6. Turnabout’s Fair Play
Chapter six
Turnabout’s Fair Play
Matt
I should’ve fucking kissed her.
She touched me like she had every right, breath hot on my skin. I was ready to take what I wanted—then I pulled back, stopping short of a line I wouldn’t cross. Not yet. Not with a stalker circling and her safety at risk. I can’t afford to lose focus.
So instead of replaying the way she looked at me, I’m pacing my damn living room. Checking the street every few minutes. Waiting for that fucking sedan to roll by.
I think about the blocked calls last night. Too intentional to be coincidence. I need to call Steele.
I grab my phone off the counter, pull up his contact, and hit dial. It rings once before he picks up. “Jesus, Mason. Do you ever sleep?”
I drag a hand down my face. “Shit, sorry. Didn’t realize how late it was.”
“It’s cool,” he mutters. “I was awake.”
“Leg still fucked?”
Steele lets out a slow exhale. “Doc says I’ll live. But I’m milking it while I can. How’s the graze? Leaking all over your shirts?”
I glance down at my side, the memory catching in my chest. “Redressed it tonight.”
“Yourself?”
I hesitate, then admit, “Melina did it.”
Steele’s laugh is rough. “So that’s what we’re calling foreplay now?”
“Go to hell.” A smirk tugs at my lips. “At least somebody around here knows how to keep me patched up.”
“Go on telling yourself that,” he mutters. “You call for a reason, or just to brag that your girl’s playing nurse?”
I move to the window, pulling back the curtain to scan the street. Still quiet. Too quiet.
“Need you to run something for me.”
Steele groans. “Mason, if you say a blocked number—”
“It’s a blocked number.”
“You know that’s not how it works. Unless you have a buddy at AT&T or Verizon willing to break a few laws…”
I clench my jaw. “Figure it out.”
He exhales hard. “Jesus, you don’t make things easy. Normal people just let this shit go to voicemail.”
“Melina got three back-to-back hang-up calls last night. Private number. Between the slashed tire, someone watching the house, and now this? It’s not a fucking coincidence.”
He’s silent for a beat, then mutters, “I’ll see if I can lean on a contact, maybe shake something loose. No promises.”
I loosen my grip on the curtain. “Appreciate it.”
“You’re gonna owe me so many beers when this is over.”
“You already drink for free.”
“Yeah, well, I want interest.”
My lips twitch. “Put it on my tab.”
We hang up and I toss my phone onto the couch, too wired to sleep.
A run. That’s what I need. Earbuds. Sidearm. Low-slung holster. Then I’m outside. The air is cool, the street still, broken only by flickering porch lights and the hum of crickets.
My body catches the rhythm before my mind does. Feet pounding pavement. Muscles stretching. Lungs burning. It should help, but I can’t get her out of my head.
I grit my teeth and push harder, picking up the pace. I’m a mile out when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Who the fuck is calling at two a.m.? I slow to a jog and pull it free—instant fear spikes through my bloodstream.
Melina.
I answer immediately. “Are you okay?”
Panicked breathing. The wail of an alarm in the background. Her voice is frantic, rushed, but I can’t make out the words.
“Melina.” My pulse slams against my ribs. “I can’t hear you. Take a breath.”
It’s no use.
“Never mind. I’m on my way.”
I turn on my heel and sprint. Adrenaline surges. I push harder, faster. An eight-minute mile is fast. I do it in five.
The alarm is still screaming when I reach her front porch. The whole place is lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. I don’t hesitate—three sharp knocks.
“It’s Matt. Open up,” I yell through the door.
Seconds later, the lock clicks, and it swings wide.
Melina stands at the threshold, pale and wide-eyed. Relief washes over me when I see she isn’t hurt. At her feet, Arrow is locked in place—ears high, weight forward, body coiled tight. Guarding. Behind her, Harper and Spencer hover near the staircase.
“Kill the alarm?” I shout over the noise.
She nods and punches in the code. The house goes quiet.
Arrow doesn’t ease until the last beep fades, then shifts back a step, still between her and the door.
Spencer exhales loudly and deadpans, “Finally. I can hear
the voices in my head again.”
Harper groans, shoving his shoulder. “You’re so weird.”“Enough, you two,” Melina says, though there’s no real
bite to it.
Harper’s gaze flicks over me, her brows lifting. “This feels like a lot for a false alarm.”
Melina drags a sharp breath, raking a hand through her hair. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. The alarm just went off—”
“You call the police?”
She shakes her head. “No. I called you. Should I?”
“No,” I cut in, scanning the room. “Stay here. I’ll do a sweep.”
I draw my Glock. Harper’s eyes widen, but it’s Spencer who gets me—his body stiffens, and the color drains from his face. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but silence follows.
“You’re safe now. Don’t move,” I tell them, muzzle low, already moving.
I clear the first floor—every room, every corner, every closet. Slice the angles, check the locks. Everything appears in order.
Then the second floor. Bedrooms, bathroom, closets. Clear.
The attic. Clear.
I step onto the porch, scanning the street, searching shadows. Then I circle the perimeter. Every window, every entry point. Clear.
Still, my gut says this wasn’t nothing.
When I come back in, Melina’s on the couch, arms wrapped around both kids, holding them close. All three pairs of eyes lock on me, waiting. I holster my weapon.
Harper tips her chin, attitude creeping back. “Was all this really necessary?”
I start to answer, but Melina catches my eye and gives the faintest shake of her head. Not now.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “It was. I’ll explain everything tomorrow. For the time being, you two should try to get some sleep.”
Harper snorts, crossing her arms. “Yeah, like that’ll be easy.”
Spencer leans into his mom, voice small. “I’m scared.”
She hugs him tighter, smoothing his hair. I crouch in front of him, keeping my tone steady. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of. I’m here. Nobody’s getting past me.”
He looks at me, then back to her. “Can he stay—with his gun?”
For a moment, the room falls silent. Harper breaks first, snickering. Melina gives a soft laugh, and before I know it, I’m chuckling too.
Harper shakes her head, tugging her brother’s hand. “Come on, kid. Let’s get you to bed before you start asking for a bazooka.”
They disappear upstairs, and I sit beside Melina on the couch—close, but not too close.
She exhales. “Anything?”
“No, but we should check the ring footage.”
She nods. I lean in as she brings up the app on her phone. We scrub back through the footage on all three cameras to when the alarm tripped. Nothing.
She slumps against the cushions. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“You’re not.”
A dry laugh slips out of her. “I woke up the entire house for no reason, Matt.”
“Something tripped the alarm. Just because the cameras didn’t catch it doesn’t mean no one was there.”
Her body tightens. “Do you really think so?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not taking chances.”
I like her. Too much. I hate that she’s scared, and I can’t fix it.
“Sorry for dragging you out here,” she says.
“You call, I show up. That’s how this works. I was out for a run anyway.”
Her eyes flick to the holster at my side. “You always run strapped?”
“At two a.m., with a stalker on the prowl? Yeah.”
“That’s fair.” She looks up at me, tucking her hair behind her ears. “God, I probably look a mess.”
“Most people look like hell under stress. You somehow make it work.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re really bad at flirting.”
I grin. “You’re really bad at taking a compliment.”
She swallows, gaze dropping to her hands. With the house cleared and my adrenaline finally cooling, I take her in. I’ve never seen this much of her before.
She’s wearing a white tank top and sleep shorts with PINK stamped across the ass. It takes everything in me not to stare. The dip of her neckline. The length of her legs. The fall of her hair over her shoulders. All I can think about is running my fingers through it.
Fuck, Mason. Get your shit together.
That’s when I notice the rest of her tattoos.
I’d seen the guitar on her forearm before, but not this close. Blue flowers weave through the strings, curling around a name and a date. Not a design. A memorial. Someone she lost. I don’t ask. Not yet. But I file it away, already wondering who meant enough to be carved into her forever.
Just below her collarbone, in delicate script: Find out who you are and do it on purpose. The words hit. They suit her—quiet strength, forged out of surviving hell and refusing to break.
The monarch butterfly on her shoulder is vivid against her skin. Transformation. Rebirth. Freedom.
And the one on her wrist stops me cold—two small birds in flight, wings open, initials inked between them. Three letters that tell me everything I need to know.
I breathe out slowly, heat curling low in my gut. For the first time, I see how much of herself she carries—etched into her skin, impossible to erase. I understand that. I wear my scars in ink, too.
She shifts, and it’s then I realize she’s looking at me. Her gaze catches on my chest, lingering a second too long before darting away like she didn’t mean to get caught.
That’s when it hits me—I’m still shirtless from my run. No wonder Harper looked wide-eyed when I came in. Christ. I barreled over here half-dressed like some lovesick idiot.
I clear my throat. “You alright?”
She blinks up, like she’s only now remembering why I’m here. “Yeah,” she says quickly. “Just… a little on edge.”
I nod. “Understandable.”
“Coffee?” she asks.
“You read my mind.”