
The walk to the parking lot is a blur of hyper-vigilance.
Diesel walks behind me, his shadow stretching long and imposing over mine.
He’s watching every car, every pedestrian, every rustle of the bushes.
It’s exhausting to watch him be so alert, but it allows me to finally stop looking over my shoulder.
His SUV, a massive black beast with windows tinted so dark you can't see the interior, is parked in the guest lot. It smells like him inside. It’s an intoxicating mix of leather, expensive upholstery, and that woodsy cologne that makes my head swim and my girly parts wake up.
He helps me inside, then heads over to help Alana load her bags into her car.
Alana comes over to the SUV and smiles at me. "Call me the second you get there. And don't let him be too much of a grump, okay? Give him hell for me."