Chapter 9 - Kate
I’m deep into my new piece about a spate of underwear thefts from clotheslines that has Shadow Lake in a spin, when I feel it—the slimy awareness creeping down my spine. I’m being watched… again. And not by the dark, mysterious biker kind of bad.
Burt lingers.
I don’t look up. Tell my body not to lock. Don’t give him a sign I’m nervous. He’s a hyena that pounces on that. I shovel a Malteser in my mouth to build a candy wall against him.
Brut aftershave and the stale scent of coffee slap me across the face as my boss parks his ass on the edge of my desk. Creepshow leans into my cubicle, crooked tie, cracked lips, and eyes that never blink.
I spin in my chair. “Can I help you, Burt?” I dampen the bitch in my tone. He’s my boss and controls my paycheck… for now.
“Heading out.” His oil-slick tone is heavy with suggestion, and oozes down my skin.
“Enjoy.” I turn back to my screen. “I’ll lock up.”
The trick is never to give him too much leeway.
“What are you working on?” The man lacks a degree in social etiquette to determine when to fuck off.
“You know. Editor-in-chief, remember?” This is a power play. He wants me to mention the underwear so he can comment on mine.
He leans in to examine my open tabs. Shit. I forgot to close the one open on the Morrone family’s nightclub downtown.
“Morrone family, huh? They drink at the Gypsy. Want me to introduce you?” He pretends he knows them when they’d eat him alive.
“Give him my card.” I grab one from my desk holder and slap it down for him.
Burt doesn’t touch the card. His finger trails over my shoulder, and I lock up. “A pretty thing like you wouldn’t have a problem talking to him.”
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t scream, even though my survival instincts want to.
No one’s left in the office, and that’s how this works now. No witnesses to back me up. Why will they when he’s rewarded for bad behavior and they’re relegated to reporting for the back pages?
“Undo a few buttons, smile, and buy him a drink.” Is he still talking about Antonio Morrone, the head of the family?
I slap Burt’s hand away from my arm. “Didn’t you sign an agreement not to touch me?”
HR department. What department? They didn’t discipline him, they promoted him despite the sexual harassment complaint, the forced mediation, and whispered warnings. Creeps get ahead in this world.
“No one listens to girls like you.” He inserts his knee between mine. “You’re lucky they kept you on after what happened.”
My stomach hollows. Fucking Burt knows about Blackthorn. The assault. Police complaint that went nowhere. Blacklisted from the industry and lost my job.
Burt reaches for my hair, and I jerk away. “You think anyone’s going to hire a woman who cries wolf against a good man? He sneers. “You should be grateful your daddy begged us to hire you.”
What? I’ve never met the man. The only thing we share is DNA. Period.
Burt touches his belt.
My veins flood with ice.
The office falls away. I’m locked in memory. The bar. Jazz music tapping from the band. Gin spilled on the bar. The creak of the bathroom door behind me. Being shoved into a stall. The reason I don’t go to bars alone or with men. My mouth opens to scream, but no sound comes out.
I’m drowning in the past and can’t stay there. I force myself to come back.
I recite the mantra to break the trauma loop. Five things I can see. Four things I can touch…
A car alarm shrieks from the alley.
I topple out of my seat.
Burt’s head snaps toward the window. “Fuck, that’s my car.”
He bolts from my desk and out of the office.
I choke out my breath and suck in air. I’ve got to get out of here before he returns.
Jaw clenched, I clamber to my feet. I fumble to slam my laptop lid shut, pack my bag, and get my coat on.
Vision white hot with fury and humiliation, I retrieve the kitty kubaton and pepper spray from my bag, and slide my fingers through the rings.
I don’t care if I get locked up for stabbing him.
Prison is better than this. I stumble out of the office without locking up.
Cold air punches my face, a jarring reminder of how close I came to being dragged back into the darkness of my past.
Clouds hang thick in the sky and suffocate any moonlight.
A lone lamp illuminates the alley packed with cars, some belonging to residents of the lofts next to the Reporter’s office.
Music spills from the bar just up the street where Burt invited me.
Some of my colleagues go there for a beer after work.
I won’t be caught dead there when he goes.
Thirty feet ahead, Burt kicks the tire of his BMW and mutters profanities at the smashed window. Karma’s a bitch and tonight she wears leather.
Fuck. I’ve got to go past him to get to the bus stop on the next street since my car’s getting serviced.
Sucking it up, I hug my waist and pick up my pace, race-walking past him.
Burt’s fingers clamp around my arm, and I yelp and kick instinctively. “Wait. We can still get that drink.”
“Get your fucking hands off her,” a voice as rough as whisky warns.
I roll free of Burt and backstep.
A figure shifts in the gloom. Tall. Biker outfit. Black helmet. Six-three and two-hundred pounds easy. Towering over the five-eight weasel.
My pulse kicks. Fear claws at my spine. Wrong helmet. Wrong man.
“Get on my bike, baby.” The voice belongs to the man from the festival crowd. “I’ll deal with this asshole.” He gestures to the matte black motorcycle that’s been shadowing me parked on the sidewalk.
My hands tremble, but something inside me settles. I crush my weapons harder, the kubaton’s rings digging into my palm.
“Who’s this?” Burt asks like he has a right. “Your boyfriend?”
“I’m a concerned citizen,” my dark knight growls, “and if you lay a finger on her again, I’ll be back for another visit.”
Burt scampers backwards with hands raised. “I don’t want any trouble.” Just like that, he’s gone, running like the squealing pig he is.
Relief rushes through my taut muscles. One threat down, one more to go.
The biker turns to me, addressing me with tenderness. “You okay?”
I crush my weapons to my stomach. “Fine. Thanks for intervening. I’ve got to get home.”
I step left. Fuck, which way is home? Where is the bus stop? Is the biker alone? Are there more? I can’t stop shaking.
“Get on. I’ll take you home. I don’t want you alone with him again or walking at night.” His voice rings with authority.
The two halves of my persona split.
Book Girlie me assesses him against the book boyfriend scale and purrs, “Yes, Daddy.”
Rational me shouts, “Pepper spray won’t work on a helmet!”
I bitch slap myself out of my daze and bring myself back to his command. “I don’t plan on it. And for the record, my car’s in the shop.”
Another signal from him for me to get on his bike.
Yeah, no. We need to get a few things straight first, and the adrenaline firing in my chest gives me the courage to confront it.
“Okay, I’ll bite.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Are you following me? Or am I blessed with the world’s most overqualified guardian angel who redecorates my boss’ window?”
No confession, just smug silence.
My reporter brain takes over. “The festival wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”
“I wasn’t following,” he mutters. “I was… nearby.”
Under the bravado, something in me softens. I sense a gruff cinnamon roll behind the helmet. That said, I remain on guard just in case that changes, because he is a stranger and following me, after all.
“Nearby, like a creepy neighbor or an obsessed stalker from my book club reads?” What? A girl has to know! Reporter privilege.
He tilts his head. Annoyed? Amused? I’m going insane with curiosity to know what’s beneath that visor. Scars running across his cheek, turquoise eyes, stubble, raven hair to compliment the tattoos peeking out of the neck of his jacket?
I’m still shaken and on edge, but he hasn’t made a move, and I feel confident he won’t betray that. “And the bugs in my room?”
Silence. Smart. Same move I’d make if the roles were reversed. Unfortunately for him, the interview is in session, and I have a lot of questions.
Eyes locked on him, I run a finger over a kitty ear to show him I’m not messing around if he tries anything. “Because if you’re here to gut my enemies and sweep me off my feet, I might be into it. Just saying.”
Oops. That one slipped out. Bad Book Girlie.
I glance away, unsure if I’ve said too much. My heart lurches at the joke.
He glances left and right. “Is that how it works? You flirt with the guy who watches you from the shadows.”
Duh. Being saved by a muscled, helmeted stalker is the fantasy of ninety percent of BookTok’s dark romance crowd.
“Depends. Are you dangerous?” Not asking for a friend.
“Yes.” His response has my thirsty Book Girlie going wild, while my poor rational brain screams, “Stranger, kidnap, run!”
My fingers flex around my weapon. “Good. So am I.”
I can work with danger. I just need to define the type of danger with my next question. “Do you work for Blackthorn?” If he does, I’m in deeper than I thought, and it might be time to take Harper up on the offer to carry a gun.
“I don’t work for him or any of his associates,” he replies.
More mystery, and I love a good puzzle to solve. “Who do you work for?”
“Christ, you really are a reporter, aren’t you?”
Oh, Grumpy, I’m not close to done yet.
He motions to his bike. “We ought to get going before your dick boss calls the cops.”
Fuck the cops. We’re not leaving until I get to the bottom of this. “Did you send me the tea and scare my neighbor? The equine deposit was a nice touch.” I chef kiss my fingers.
“Harry’s an asshole who deserved the lesson. And you’re welcome.” Interesting. He reveals enough details to warn me to stay well away. Crazy as it sounds, that also arouses me.