I’m Gonna Get You Back

Chapter One

FRANKIE

“I might have a stalker. And I don’t mean that in a sexy way.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then my brother’s falsely calm voice came through the speaker of my phone and filled the parked car. “How in the ever-loving fuck is having a stalker sexy?”

I sighed. “Do you really want to know? You don’t spend enough time online to—”

“No. God, Frankie. I don’t want to know. Why would I want to know?”

“You asked.”

“I—” He stopped himself with a huff. “Did you really say stalker? Is this a joke? Is this one of those things you say with a straight face to fuck with me?”

It wasn’t a joke. I hadn’t meant to just blurt it out, either. But I’ve spent all the drive to Vermont thinking about it. Not about how I might have a stalker, like I’d told Ric. But how I was almost certain that I had one.

“Yeah,” I lied. “Just a joke, sorry. So, how’s Brazil?” I asked, changing direction. “Are they allowing you any free time to leave the facility and explore? Or are you not even trying to deny you’re a workaholic who doesn’t care where he’s stationed?”

“Don’t deflect.”

“I’m not deflecting. I’m interested in your life. Your job. And Brazil.“

Ric’s cackle was loud, cutting, and frankly, scary in that way you know your older brother is not going to let the damn thing go.

“Tell me about the stalker,” he pressed. “You were not fucking with me, you’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Deflecting. Now be serious, and start talking.”

“Stalker is a big word,” I resigned myself to answer. “I shouldn’t have used it. It’s probably presumptuous of me to assume I have one. It’s just a very enthusiastic reader who has related on a deeper-than-average level to my books, and sends me messages and stuff.”

“Stuff? What stuff?”

Stuff that was delivered to my mailbox or my doorstep.

It wasn’t creepy stuff. It was overall nice stuff, except the one incident last week, but still.

Based on Ric’s reaction so far, I didn’t know if it was a good idea to admit to any of that.

“Gifts,” I said, settling on a half-lie.

“It’s not unheard of, in the author world. ”

“To your home address?”

“Ah …”

“Jesus, Frankie,” he groaned. “Have you reported him?”

“It’s fine,” I lied again. Full one, this time. I wasn’t exactly fine with it. I was creeped out. Torn. For one too many reasons. “And how do you know it’s a him?”

“Is it not?”

I eyed the glovebox, recalling what I’d brought with me for reasons I wasn’t ready to examine too closely. “It is.”

“Jesus, Frankie,” he repeated. “You can’t say shit like this and follow it up with it’s fine. It’s not, and I’m not fine with it. I’m your older brother. I have a responsibility.”

He had a point. But … “You’re the middle child,” I said in a small voice.

“If anything, you can pick and choose what responsibility you want to burden yourself with. So don’t choose this one.

It really is fine. Plus, I didn’t mean to tell you, honestly.

It just slipped out and I decided to give you a chance to decide what to do. I regret that now.”

A strange grunt travelled out of the phone speaker. “What does your publisher have to say about this? Can’t they do something to have this man found, and stopped? You’re their author, don’t they work for you?”

“Ah, no. That’s not how publishing works.”

I also wasn’t about to tell Ric that my publisher couldn’t do anything about an issue they were unaware of. Just like I wasn’t going to tell Ric that my publisher was no longer my publisher.

“So, how’s Brazil? Hot?” I tried again.

There was another beat, then he said, “That’s it. I’m calling Leo.”

I scoffed. “Leo? Really? You’re going to play the eldest sibling card? How about you also tell Mom and Dad? Maybe Nana too. Or—”

I stopped myself from mentioning Ric’s best friend. The man who had been my best friend too, at one point. It’d bring memories I wasn’t equipped to handle right now.

Ric hesitated, as if he had some remark to make, and eventually pushed the matter either way, “Leo should know. Someone who is in the country should know. At least he could go and get you. You’re our little sister.”

My teeth gritted. While I appreciated the sentiment of wanting to immediately jump into action because I was their youngest, and only, female sibling, I couldn’t allow it.

It had nothing to do with believing I could handle it myself.

I’d been doing that for weeks, and not very well.

It had everything to do with the fact that I was quickly realizing telling anyone about this meant admitting to a mountain of shit I’d kept a secret.

No one at home knew about the stalker, just like no one at home knew that my career as the author of Wolves At Night, the “gory and sultry romantic suspense sensation”—to quote the media that once loved me—was at the end of its rope.

And yes, the irony of these two events taking place at the same time wasn’t lost on me, believe me.

But the only rules I made were those in the universes I created.

In the real world? I was trying my best to work with the shitty hand I’d been dealt.

My next words were half assed, but dammit. I was so, so tired. “If I wanted someone to come rescue me, I would have called Leo, not you. I told you expecting a normal heart-to-heart conversation.”

A few moments of silence followed that. Then Ric quipped, “I thought you said it slipped.”

Motherfu—“I can’t believe I called because I missed you. I’m going to hang up.”

“Wait,” he barked. “Fine, Jesus. Okay. I won’t tell Leo if you promise to immediately report that person.

And to call me, at the first sign of something or someone strange.

If you don’t text me regularly, I’m immediately sending Leo to get you out of wherever you are.

Be that Vermont, your apartment in Boston, or the moon. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“’Kay. Now share location with me.”

“Absolutely not. I’ll be at the Red Maple Inn,” I told him, looking out the window.

My stomach twisted in knots at what awaited me behind those doors.

Vermont’s Crime and Thriller Book Convention was on the small and cozy side of the spectrum, but it had made a name for itself in the genre.

Tickets had sold out and the line-up was incredible.

There’d be people here tomorrow. The question was if any of them would be here for me.

I returned my attention to the dashboard where my phone was placed.

“It’s a little outside Manchester, pretty close to the Green Mountains. Google it like a normal person.”

Ric muttered an intelligible complaint, then he added, “So … you missed me or something?”

His question caught me off guard.

I’d said that. But I had missed him. I’d missed everyone ever since I left Maine thirteen months ago.

I just … wasn’t good at admitting it. I could weave all sorts of fictional relationships like it was anyone’s business, but I’d always been horrible at communicating when it came to my own feelings.

The last time I’d tried, I ended up crying on the phone to him.

“I should go,” I murmured. “There’s a clawfoot bathtub waiting for me inside the Inn. I’m a day early for the convention just to be sure I’ll get a room with one. So yeah, enjoy Brazil.”

“Frankie,” Ric called. “Be careful, all right? I know you’re an emancipated, independent woman or whatever. But I never cared that you’re famous or successful now. You’re still my little sister.”

I squeezed my eyes shut at the pressure rushing to the back. I never considered myself famous. But I’d been successful.

Now, I was just a drowning writer with a letter from her stalker in the glovebox of her car.

“It’ll be fine,” I managed to get out. “But I promise.”

“I’m proud of you, Frankie.”

I couldn’t believe my idiot brother was actually going to make me cry. “Jesus, Ric. I’m hanging up.”

“I can’t say anything these days,” he grumbled. “I love you too, by the way.”

My chest squeezed. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re stinky. But I still love you and—”

“Nope. Okay, bye,” I cut him off, tapping on my phone and finishing the call.

Outrageous. I couldn’t afford to break down so early in the day.

Or the weekend.

Squaring my shoulders, I threw the door open, stepped out and …

What the fuck, Vermont. An ice-cold gust of wind hit my face, knocking the breath right out of me.

I looked around, catching a dark bank of clouds peeking over the crest of evergreen hills.

That didn’t look good, but I hadn’t spent five hours in the car to come chill by the pool.

It was late Fall. So with as much speed as my already freezing hands and toes allowed, I retrieved my carry-on from the trunk, and sprinted inside.

My sigh of relief as the Red Maple Inn’s doors closed behind me was probably heard by the entire state of Vermont. But damn, not only was the place incredibly warm in contrast to the glacial hell outside, but—unlike my last book in recent reviews—it absolutely lived up to the hype.

Thick wooden beams, large bay windows, and not one but several fireplaces scattered around the ground floor welcomed me.

From the entrance, I could also spot a bar area, a lounge space with chairs and tables, and at least two book nooks.

All furnishings and fixtures screamed rustic, and every inch was bathed in cozy and timeless alpine decor.

Some of the warmth I felt on my skin spread to my belly, finding comfort in the fact that if the rooms were half this beautiful, I’d have a pretty nice place to hide from the horrors of line-less signings.

One with a clawfoot tub to soak all my sorrows in.

With a reassuring nod to hold onto that, I tightened my grip around the handle of my carry-on and rolled it towards reception.

The line of guests wasn’t long. Just a middle-aged woman with bright blond hair checking in, a guy in technical mountain gear browsing the leaflets basket, and a man waiting a few feet away from the counter.

A rather large man with a head full of wavy, chocolate-colored hair that was cut into one of those trendy mullets, wide shoulders, and nice, sturdy legs. You know, the kind that went with nice, sturdy thighs.

Eyes that had been starved for human contact after weeks in hiding took greedy inventory of the man’s backside. There weren’t many things that sparked my attention faster than a set of broad shoulders and generously filled jeans.

His face was obscured from view, but I found myself filling in the gaps I couldn’t see. Kind eyes. Shy Smile. Few days stubble. Definitely inked under the flannel and denim.

A heavy sensation I was well acquainted with filled my chest at the thought, making me catch myself. I needed to stop doing that. Searching for things that didn’t belong to me.

I gave myself a shake, determined to drag my attention somewhere else. Anywhere else. But the man moved before I could. He looked to his side, just enough for his chin to jut out over his shoulder. As if he’d felt someone watching him.

My stomach took a deep dive at the shape of that chin.

No, I thought. It can’t be. It—

His body continued the motion, and before I could have a chance to prepare myself, he was facing me.

In the seconds that followed, all I could do was stare. I was paralyzed. And not with embarrassment, but with something far, far worse. Familiarity.

Turner Reece smiled at me like no time had passed, and for a moment, I almost smiled back. For a moment, I got a little lost in that set of brown eyes that had always looked at me like I was special. For just a heartbeat, I let myself stare at the barely-there bend of his lips and think, damn.

But all of that died out quickly.

Mostly, because I shut it down. I’d taught myself to. I had to.

Turner noticed. His own smile vanished. Then, that large hand covered in midnight black ink rose through the air and landed on the side of his throat.

His fingers moved, scratching. It’s funny how you can physically remove yourself from someone’s life, and still know them so intrinsically.

Still have that gut instinct to want to appease them when they are uneasy.

Turner was. That scratch that most would have overlooked was one of his tells.

The other one was the knot currently twisting his brow.

“Frankie,” Tuner said, suddenly right there, in front of me. When had he walked up to me? “Hi.”

My memory hadn’t done his voice any justice.

Not an ounce. Otherwise, it would have prepared me for this.

I wouldn’t be feeling like those two words had just kicked me back in time, into a vacuum.

I wouldn’t be scattered and all over the place thinking, fuck, seeing you makes me so fucking sad, but I’m still so happy to see you.

“Hi,” I heard myself croak.

He thought of his next words, and when he settled on, “I’ve missed you,” my whole body reeled again.

That was the worst possible thing he could have said. Not because I struggled with hearing or saying it, but because there were about a dozen reasons why, and I didn’t have the courage to utter any of them out loud.

“I …” I trailed off.

I’ve missed you too, I could have said.

It’s been so long. How have you been?

How did you know it was me laser staring at your back?

Did you feel that same punch of familiarity I did by looking at your face? Like a hook to the jaw. A blow to the heart.

Do you remember that one time you kissed me on the forehead, because I was drunk and fell asleep on your shoulder? That was the first and last time your lips touched any part of me that wasn’t my cheek.

Are you going to kiss my cheek?

But I said none of those things. I really wasn’t good with my own feelings. So I clamped my lips shut, physically keeping all of that from coming out.

This was why I’d left Maine. This was why when Turner showed up in Boston—

I flinched with a realization.

Turner noticed and started to reach for me.

I spoke before his hand made contact. “Did my brother send you again?”