She’s hurt.
She’s scared.
She’s been through hell tonight.
The last thing she needs right now is me mauling her.
“Go get some sleep,” I say, my voice coming out harsher than I intend it to. “I’ll wake you up in a couple hours.”
She opens her mouth to argue, or perhaps it’s to say thank you, but she doesn’t get the chance to do either, because I slip out of her hold, shut the door and turn on the shower, letting out a breath I hadn’t even been aware I was holding.
I take a long second to collect myself, reminding myself of all the reasons why it’s a bad idea to follow her to her bedroom right now, before stripping down and unwrapping the tensor bandage from my wrist.
I jump under the water; the burn from the too hot temperature is a welcome distraction. For good measure, I flex my fingers, groaning at the stab of pain that shoots through my wrist, but it does little to help.
My mind stays fixed on Piper.
My hand remembering the feel of her hip in my grasp, my lips dying for another taste.
The woman is perfection.
Shit. She always was.
I groan again, snagging up the shampoo and squirting out a blob of coconut scented soap. I take my time, washing out the remaining dirt and slivers of glass from my hair, forcing myself not to think about how she’s just a couple of doors down, curled up in bed.
When I finish, I dry off, put on my boxers, and rewrap my wrist, before heading straight for the couch, purposefully not glancing toward her room.
I lay there in the dark for a long moment, my pulse still thrumming hard, and before I close my eyes, I set the alarm clock on my phone to wake Piper in two hours.
Chapter Eight
Piper
Something startles me awake.
I sit straight up in bed, disoriented, my head pounding and my heart hammering in my chest. The room is semi dark, the lights off and blinds drawn with only thin strips of light coming into the room from around them.
A glance around tells me that I’m alone and a glance at the clock tells me that it’s two o’clock, and judging by the light streaming in from the window, that would be two o’clock in the afternoon.
Sighing and rubbing my eyes, not sure what woke me up, I stand, stumbling out of bed. As my feet hit the ground, my head spins, my mouth waters, and my stomach flip-flops.
Oh crap.
Oh crap.
Oh crap.
Not again.
Hand flying up to my mouth, I half run, half stagger to the bathroom, my stomach heaving and bile rising, burning up my throat. I drop to my knees, hovering over the toilet, and retch for the sixth time since the accident.
With nothing left in my stomach, the dry-heaves feel as though they last for hours, twisting my gut, making my eyes water and my head throb painfully.
But then they end.
Thank God they end.
Leaning back on my haunches, I flush the toilet, and then sit there for a long moment, trying to catch my breath, before finally rolling up to my feet and moving over to the sink to brush my teeth, groaning when I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I look like death.
My eyes are bloodshot and watery, my cheeks puffy, and there’s the beginnings of a purplish bruise forming along my hairline and seeping in to my right cheek. My hair is a tangled mess, knotted and dented from falling asleep with it still wet, and my tee, dampened with sweat around the neckline.
Ugh. How many times did Vance see me like this last night? He woke me up … four times? Five?
Great. Too many.
Grimacing, I try to fix myself up, running my fingers through my hair, not quite brave enough to use the hairbrush. The skin around the stitches feels as though it’s burning, my scalp feeling too tight from the pull of them.
My efforts do little to help, and giving up, I grab an elastic and tie my hair back loosely at the nape of my neck, before splashing some water on my face.
As I’m brushing my teeth, I hear the door to my room open and the light sound of footsteps on the floor.
Vance.
I guess another two hours has gone by already. I just hope he hasn’t brought another plate of food with him this time. I don’t think my stomach can handle it.
Rinsing my mouth and toothbrush, I turn off the faucet and step back into my bedroom, blinking my eyes against the bright light that’s now streaming in through the open blinds.
When my eyes focus, they land on Vance leaning against the window frame, arms folded over his thickly muscled chest. My footsteps falter, and I pause, only a few steps out of the bathroom. He meets my eyes, his brown ones dark, stormy with concern.
Instinctively, I fold my arms over my chest in a futile attempt to shield the state of my sweat dampened shirt, and my overall gross appearance.
The action makes him frown, but he doesn’t say anything. He only stares, his eyes carefully blank, as they scan me over.
I’m not sure what I should say, or what to do, or how I should even feel. I nearly puked on him last night, snapped at him, kissed him, and then had him hold my hair while I puked some more.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I want to apologize. I want to thank him. I want to run back into the bathroom and lock the door.
This is so awkward.
I just stare back at him, fighting the urge to fidget.
After a moment, his frown lines soften ever so slightly. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah, just barely.”
Ugh. My voice sounds rough, scratchy and hoarse, and my throat feels like sandpaper.
“You get sick again?” he asks.
A lie springs to the tip of my tongue, but I quickly swallow it back, knowing he’ll probably want me to eat if I say no. “Yeah.”
He nods, eyeing me critically. He looks well rested and wide awake, and I’m not sure how he’s pulling it off. Even if he hadn’t crashed on my couch, which couldn’t have been all that comfortable, he was up every two hours with me, waking me up and holding my hair while I puked my guts out.
“How’s the head?” He raises his eyes questioningly. “Headache still there?”
“Better.” A lot better than when he saw me last. “The headache’s almost gone, nowhere near as bad as the last time you woke me.”
Vance’s expression shifts, and he stares at me, his eyes narrowing. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t need to. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
“Really, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “The skin is sore and tight and throbbing a little around the stitches, but the headache isn’t as all-consuming as it was.”
He considers me for a moment, looking nowhere near as impressed by this as I am. He sighs. “I gotta run out for a bit. Kim’s coming over to stay with you.”
My stomach sinks. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah. I just talked to Sam and he agreed to let me review the security tapes from last night. He’s meeting me at the pub in forty-five minutes. The detective I told you about last night is gonna be there, too.”
I frown, hugging myself tighter, my gaze holding his. “I want to go with you.”
He shakes his head, pushing off the window frame to stroll through my room, back toward the door. “Not this time. Not until you can hold down some food for more than ten minutes.”
“It’s just a hangover,” I say, darting in front of him and blocking the doorway, before he can leave. “It’ll pass.”
“I hope you’re right, freckles,” he says. “But you’re still not coming with me.”
He stares at me, his eyebrow cocked, as though he’s waiting for me to protest, and once again, I find myself at a loss for something to say. I know he’s right. I should stay home, get some more sleep, eat, but I feel like I’m losing a battle here. My control over my life, over my stalker situation, is slipping from my grasp, and it terrifies me.
I need to be involved.
I need to be doing something.
&nbs
p; I need to be in control.
Reaching out a hand, he runs his knuckles along my cheekbones. “But if your stomach doesn’t settle soon,” he says, “then I’m taking you back to the hospital. Repeated vomiting isn’t normal after a concussion.”
My chest squeezes, and I lean into his touch. The sudden urge to let him soothe and take care of me is nearly overwhelming. I know that he will if I just fully let go of everything and hand it over to him, but I can’t just sit back and wait for the next attack.
It’s just not me.
“I’m fine,” I say softly. “Thank you for trying to take care of me, Vance.”
He shoots me a sardonic smile and drops his hand from my cheek. “Trying. So far my success rate seems to be fifty/fifty though.”
I stall at those words. “How do you figure that?”
He lifts his bulky shoulders in a shrug. “Managed to get the security system in, but you still ended up in the hospital under my watch.”
“It’s because you were there, because you held me in my seat, that all I got was a few stitches and a headache. In my books, that’s a complete success.”
He regards me peculiarly for a moment, and it looks as though he’s about to say something, just as the alarm starts to beep, and we both shift our gazes to the monitor, perched on top of my dresser, reading the warning flashing there. Front door motion detected.
Kim, most likely.
Sighing, I pad over to the monitor, tapping the screen and quickly pulling up the front door feed, just as the doorbell rings.
Wincing at the sharp bursts of sound, I squint at the screen, and sure enough, it’s Kim and Jimmy.
Vance caught my wince. I know it the moment I turn back to him. His eyes darken, his frown tightens, and his eyebrows dip low. “You need to go back to the doctor.”
“I’m fine,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “Noise sensitivity directly correlates with hangovers and headaches.”
His frown deepens further. “You said your headache was better.”
I roll my eyes. “I said it was almost gone and not as bad as the last time you woke me.”
He merely shakes his head disapprovingly.
I look away from him then, moving over to the closet, searching out a clean shirt. “You mind getting that?” I ask, pulling a light blue tank off its hanger. “I need to change real quickly.”
Vance says nothing as he walks away, and I watch him as he closes my bedroom door behind him.
Once he’s gone, I head over to my dresser, opening the drawer and retrieving a clean bra, before shrugging out of the dirty tee and putting it on. With no time for a shower, I pull on the clean tank as I pad back over to the bathroom and quickly swipe on some deodorant.
With a sigh, I scan my pasty reflection over once more in the mirror, and knowing that there really isn’t much I can do about the sickly look to my skin right now, I leave my room to find Kim and Jimmy.
Following the sounds of their voices, I walk into the kitchen and Kim’s super blonde hair glints from the glare of the sun streaming through the French doors. She has on a tight pink tank and a pair of snug black denim capri pants, and by the look on her face, she’s obviously still feeling the effects from last night’s bender.
Jimmy is standing beside her, leaning against the kitchen counter, looking not much better for wear. He’s in his signature black—black jeans, black tee—with dark circles under his eyes.
They don’t notice me right away, both of them watching Vance as he scans over a piece of computer paper. “You sure this is everyone?” he asks. “No pissed off exes or old friends she screwed over?”
Kim snorts, rolling her eyes. “This is Piper we’re talking about.”
Unlike last night, I don’t wait at the doorway, walking right in and clearing my throat, as I shoot Kim a look. “I don’t have any pissed off exes, at least none that I’m aware of, and I don’t make a habit of screwing over friends.”
Kim turns to me, her expression showing her amusement for a second before it falls away, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God,” she gasps, a hand flying up to her mouth. “Piper, you look like hell.”
“Shit, Pipes,” Jimmy says, his voice far darker than I’ve ever heard it before. His eyes scan me critically and he flicks his lip ring with the tip of his tongue. “Shit, your face is bruising up, too.”
He steps over to me and tries to get a better look but I slip past him, going straight for Vance, eyeing the piece of paper in his hand, hoping like hell it isn’t my list, because in hindsight, writing that thing while drinking was probably not such a stellar idea. Did I really put down Heather Tane and the coffee cup incident?
“Is that my list?” I ask, reaching out to snatch it. “I should probably redo that.”
Vance shakes his head, holding the page just out of my reach. “No, this is a good start, but if we look at last night as an indication, this person is escalating and has a lot of built up anger toward you. You most likely played a significant role in their life.” He cocks an eyebrow in question. “Any of these people fit into that?”
I shake my head. “No, not really.”
“Don’t stalkers typically try to isolate their victims?” Jimmy asks seriously. “Like make it so their victim is alone and in the end, the victim turns to them for support?”
“Not always,” Vance says. “It all depends on what their end goal is.” He rubs his thumb along the dip of his chin as he considers the list once again. “I’m gonna take this with me, let Cruz take a look.”
“No, really,” I say, really not wanting anyone else to read the asinine reasons why certain people made the list. “I should redo it first.”
Vance ignores me, folding up the paper and shoving it in his pocket. I frown at him and he laughs under his breath as he leans in and places a light kiss high on my cheekbone, brushing his lips along the bruising there, before his hands come up, cradling the underside of my jaw in his palms.
He kisses me suddenly and intensely, and I gasp, caught off guard. His lips are demanding, and his tongue, persistent, licking along the seam of my lips, until I let him in.
And I do.
I let him in and I melt against him.
I want the kiss to last forever, but in no time at all it ends and he pulls away.
Still cupping my jaw, he grins. “Stay here and try to eat something, yeah? I’ll call you if we find anything.”
I nod jerkily as I meet his eyes. “Okay.”
His lips lift with a smile and he leans back in, pressing another quick and chaste kiss on my lips, before dropping his hands and turning away without saying another word.
“Um, what was that?” Kim asks, stunned, her eyes glued to her cousin’s back as he walks out the door.
I watch Vance until the front door closes behind him, before turning to her. “It was nothing,” I say, with a little shrug, though the words taste like a bitter lie on my tongue. “Just a kiss.”
She gapes at me, and Jimmy grins.
I roll my eyes, unable to stop myself from blushing under their stares. “Seriously, guys, it’s nothing.”
“That was not nothing,” Kim says. “That was intense.”
Tell me about it.
Jimmy eyes me peculiarly for a moment, flicking the tip of his tongue against his lip ring. “I have to agree with Kim on this one, Pipes.”
I don’t know what to say, or what to think. My cheeks are burning. I can feel my blush deepening and I turn to the fridge and retrieve the Brita, trying to hide it.
“What the hell happened last night?” she asks, her tone a tad irritated, as though she can’t believe she has to ask the question. She gives me a torn look, as though she isn’t quite sure if she wants to throttle me, hug me, or break out into a happy dance. Her expression flickers for a moment, before finally settling on curious excitement.
I grab a glass from the cupboard, filling it up, not sure how to respond to that. I should tell her about last night—that I made the first move. She’s my frie
nd—my best friend—and I know she isn’t opposed to me hooking up with her cousin. The girl has been pushing me to get to know him for years now and she’s always telling me that I need to be more assertive, put myself out there more.
But the words stick in my throat.
I can still feel him, taste him. Jesus, if I had have known that kissing Vance would be this … epic, I sure as hell wouldn’t have waited this long.
Okay, wait. That’s not true. I have no idea where my nerve came from last night. Maybe the pain killers? Perhaps it was remnants of adrenaline from the accident? The alcohol?
I don’t have a clue.
Stalling, I take a small sip of water, forcing myself to go slow just in case, even though the cool slide down my throat feels like heaven, and I glance at Jimmy for … I don’t know what. Support maybe? An easy out to this conversation?
“Don’t look at me,” he says, grinning. “You know she’s gonna pester you until you spill.”
I groan. “Okay, fine. I kissed him last night and I guess he took that as an open invitation.” I lift an eyebrow, looking between them. “Anything else you need to know?”
“Uh, yeah,” Kim says seriously. “Where did he sleep last night?”
I laugh at that. “On the couch.”
Chapter Nine
Vance
It’s a little after two thirty in the afternoon when I arrive at Constant Pub.
The parking lot is nearly empty. There’s only an unmarked cop car sitting cock-eyed across two parking spaces, with Detective Jacob Cruz leaning against it, a file folder in one hand, and the other dug into his short brown hair.
Jase and Wes aren’t here yet, though I’m not really surprised. I’m almost fifteen minutes early, and knowing them, they’ll be here with five minutes to spare.
I pull up close to Cruz, swinging my truck into a space a few over from his jacked-up parking job. I don’t dawdle cutting the engine and getting out, anxious to see if he has any insight on Piper’s situation.
Cruz looks up at me as I approach, lifting his square jaw in greeting. “About time one of you showed up.”