Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Echo
Getting to know Bambi better has proven to be quite the challenge.
I’ve spent the last couple of weeks digging up everything I could on her. But every time I get close to a trace of information, I hit a wall. No school or medical records. No personal social media. Not even a fucking digital trail.
I was only able to find her bookstore because her cell number is tied to its social media account. And even that’s curated. There are no photos of her on it. No tags. No trace of the woman at all.
So I got creative.
Installing spyware on her phone wasn’t hard. We have a former NSA agent on our payroll who builds custom surveillance packages for us. Once he threw it together, all it took was disguising the link as a small picture of my childhood pet, so she’d have no reason not to click it.
Now I can see everything. Her location. Her messages. Her calls. And tonight, when she gets home, I’ll watch her sleep from the camera on her computer. The one she doesn’t know I have access to.
For the last week, I’ve been watching her. All day. Every day. Between meetings. Between calls. Every spare moment I have has been consumed by her.
Is that extreme?
Probably.
She wanted to be friends, and this is my kind of friendship.
I take a seat at my desk and pull up the security feeds at Better Than Fiction.
She’s wearing that black turtleneck again. The same one from last week. The one that hugs her curves and makes me think about peeling it off her while she trembles underneath me.
It’s supposed to hide the marks on her neck. The ones those assholes left when they tried to choke her. But all it does is make me want to put new ones there. Ones that she’ll enjoy. Ones that show she’s mine.
She has no idea how close I came to losing my control that day. She let me touch her skin, let me feel her pulse racing under my fingertips, and she let me look deeply into those beautiful brown eyes of hers.
She wanted me to kiss her.
I could see it. I could feel it in my fucking chest. And I’ve been thinking about her mouth ever since.
Bambi is in the bookstore past 9pm again.
She’s the only light on the entire block. Every other business closed hours ago, leaving her alone in a pool of yellow light that might as well be a fucking beacon.
She doesn't see the man across the street. The one who’s been standing there for the last eight minutes, watching her through the window. But I do.
My hand tightens around my phone.
This is the third time this week. Different men. Same pattern. They drift past. They linger. They watch. And she has no idea.
Who the hell opens a bookshop near a known drug area?
Bambi.
That’s who.
I shoot of a text to one of our men nearby before I rip my fucking hair out.
Three minutes later, he shows up and parks himself across the street from her store. His orders are clear. Stay unseen, only intervene if absolutely necessary. Bambi’s still inside restocking shelves, blissfully unaware of the lengths I have to go through to keep her safe.
I make a call to her property manager next. The conversation lasts about two minutes and after a little smooth talking and a heavy donation routed through the right shell, starting tomorrow businesses on Bambi’s block will close at seven.
This isn’t about control, it’s about correction. She stays open too late. She’s alone too often. Someone has to compensate for that.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling of my office.
When the hell did this become my new normal?
I haven’t slept well in days. Not since I realized being her friend was more complicated than I initially thought. She’s just so reckless.
Friends shouldn’t have to change your business’s operating hours. Friends shouldn’t have to worry about how long you stay out after dark. Friends shouldn’t have to access your street’s surveillance feeds to make sure you’re safe.
I pull up a new window on the screen and scan through her call logs, just to see if there’s anything new.
One name keeps resurfacing.
Josh.
Four calls this week. A handful of texts. None of them answered.
Good.
She doesn’t want him. I can see it in the way she silences his calls. The way she deletes his voicemails without bothering to listen to them.
She wants me.
She texts me back every single time. Even when she’s telling me to fuck off, she’s engaging. She could block my number. Report me. Hell, even call the cops, but she doesn’t. Because some part of her likes this. Likes that I’m paying attention. Likes that I’m always there.
I pull up the store’s feed again to check on her. She’s moved closer to the front window now and is organizing the books in the display. Her long, dark hair is tied back today, and as she bends over to pick something up, a strand falls into her face. My hands itch with the urge to touch it.
She’s become an addiction. An obsession. And the longer I watch, the harder it is to look away.
“Hey, creeper.” Athena laughs, sneaking up behind me.
I slam my laptop shut and glare at her. “Jesus Athena, ever heard of knocking?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” She asks, rounding my desk as her eyes dance with mischief.
“So…” She singsongs. “Who’s the girl you’re stalking?”
I frown. “No one, and I’m not stalking anyone.”
“Right.” She hops up on my desk, completely unbothered by my death stare.
“Well, that ‘no one’ sure is pretty.”
I scowl at her. “What do you want, Athena?”
“In-N-Out. River’s busy.” She shrugs. “I need human interaction.”
“Take security.”
She rolls her eyes. “I want a conversation, not a shadow.”
“Take Briggs.”
The shift in her expression is instant. Her smile falters just slightly before she schools her features back to neutral.
“He wouldn’t want to go with me.” She mutters.
“Did you ask him?”
“Whatever.” She slides off my desk, suddenly eager to leave. “I’ll figure it out.”
She pauses at the door and looks back at me. “You should get out of this office. You’re acting weird.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes soften slightly. “But this feels different.”
The door shuts behind her, and I’m left wondering what the hell she meant by that.
I step out onto the balcony to get some air and find River standing near the railing with his phone pressed to his ear and tension radiating through every muscle in his body.
He’s in his element. Managing crisis. Calculating angles. Controlling variables. He was born for this. The politics. The strategy. The restraint.
He’s just finishing the call as I approach.
“Casello?” I ask.
He nods, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I just got word from one of our allies that he’s been asking around for footage of that night. Apparently, cell towers put his men within a half-mile radius of Oracle. He doesn’t have proof yet, but his suspicion is growing.”
“Let it.” I say with a shrug. “He won’t find anything.”
“Briggs is double-checking surveillance, anyway. Bars, ATMs, anything that might’ve caught movement in the area.” River turns to face me fully. “You’re sure no one saw what happened?”
“I already told you, I’m sure.”
He studies me for a moment, and I wonder if he can see through me the way Athena can. If he can tell I’m lying.
“Sorry to keep asking you.” He says, his voice quiet. “I’m just worried about what’ll happen if it comes out.”
“If it does, I’ll handle it.”
River shakes his head. “No. You’ve always taken on the brunt of things. Even when you didn’t deserve to. Especially then.” He pauses, his eyes flicking to mine as a flicker of shame crosses his face. “If shit hits the fan, promise me you won’t try to handle it alone. ”
I clench my jaw, hating how real the conversation turned. “Okay.” I mutter. “I promise.”
“Good.” He says, clapping a hand on my shoulder before heading back inside. “And get some sleep. You look like shit.”
I give him a nod and stare out at the grounds surrounding our family home.
It's an imposing place. All stone and iron and calculated intimidation.
My father purposely designed it that way.
For it to be a physical representation of the power he held, not only over this city, but over everyone in his home.
I spent most of my childhood wishing I could burn it to the ground.
Then my father died, and everything that made this place unbearable went with him.
The memories of his cruelty are still here, embedded into the walls and into the recesses of my mind.
But so are the people worth staying for.
A few weeks ago, Bambi was a stranger. A loose end that turned into something else entirely. I can tell myself that I’m not doing anything wrong. That I’m able to handle my obligations to this family while also keeping her in my life.
But when I return to my office and take a seat back at my desk, one thought keeps circling my mind.
River isn’t an idiot, and sooner or later, he’s going to find out about Bambi’s involvement.
When he does, he’ll want me to take care of the problem.
The logical choice is obvious. River is my brother.
My family. The person I’ve bled for more times than I can count. Bambi is... something else.
The choice should be easy.
So why does the thought of putting a bullet through her skull make me want to gouge my own eyes out?