Chapter 16
Jersey
It all makes perfect sense now.
I just read the clues wrong.
I wasn't put in her path because she was here to tempt me or ruin my life.
She's a woman in need like so many others I've come face-to-face with.
We've done things I was never meant to do, but those are issues I'll have to deal with at a later time.
I shoot off a text to Lark to give him a broad explanation of what's going on before stepping back into her house.
Most people would want to curl up and hide, but that's not how I operate. She's standing across the room, holding that little dog as if the thing could provide some sort of protection. Besides an early warning bark, it doesn't look like it could do much. Hell, the thing seems to be shaking just as hard as she is, and I have no doubt it's feeding off her fears .
I pull the cord on her blinds, opening them all the way so I can see if that piece of shit drives by. I have no idea how he plans to react after I hit him in the nose in the club parking lot, but it might've brought on more trouble than he was initially planning. It annoys the shit out of me that my inability to control my temper might've put her in more danger, but nothing good comes from a man following a woman home without her permission.
I try not to internalize that thought, considering that's exactly what I did. I don't like comparing myself to other assholes who might mean someone harm, but the facts are there like a beacon in the darkness, telling me that I have some shit of my own to work on.
"Shouldn't you keep that closed?" she asks.
"Need to see what's going on," I mutter, standing by the window when the whisper in my head tells me I should be comforting her right now.
I can't believe that whisper any longer. Before her, it would be what kept me out of trouble. It kept me safe. My intuition has been spot-on for years. I've never been put in a situation where I needed to doubt it until her.
Now, I don't know what to trust.
I'm just grateful to be inside and off the damn porch because the memories of the two of us out there last week were enough that I swear I could still smell the scent of her arousal on my skin, and now is not the time to be thinking about the grip of her pussy on my cock. Not when she's in real danger.
"Would you like something to drink?"
I look over my shoulder, a second away from asking her what she thinks this is, but that seems rude. The woman might've put herself in the path of someone else, someone who might want to hurt her, but she doesn't deserve to be victimized any more than she deserves my judgment over her choices.
"What do you have?" I ask.
"Milk. "
She gives me a faint smile when I scrunch up my nose, and it makes her look so young, nothing like a woman who is seeking something in a sex club.
"Whiskey?" I ask instead of openly questioning why she'd put herself in danger, rather than offering to give her exactly what it is she's seeking just to keep her safe.
She shakes her head. "I don't drink. There's no alcohol here."
"Good girl," I whisper, my tone raspy and full of more suggestion than it should be.
She swallows, her hand running down her dog's back differently from before.
"Water would be great," I say, needing a reprieve from the way she's staring at me right now. "Anything wet really."
Jesus, did I just say that?
Good girl?
Anything wet?
What the fuck is wrong with me and my lack of control where this woman is concerned.
I tilt my head, refusing to apologize, although I know I should.
It's not her fault that I got my wires crossed, that I got confused as to why I felt a deeper connection to her in the first place. I have no idea what that mistake is going to cost either of us, but I have to confront the danger she's facing first before we can get all reflective on what has already happened.
What I can do is not let it happen again. I realize just how fucking hard that's going to be when instead of putting my attention right back out the window like I should, my eyes drop to her ass when she turns toward the kitchen.
I force my eyes out the window, standing just to the side for safety's sake. Standing directly in the front would make for an imposing picture, but it also makes me an easy target.
"Here," she says.
I turn and see her several feet away, the glass of ice water in her hand. Her arm is stretched out as far as it goes, and she maintains a distance from me.
I want to assure her that she's safe with me, but I'm not so sure it would be received very well. I made hasty accusations on the porch not long ago, insinuating that she makes a habit of entertaining men there, and as disgusted as I am by those words, I can only imagine how they made her feel.
"Thank you," I say as I take the glass, making sure to position my hand in the spots on it that keep me from touching her.
She steps back the second I lift it to my mouth, but her eyes stay on my lips.
I could easily call her out on it and bring light to how her body speaks to me, but it would do us no good. Attraction is a battle that can be fought and easily won. We're both adults, not wild, rutting animals.
"What happens next?"
After a long sip of water, I place the glass on a drink coaster on the nearby table.
"I need to make sure he doesn't come back."
"Shouldn't we call the police?"
I fully understand her instinct. Like many others in society, I imagine she thinks of the police as fully trained specialists who solve every crime reported to them, but that's far from the truth.
"For stalking?" she continues when I remain silent.
"Stalking requires a pattern, Caitlyn. You said you've never seen him outside of your house before."
"I haven't," she confirms.
"So it doesn't fit the elements of a crime."
Her lower lip trembles, and I doubt she's very far away from crying.
"We can be proactive," I tell her, stepping further into the room. "I'm going to check your windows."
"What keeps him from breaking a window to get in?" she asks as she follows me down the dark hallway.
I don't respond to the question because I know she won't like the answer. Locks are for law-abiding people. Most criminals expect to encounter them, and they always have a means to bypass them.
"Caitlyn," I grumble when I find the bathroom window unlocked.
She presses her back flat to the wall when I step back into the hallway, allowing me to pass without touching her.
I find three more windows unlocked—one in her bedroom and both of the windows in the kitchen.
"I never open the windows," she says when I turn back to face her.
Concern pulls my brows together. "Have you checked these recently?"
She shakes her head. "I don't think I've ever checked them. I just assumed they were locked when I moved in."
"How long have you lived here?" I ask when I test the lock on the back door.
"Two years," she answers.
"So you have no idea if the windows have been unlocked for two solid years or if that creepy asshole unlocked them earlier tonight in an effort to get into your house unnoticed?"
Her face turns white as snow as she considers the implications of my question.
"Caitlyn?" I say, stepping closer to her.
I pause when she moves back a step, taking no solace when her little dog's tail begins to wag.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"How long do you plan to stay here?"
"I can't leave until I know you're safe.Can you look around and see if anything is disturbed? See if anything is missing?"
She pulls in a deep yet ragged breath before turning to look around the living room.
"He's likely to take more personal things," I explain. "A creep like that isn't going to come in and steal your TV."
"I don't have any pictures."
The innocence in her eyes makes me feel like a complete asshole for the way I'm about to destroy her wholesomeness, but the woman has to have heard some pretty fucked-up stuff as a therapist, not taking into account where I first saw her.
"Things like your underwear, more specifically the ones in your dirty clothes hamper."
Her nose scrunches as if she can't believe anyone would ever do such a thing, but in the next breath, she lowers her dog to the floor and disappears down the hallway.
I take my position back at the front window as I wait for her to return.
Fear that the guy has already gone further than I initially imagined begins to settle inside me when it takes her a little too long to return to the living room.
I turn to go find her, but before I can, I see her reflection in the glass and realize that maybe I should be on the front porch keeping her safe instead of inside breathing the same air.
"Nothing is missing," she says, relief in her tone.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans as I face her, diligent about keeping my eyes on her face rather than letting them roam down the front of that very same fucking silk robe she was wearing the other night.
"That's good," I manage.
"I was thinking. Shouldn't we at least call the police so there's a record of his behavior?"
"Do you know his name?" I challenge, knowing there might come a time very soon that I might need to disappear the guy, and the fewer people involved in this, the better.
"I bet we could get it from the club," she offers.
"They protect that information like they would medical records at a doctor's office," I clarify. "But would you like to have that conversation with the local authorities?"
She pauses, and I watch as she chews the inside of her cheek.
There should be no judgment about how consenting adults spend their time, but there are loads of stigma around anything that might be outside of what people consider traditional or the norm. Hell, you can't spend more than a couple of evenings at a bar these days without people thinking you're an alcoholic.
"How do we find out who he is then?"
"Leave that up to me," I say, knowing it'll probably only take seconds for Casper to hack the computer and camera system at Catalyst to figure out who that guy is.
I haven't messaged the guy yet because I'm here, and no harm will come to her so long as I'm in her home. When it's a decent time in the morning, I'll get the guy on the phone and figure out who the fuck her stalker is.
"I'll stay here tonight. You're safe."
My assurance doesn't seem to bring any form of relief.
"Would you like me to leave?"
She seems to mull over the question longer than I figured she would, but eventually, she shakes her head.
"I don't have anywhere for you to sleep," she says, pointing to the single recliner in the living room. "That thing isn't comfortable at all. Maybe you could—"
"Caitlyn—" I say, halting her train of thought because I swear if she mentions—
"We could share my bed, so long as you don't touch me," she continues, not bothering to heed my warning .
I swear my cock instantly swells in my jeans. There's a lot that can fucking happen even if I'm not touching her. She proved that very well the last time I was here.