Harlow

5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

LYNX

Flopping back on the leather sofa in my living room, I kick my feet up on the coffee table and lace my fingers behind my head, replaying the image of Harlow scurrying to and from my truck outside the diner in the pouring rain, a jackknife in her hand and a hilariously determined expression on her face.

But when she realized I was watching her and her caramel eyes blew wide with shock ... Christ, I couldn’t contain my amusement.

But then the little heathen did it again outside the store.

The girl is ridiculous. With balls bigger than any man I’ve known.

And beautiful. In a chaotic, messy sort of way. The kind of beautiful that makes a man linger. And that’s a first for me.

On cue, my phone vibrates with a text, and I snatch it off the coffee table and glare at it.

Severo: Any updates?

Raking a hand through my hair, I draft a response.

Lynx: Target located. Consider it done.

Just as my thumb is hovering over the send button, I glance at the file on the coffee table for the millionth time tonight.

Intrigued by the fact that there are three different versions of Harlow, I flip it open and stare down at the first one—the nineteen-year-old girl showcased in her file.

She appeared unwell, sickly thin, and haunted by something dark and disturbing.

She was meek, beaten down, with eyes devoid of any life, as if someone had ripped her soul from her body, shredded it to pieces, then stuffed the remnants back inside her.

The second is the stripper. Deviant. Tempting. With a body built to turn grown men into simps.

But then there’s the third, the one in the diner that stopped me in my tracks.

This version is a fucking firecracker. Naturally beautiful.

Naturally bold. And the life that was missing from her pretty caramel orbs in the picture in her file—that spark that I so often watch fade from my victim’s eyes—is very much there.

And it burns brighter than any wildfire.

Snuffing it out feels … wrong.

Swiping through my phone, I pull up the blurry photo I snapped of her leaving the club, glancing over her shoulder like prey who knows they’re being hunted.

Because that’s exactly what she is. Prey.

Zooming in on her face, I bring her expression into focus, a sick thrill moving through me at the prospect of chasing her down, wrapping my hand around her delicate throat, and squeezing.

Fuck, I can practically hear the sounds she’d make. The screaming. The moaning. The fucking begging.

There’s only one problem … All those sounds I’ve conjured up are not of pain.

They’re of pleasure, pure and raw and laced with ecstasy.

And I have a sneaking suspicion that they’re going to make pulling the trigger nearly impossible.

Clearing the text I had drafted, I type out a new response to Severo.

Lynx: Nothing yet. Will keep you posted.

And then I hit send.

Lurking behind the tinted windows of my truck, I sit quietly in the shadows, watching as Harlow hops out of her vehicle—a rusted-out pink Jeep that should be rotting in a scrapyard—and makes the trek to the front entrance of some dumpy little bar on the outskirts of the city.

Tonight, she’s wearing a pair of black leggings that hug her ass and shapely legs, and a cropped hoodie—also pink.

Fuck. I bet her panties are pink too.

Is she a frilly lace kind of girl? Or does she prefer simple cotton when she’s not dancing on stage for cash?

A groan works its way up my throat, the little green monster I thought I killed off a long time ago waking from its slumber.

Why I’m jealous of a bunch of pussy-deprived creeps is something I’m not prepared to unpack right now.

When Harlow disappears inside the building, I glance around the desolate, pothole-littered parking lot, grimacing at the lone flickering streetlamp at the back.

The fact she feels comfortable parking in the darkest corner of a place where bikers and convicts hang out makes me question not only her sanity but her intelligence.

Except I know better. She’s not a stupid woman. She’s not naive or ditzy.

She’s smart, her instincts well honed and awareness heightened.

Which poses the question: Why is she here?

Curious again—because that seems to be my default setting when it comes to this girl—I hop out of my truck.

Long strides eat up the space between my vehicle and the bar entrance, every cell in my body inflating like water balloons the closer I get.

When I whip the door open and step inside, the stench of stale beer, cigarettes, and piss floods my lungs as I keep my focus pointed at an empty stool at the bar and take a seat.

It isn’t long before I spot her in my peripherals, seated in a booth at the front corner of the pub with a half-drunk martini on the table in front of her.

Beside her is a dingy window that overlooks the parking lot, a red neon sign casting an ominous hue across her face and making that silly pink hair of hers glow like a beacon in the night.

She looks exhausted. Strung out and miserable. And I wonder briefly if it’s because she knows I’m following her, or something else.

I have every intention of finding out.

Feigning avoidance, I turn my attention to the big screen television hanging over the lineup of liquor bottles.

Baseball.

I fucking hate baseball. Never understood why a bunch of grown men in too-tight pants would want to hit balls with a stick and run after each other. But I guess it pays well, so maybe they’re onto something.

The bartender, a middle-aged woman with unruly red hair, takes my drink order, and I sit patiently waiting for my bourbon while keeping the anxious little mess in my periphery.

When the bartender slides the drink in front of me, I have to refrain from downing it.

This. This is the effect she has on me. It’s toxic and dangerous. And I’m liable to get myself killed over it if I’m not careful.

Severo doesn’t yet know I’ve located her. Or that I’m taking my sweet time pulling the trigger. If he finds out I’m defying his orders, he’ll string me up by the balls.

Seconds tick on where Harlow’s icy gaze blasts the side of my face. And I can practically smell the smoke billowing from her ears as her brain works overtime, likely concocting some creative ways to deter me.

Whatever it is, it won’t work.

I’m a persistent bastard. And I always get what I want.

Taking another swig of my drink, I glance over my shoulder, finally setting my eyes on the little hellion. As I suspected, she’s watching me closely, her eyes narrowed and full, pouty mouth pulled down into a severe frown as two cute little lines furrow between her pinched brows.

Slapping a bill down on the bar, I pay for my drink and rise from my stool, glass in hand as I weave my way around tables and chairs, stopping in front of Harlow’s booth.

She lifts her long, thick lashes and stares coldly at me as I take the seat across from her, keeping the table between us. Maintaining some space seems like the wise thing to do considering she looks like she’s about ready to hurl her beverage at me.

Or stab me.

My money’s on the latter.

“I didn’t say you could sit,” she snips out.

“I’m aware.”

“I’ll call the police if you keep following me,” she threatens, but there’s a crack in her voice that tells me it’s an empty threat.

“That would be the wise thing to do,” I tell her. And I mean it. “I’m surprised you haven’t already.”

I give her a moment to respond, not wanting to interrupt her thought process as she mulls my admission over, her jaw ticking as her thumb slides back and forth over her left wrist.

When she lifts her hand to tuck a few free strands of pink hair behind her ear, that’s when I see it. The deep scar marring the smooth flesh on the inside of her wrist.

An attempt at her own life?

Something disturbing moves through me. But I shove the feeling aside and focus on the task at hand.

“What do you want from me, Lynx?”

Christ. The way she says my name makes my dick twitch.

“I’m still trying to figure that out myself,” I respond honestly, leaning forward to study her.

Her expression flickers with something, but it’s gone before I can tell what it is.

“Great. So then you should probably fuck off. For good.” She gestures for me to leave.

I don’t because I fucking can’t. She’s magnetic and alluring and fuck, I want to rip every piece of fabric from her body with my teeth and sink inside her.

Suppressing a groan, I sit still and quiet, analyzing her every move as she grows more and more anxious as time ticks on.

Fidgeting now, she takes a swig of her martini and averts her eyes. The way her slender throat works as she swallows is intoxicating.

Focus.

“Have you lived here long?”

She scoffs. “Baiting me with small talk in hopes of me letting my guard down is an amateur move. Why don’t you just skip to the chase and drop a roofie in my drink? I’m sure that’s how criminals like you prefer to do things. Am I right?”

“I’m not baiting you. And I’d never drug you.” Truth.

She blinks but remains expressionless and silent.

Hmm. Maybe she’ll be tougher to crack than I thought.

I shrug. “It seems fate wanted us to meet.”

“Only idiots believe in fate,” she tells me.

Angling my head at her, I ask genuinely, “Then what is it you believe?”

She takes another sip of her drink while she contemplates her response.

When her glass settles on the table in front of her, she tells me, “I believe in karma. Not fate. Everything that happens to us is a direct repercussion of the decisions we make. Fate is for people who don’t want to accept that they deserve what comes to them, whether good or bad.”

I cock a brow at her. “So me coming into your life is some form of karma for something you’ve done in the past?”

Her eye roll could be seen from outer space. “First of all, you’re not in my life. Second, keep staring at me like that and your karma will involve being stabbed in the jugular with a fork.”

My face splits into a grin at the thought of her trying.

Eventually, she huffs out a frustrated breath and says lowly, “I don’t know what you want from me, but I can guarantee I don’t have it. You’re barking up the wrong tree, buddy.”

She shifts in her seat again, adjusting her posture. There isn’t a sliver of insecurity or hesitation in her expression. And her eyes are all fire, the flames licking at her dilated pupils and threatening to burn me.

“I want to know why you—“

A subtle click stops me short. I pause and stare at her.

Well fuck me sideways. I knew the girl was a little unstable—no sane person goes around slashing strange men’s tires—but I must admit that I didn’t see this coming.

“Not so chatty now, are you?” she chirps, aiming the gun I now know she’s holding beneath the table directly at my crotch. “Come to my place of work again and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. Do you understand?”

I angle my head at her, mesmerized by the faint freckles dotting her nose.

“Fucking beautiful,” I mutter.

She blinks, her pink lips parting briefly before she snaps her mouth shut and glares at me.

When she doesn’t respond, just sits there with her gears turning over and a venomous look on her face, I lean forward and prop my elbows on the table, folding my hands between us in a nonthreatening manner.

Although I could easily disarm her, I don’t want to risk breaking her wrist in the process.

And if she does happen to pull that trigger, I’ll be one sorry prick for doubting her.

So, instead, I tread cautiously. Very cautiously.

“You won’t call the cops when you’re being followed. But you have no problem slashing tires or pulling a gun on a man in public. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re hiding something. A fugitive on the run perhaps?”

It’s a shot in the dark, but it seems to ring true because her expression falters. But only for a second before she reconfigures her features into her signature veneer of confidence.

Her voice is throatier when she snarls, “Leave. Now. Or I’ll pull the trigger. And I promise you, I’m an excellent shot.”

A humorless laugh bubbles from my chest. “I have no doubts about that, pretty girl.”

I don’t know what possesses me to do it. I’ve probably lost the fucking plot. But I reach across the table, pausing midair when she recoils.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her slowly, the lie tasting a little like poison dripping from my tongue. The reality is, I might have to hurt her—fucking kill her—regardless of whether or not I want to.

Nonetheless, she remains calm and collected. In control. But I can tell by the tension in her shoulders that her grip on the gun is growing tighter by the moment.

I run my thumb across her plump bottom lip, pulling it away from her pretty white teeth and releasing it with a pop.

Is she as affected by my presence as I am hers? Fuck, I hope so.

“You have six seconds to leave,” she threatens, pausing for emphasis. “Six.” I sit back and study her. “Five.” Now I’m smiling. “Four. Three. Two.” Another pregnant pause.

Before she has a chance to say “one,” I push my chair back and stand, my hard cock sawing at my jeans as I give her one last cursory glance, then turn and walk away.

The bar door slams shut behind me as I make my way across the parking lot, glancing over my shoulder at the bar window to find Harlow still sitting there, bathing in the red neon light as she stares at me with a contorted expression on her gorgeous face.

It’s fear, I think. Raw and palpable.

And fuck if it doesn’t flay me wide open.