Summer
I’m not a stalker!
I’m just tailing his car after waiting hours for him to finish screwing some random blonde with lips that screamed EpiPen and boobs so high up they could pass for earrings.
That last left turn of the black Lamborghini SUV means he’s heading for the house he shares with his friends. Easing off the gas, I switch lanes and fall behind to avoid suspicion.
I need to know he’s getting home alone, to confirm his pattern never changes—screw, leave, never let them stay the night.
And I would’ve done that already if I hadn’t been wasting non-refundable time checking the definition of a stalker while waiting for him and barely catching sight of his car as it left.
He’s already parked when I round the corner of the street.
Far enough to go unnoticed. Close enough to get the intel.
My dad’s rule rings in my head, sounding a lot like my brother whispering it in my ear, and a crushing pressure seizes my throat with the same force I’m using to strangle the dirty, cracked leather of the steering wheel.
Pull yourself together, you little shit! Focus.
Finding a spot on the opposite side of the road, half a restraining order away, I watch the object of my pursuit step out of his car while parking my beat-up rental.
At six foot four, Atlas Holt is the lone figure splitting the darkness. How is it that I can quote his exact height? I was battling ennui and losing spectacularly one night when I happened to have a measuring tape on hand, so . . . I measured him in his sleep. Good thing I’m not a perv.
His eyes stay glued to his phone as he drifts toward the front door, boredom rolling off him like smoke from a dying fire. Seems like he needs a challenge. I plan on giving him one.
Even from here, his tattoos are still clear, daring me not to stare.
Damn, I’m too close.
During one of my recon break-ins into his place, I caught a good look at the ink on his skin, painting his chest, arms, all the way down to his—
A bump and a long metal screech jolt me back to reality. I’m decorating my car, front to back, on a fire hydrant.
“Fuck. I’ll have to pay for that.”
Stealing a glance at my target from under the visor of my cap, I notice he’s stopped his insouciant stroll toward the house and is now looking in my direction.
“Double fuck. Great job! Three months of meticulous surveillance, ruined by a stupid distraction.”
Atlas slips his phone into the back of his jeans before striding across the lawn and onto the road, stripping me of my “stealth expert” title.
I can’t allow him to see my face. We can’t meet like this. It’s not my design.
The tang of panic creeps in, but I stifle it fast.
Keep my head down and run him over? He won’t see me. But considering his line of work is not the legal kind, that would send the wrong message. I don’t want him and his friends on high alert. Plus, I’d never hurt an innocent on purpose.
Reverse and speed away? Atlas could clock that he’s being followed. I would.
A quick peek shows he’s closing in, making my loose hoodie feel too tight for me to breathe. Maybe the lack of air sparks a rabid idea. Thankfully, I know Atlas way beyond his browser history, preferred toothpaste brand, and the prevailing color in his boxers collection. The idea should work.
Oh, God! I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I yank off my scrunchie and bolt out of the car, hair falling loose. With my back turned, I shove two fingers down my throat, forcing myself to throw up.
Heavy footsteps approach. So close. Too close. Panic punches my ribs, driving my fingers deeper until I’m gagging.
Come on! That’s not a dick. Throw up already!
“Hey . . .” His deep voice comes from behind me, adorably oblivious that I’m one bad decision away from tasing him. “Are you—”
I retch before spilling the contents of my dinner, perfectly nailing a soggy chainsaw note.
The footsteps halt.
Bent over with my back to him, cap and hair hiding my face, I slip a hand into my hoodie’s pocket and grip my taser, in case I misjudged Atlas.
Leave already, for fuck’s sake!
“Do you . . .”
Persistent chivalrous prick.
I try again, pushing the grossness to one-Latin-phrase-away-from-sounding-possessed. Only a truly kind and considerate man would come closer despite his disgust.
“Nope. Hell no!” comes from behind me, the echo of retreating footsteps telling me I was right. Atlas is not that man.
“Asshole,” I mutter.
Straightening up, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, regretting I didn’t tase his sexy ass. He should thank my moral compass.
The moment the door closes behind him, I dart back inside the car, ready to get the hell out of here, when the distant roar of a bike forces me to sink to the bottom of my seat like a snail in its shell, concealing myself from the one man who could topple my house of cards if I’m not careful.
Dean Malik—sole heir of a blood diamond empire.
What lies beyond a black hole is less of a mystery than him.
He gives the impression of someone who’d closely observe every move I make against Atlas.
The revving of the bike dies out, and I steal a peek at the black-clad enigma’s location.
He’s parked in the garage and heading for the house.
There’s a predatory streak in the way he scans everything nearby.
Usually, I’m never close enough to raise suspicion, and I change rentals on a regular basis. I shouldn’t be on his radar.
Dean entering the house is my cue to straighten up in my seat.
Starting the car with a disgruntled huff, I head down the street I came from. Atlas’s place has cameras, and this car can’t show up on them.
I’m not eager to get to my dorm, but to leave the confines of this stinking car that somehow managed to contaminate my DNA with its grossness.
It’s only when I park on campus and get outside that I realize the stench is coming from me, as there’s semi-digested pizza in my soon-to-be-not-black hair.
Atlas’s eyes shamelessly linger on redheads.
Guess that’s what my hair color will switch to.
Hopefully, I won’t end up looking like Pennywise, or worse—Ronald McDonald.
Grabbing my backpack from the passenger seat, I haul it over my shoulder, but instead of moving for my dorm, I stay there like I lack direction, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
The late-August air carries the crisp sadness of the passing summer, but those seasons no longer hold meaning for me, because time revolves solely around my purpose now.
The loud voices of a drunken group passing by pull my attention. I bet they’re returning from one of Veridian University’s start-of-school parties. What better way to kick off the new year than with a hangover?
I glance back at my rental, which looks like it’s been in a fight with Wolverine, then at the swaying, inebriated group of five.
The wallet in the back pocket of Mr. Loud Peacock—the one barely keeping up—reads like an invitation. He looks too rich to mourn it.
I shouldn’t . . . but I also shouldn’t dip into my barely-there runaway fund.
No cameras around. I’ve checked.
Okay. Just this once . . . maybe.
Pulling the visor of my cap down, I move straight for his crowd. One soft shoulder-on-shoulder collision, and five seconds later, the wallet arcs into a nearby bush as I stuff a decent stack of bills into my pocket. Thanks for covering the car repair!
And they say chivalry is dead.
I stride up the stairs without slowing until I’m back inside my dorm, tossing the backpack down and heading for the bed of my nonexistent roommate, where the oversized sweater I’ll have to hide under lies waiting.
“How can you be so fucking ugly? I’m breaking out in hives just by looking at you.”
Great! I’m talking to a sweater now.
I set aside the gray eyesore before lifting the mattress enough to pull out my pretty little board. Laying it down on the bed, I take a good look at the collage that months of recon have given me.
If I were a stalker, I’d be a damn good one!
Shredded, taped documents from Atlas’s art money laundering prove how thorough I’ve been. They tie directly into the arms-dealing empire he stands to inherit.
I pull the nearby trash can and unpin them from the board, ready to burn any evidence before putting my plan in motion.
But enemy intel isn’t enough. Knowing his allies is every bit as important.
At least that’s what all those The Art of War quotes for goodnight and battle accounts in lieu of fairy tales taught my brother and me.
Atlas’s friends, or as I call them, my besties . . . unaware and from afar, are all over the board.
My attention lands on Lincoln Cavanagh’s picture, taking a look at the notes below it.
Hacker.
The gang’s well of information.
Closest to Atlas.
Obsessed with Raven.
“You’ll get nothing real on me, Link. Nothing but the fact I’m an orphan,” I mutter, trying to reassure myself that my cover runs deep enough.
Besides, Link’s too busy chasing after my best friend to notice anything else.
Raven’s going to kill me when she finds out I’m alive and I haven’t contacted her.
I unpin Link’s photo and all the notes, focusing on what’s left there.
Connor and Carter Heyes.
Exchanging girls like Pokémon cards with their twin-swap thing.
Chuckling at how they almost made me lose faith in mankind, I crumple that note and clear the board of them, along with everything on Dean.
I pause on a single piece of intel before tossing it.
Dean’s family is in symbiosis with him.
Him! One of the two men I’m truly after.
And Atlas . . . he’s my ticket.
Taking his photo, I stare at those full-of-mischief dark eyes. Do I apologize in advance for the misery I’m about to drag into his life? Or punch that pretty face?
“I’m sorry. I really am,” I whisper, and for a second his eyes seem less threatening. “It—” I stop myself from uttering “it isn’t personal” when he won’t see it that way.
Ripping the picture in half to stop it from staring back at me accusingly feels like the first piece I’ll snatch from him. Attention, sharp and sudden.
Tearing the place where his insufferable smirk lives marks the next step. Desire.
I yank along the line of his broad shoulders, the split giving way to control.
Then the commitment piece gives, sounding like a lock clicking shut.
A scrap clings to my thumb before I crush it. Devotion.
And trust? The stacked pieces I try to tear apart resist. Stubborn fucker. Trust is the hardest part of this slow heist designed to steal his love. Not because I want it. I need it as a means to an end.
As the pieces flutter like dying moths into the can, one sticks to my sweaty palm. I shake it off fast, unlike the corrosive guilt for making him collateral. At least it would only be his feelings.
When I clear Atlas from the board, there are only two photos left.
I pick one up, hand trembling with a volatile mix of rage, grief, and pain. But then it stops, like it’s my brother there to steady it.
Sliding my finger down the edge of that photo, the thin paper slices my skin, letting red rush to the surface. I smear the blood across the face in the picture, knowing only death can stop me.
“Too bad for you,” I say to the ruined photo. “Death only likes to bang me, but it never keeps me.”