Chapter 3 - Kate
“Don’t look now,” Chey groans, minimizing her internet search window like it’s holy water. “Burt’s on his harassment tour.”
There’s a reason most of us keep job listings open in a second tab. When every newspaper in Shadow Lake answers to the Mercury family, you learn to keep your head down or get out.
I peek over the rim of my desk at the approaching offender swanning down the line of coffins masquerading as cubicles with Wi-Fi.
Chey’s is cluttered with takeaway coffee cups, candy wrappers, and expired press passes.
Mine’s as clean as a whistle, but it shares the sentiment of the shattered dreams of writers.
I slam the lid of my laptop down. “How much prison time do you think I’d get for stabbing him with my letter opener?”
Probably more than a warning. Perks of being one of Mercury’s golden boys, Burt can grope a filing cabinet and get a promotion.
“Incoming in five, four, three…” Chey keeps her eyes locked on the screen like that will protect her from what’s coming.
“Kiiitty Kaaat,” Burt drags out each vowel like a lech.
I grab my notebook and phone, slide them into my bag, and prepare to leave for my assignment. We’re working late tonight. Me to cover the Chinese New Year Festival starting at 5PM, and Chey to report on a new exhibition at the art gallery. At least she gets champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
I studied four years of journalism classes to chase stories that matter. But Mercury doesn’t assign pieces based on talent. Beyond placing family members in key media positions, they assign the rest based on who they think won’t dig too deep or who they already own.
Burt slides onto my desk like he’s been invited to pose for a men’s calendar no one asks for. He leans across my desk, purposefully brushing my arm, rousing my gag reflex, and plucks a pen from my artisan-crafted desk organizer shaped like four books.
My boss locked his office door behind me once when he wanted a “word.” My stomach dropped when the latch caught.
I banged on it, screaming before the assistant editor came to my rescue.
Harmless things like a staff meeting in the conference room, a friend closing the door to talk, or a bathroom stall make my pulse spike.
Suddenly I’m back there. Trapped. Defenseless.
Now I won’t go into Burt’s office, and so, he comes to me.
He displaces more of my belongings and boundaries with equal indifference. “Tidy. Cute. I prefer it messy.”
“Don’t touch my things.” I nudge the photo frame of my mom and me back into place. I have an order, a flow, Zen, and don’t like it when someone disturbs it.
“Fiery today.” He picks up my paperweight and juggles it between his palms with all the grace of a drunk walrus. “I like that.”
Chey is out of her seat and halfway out the door.
Traitor loses her solidarity sister status.
Rule number one of working for the Shadow Lake Reporter: Never leave a female alone with Burt.
Rule number two: Don’t mention Mercury’s fingerprints on our editorial calendar unless you want your bylines reassigned to weather blurbs and dog adoption fairs.
“What are you up to?” Burt runs a finger along my wrist.
“Just heading out.” Spine stiff and breath shallow, I snatch my camera bag from my drawer and push out of my seat. I’m out of there without setting my seat under my desk.
“We’ll catch up later, sweetheart!” Burt calls out.
Not if I can help it. I don’t look back, too busy pretending my spine doesn’t crawl.
Thirty minutes and a hot chocolate later, I’m striding through the crowds in the city’s gardens, where the festival is in full swing.
I scan the crowd, camera raised and capturing shots, but my soul is on autopilot.
I’m here to report on lanterns and dragon dancers.
A real Pulitzer contender. This isn’t the career I envisioned when I graduated.
Softball stories come with perks and flexible hours to chase stories that no one else dares touch.
Ones that Mercury will burn rather than print.
For now, this pays the bills while I ramp up my independent reporting blog, chase sponsors, and juggle my bookish merch business.
Every step is a struggle to shake the prickle from Burt’s inappropriate touch. I thought the worst was behind me, but creeps don’t disappear because you survive them once. Some of them stick around. Some don’t understand what no means until someone shows up to enforce it.
The hiss of firecrackers, the crowd, and crush of bodies don’t help my agitation.
I tell myself it’s just caffeine jitters and crowded space nerves.
Reflex clocks every movement like I’m waiting for someone to grab me again.
Despite my reservations, I’ve got a job to do, a meeting to uphold, and I force myself to continue.
The city pulses with the vibrancy of red and gold that symbolize good fortune, happiness, and prosperity to the Chinese.
While I’m jotting notes about firecrackers and dumplings, pretending to care what the Year of the Lunar Snake means to strangers, my mind wanders to the future I lost, buried behind boardroom doors and locked in filing cabinets.
I know I should be grateful for the job, but I didn’t survive what I did to end up writing fluff pieces.
I’m wrapping up community quotes for my article when I feel the icy burn of being watched.
It’s not the first time I’ve had this feeling tonight.
I can’t blame it on low blood sugar for not grabbing a snack on the way over.
Burt’s conduct is enough to leave me nauseous.
I flick my hair and tilt my head, disguising the scan I sweep over the crowd.
A man wearing biker leathers and a helmet stands at the end of the stalls.
Tall, solid, with a gorgeous body that demands a once-over.
My heart stumbles a few beats. He cracks his knuckles and slips into the crowd, swallowed by firecracker smoke, silk banners, and streams of food stalls.
Shame. That’s a man I’ll watch all night.
Probably stalk. Ask him for an autograph like a BookTok feral with no shame.
Damn. Duty calls. I’ve got to meet with the mayor at 7PM. A flash and smile later, I’ve got my soundbite, and she’s gone to schmooze community business leaders. Third term, and she’s still oozing charm.
I exhale. One more item ticked off my to-do list.
Now I’m free to stalk the sexy biker. I’m a box of dumplings away from freedom when the universe hands me a plot twist hotter than a wok. The biker’s back, fifty feet away. Watching. Same visor. Same leathers. Same stance. What’s that saying? Once is chance. Twice is a coincidence.
My lungs clench at the way my past bleeds into my present.
Closed doors. Mirrors. No escape.
Words bubble in my mind. Therapy tricks. My safety net. I square my shoulders and hike my bag higher up my shoulder, forcing logic to override instinct.
He’s not looking at you.
It’s just a helmet, not a threat.
He’s just security or staff.
That’s when my Book Girlie enters the chat.
Seriously? Who wears a helmet in a crowd? Is he a vampire? Oh, I hope so. I’ll risk a bite for vampire sex and bragging rights.
Nope. Focus, Kate.
There’s one way to know. Ask him. Interview him. Maybe get his number. Totally professional.
But I’m too slow. He’s slipped away again, faster than a hot guy in my dream, and only his scent lingers. Cedar and cinnamon. Woodsy and intoxicating.
Nothing that a juicy dumpling can’t console. Stomach grumbling, I head for the food stalls, buy a tray, eat them, and watch the dancing dragon procession.
Across the crowd, I spot him again. This feels calculated. Is he following me? What does he want? Questions that splinter me open.
Flashes of a police station hurtle me back to the past. My voice trembling when I gave my statement. The cop’s promise to investigate. His sheepish return days later to apologize. Case closed. Pressure from higher up. We dug and found out why.
Preston Blackthorn.
The monster who torched my career and stalks my dreams. He sent enforcers to scare and silence me before. And now, he’s sent another.
My brain lurches. Oily, slick fear coats my gut.
I need to leave. Get somewhere safe. Home with Josh and Harper’s knives, my mom’s, Charlie’s couch.
Anywhere but here. Bodies close in as I shoulder through the crowd.
Lanterns strobe between red and shadow. Movement blurs and tilts. Panic claws at my throat.
Oh, fuck. I’m having a panic attack.
Fireworks explode overhead, and my body flinches. I claw at my tightening throat and stumble into something, fumbling for purchase.
Gloved hands close around my arms, steadying me. My chest seizes at the sharp heat of cinnamon. The helmeted biker is back. Blackthorn is sending me a message. I brace for the cold press of a gun to my back. For being dragged into a shadowed corner. For the taunting of what they’ll take this time.
“Easy there, I’ve got you,” a muffled voice filters through the helmet.
My brain scrambles for an escape, and I fight his hold.
“Don’t move,” he says firmly, fingers tightening just enough to keep me grounded. “You’re dizzy and will stumble.”
His voice is low and calm. His grip is careful, not cruel.
Blackthorn’s men operate by breaking someone. They don’t catch and comfort you. Which makes it worse, because I don’t know what he wants.
“Who… who are you?” I twist to look and catch the dark visor.
The man pulls me gently closer to his hard chest, and suddenly I’m caught somewhere between a fantasy and a panic attack. “You’re safe. Focus on your breathing.”
Safe? With a stranger pinning me? I try to shift, but my head spins, the ground teetering underfoot.
“What can you control?” Lord, his voice is smoke and gravel.
Control? My mind flips through therapy notes. It also registers that Blackthorn’s men don’t talk my anxiety down.
“My breathing,” I whisper, focusing on one thing at a time. Uncovering this man can come later.
“Good.” His thumb strokes a slow, reassuring line down my arm that elicits tingles. “What else can you focus on?”
I breathe him in. Smoky spices that smell like comfort, not danger.
Why am I leaning into him when I know better? My pulse skips a confused beat.
His hand shifts to the back of my head, fingers weaving through my hair, the tenderness of his gesture unraveling something in me.
“My sight,” I answer, locking onto a glowing stall sign ahead.
“Excellent. What else, sweetheart?” I like the way that sounds. Rough. Warm. Laced with danger.
“Umm… the sounds and smells.” I strain to recall his grounding questions.
“What do you hear?” He brushes my hair again.
“You,” I tell him.
His low chuckle flutters in my stomach like a rogue firework. “What else?”
I force myself to listen when all I want to hear is him. “The bells, flutes, and sizzling noodles.” I stop short of saying, “Your voice.”
“Very good.” Another soft brush to my arm. “What can you smell?”
I take a long breath to filter all the scents beyond him. “Ginger, soy sauce, aniseed… and mooncakes?”
“You want one?” the man asks.
I nod, slightly dazed, and he buys one. The vendor hands it to me with a kind smile.
“Thank you.” I turn to thank the biker behind me, hovering like a protective shadow.
He catches my arms, and this time I feel the warmth through the leather and waterproofed fabric of his gloves. “Eat. Your body needs fuel.”
“Technically, panic elevates blood sugar for a fight-or-flight response,” I counter, hoping he’ll argue or take off his helmet. Is it hot in that thing? Stuffy?
“You’re talking.” His tone is pleased. “That’s a good sign.”
The confidence in the way he says it tells me he’s done this before. Too smooth. Too steady. It sets off a quiet alarm in the back of my mind, even as the sound of his voice pulls me in.
“Thank you… my knight in shining armor.” Oops. My guard is down, and it slips out a little too flirtatious.
He scoff-laughs. “Hardly.”
“What’s with the helmet?” I angle toward him and bite into the cake.
“Do you want some water?” Classic deflection.
What are you hiding, mystery man?
“Please,” I reply.
I hate how I sway when he lets go, my body missing the anchor of his hands. Pain in my lungs retreats. I drag my damp hands down my clothes. Fog clings to my head, and I’m left confused about how to feel. Terror? Comfort? Do I need to call someone? File a report? Scream for help?
I turn slowly and deliberately, searching the glowing dark for the helmet that starts to haunt me and the woodsy scent curled into the fabric of my jacket.
I wait for two minutes. Ten. I wonder if he’s circling for water.
Maybe the stalls are out of bottles. The longer I wait, I realize he’s panicked and ghosted me.
He doesn’t want to be seen. Doesn’t want to be identified.
That’s what the reporter in me concludes.
The BookTok Girlie in me can’t stop thinking about the mysterious biker.
Is he a cop? Criminal? Stalker? I really hope the last one.
I’ve been praying for a long time. God hasn’t delivered so far, so I’ve resorted to writing Santa wish lists.
I know I should be terrified. Drive home as fast as I can and pack one of Harper’s guns in my handbag.
But all I want to know is his name. And why does his touch make me feel safe for the first time in years?
That leaves the last part of me to draw judgment.
The girl who’s scared of locked doors and footsteps in dim spaces doesn’t trust a man who appears out of nowhere three times, says all the right things, and then disappears before I can ask any real questions.
Our meeting wasn’t random. He wants something.
What, besides making my heart forget how to beat properly?
Why? And who is he? My mind can’t let it go and suspects he’s connected to Blackthorn.
Does he know I’m investigating him and the Ares family for my blog?
I try not to let my mind spiral into anxiety and file Mr. Sexy Biker away as a pleasant dream. The fog in my head clears a little more when I wrap up my nibbled mooncake in a napkin, tuck it in my handbag for later, and order some noodles and dumplings for Harper and me to eat tonight.
Time to get home. Triple-check my locks and jam a chair under the door handles.
Bribe Josh with treats for a sofa cuddle.
Tell Harper all about the chance encounter and get her impression.
Fall apart in a safer space if she thinks Blackthorn’s after me again.
I doubt the sexy stranger will catch me a second time.