Since it was early August, the sun hadn't set yet, though it was dipping low in the sky behind her, casting long shadows in front as she walked east along Sixth Street toward the parking lot. She kept her eyes on the shadow, only realizing how jumpy she was whenever another shadow encroached, indicating someone moving up fast behind her.
Twice, she whipped around to see who was walking, only to end up startling a man in a business suit, and a tall girl in jeans and a tank top who was bopping along to the sound of her earbuds.
"Chill," she ordered herself, then jumped a mile when the chirp of her cell phone signaled an incoming text. She cursed her nerves again, opened the text, and froze.
It was a picture of herself leaving her apartment, decked out in skinny jeans and a Phantom of the Opera touring company T-shirt, her long brown hair hanging loose around her shoulders on one of the rare days when she hadn't pulled it back. Yesterday.
She stood there, waiting for another text. A message. An emoji. Anything to tell her what this meant. Or to tell her for certain who it came from.
Except she already knew the answer to that question. Didn't she?
And if she was right, she had only two choices: Run. Or get help.
She thought about starting over. About the logistics of finding a safe place to hide. About being alone without her friends. Without a job. With absolutely nothing except her wits. And, of course, her father's money.
A shudder cut through her, and she knew what she had to do.
She turned around, and one step at a time, she started walking back down Sixth Street toward The Fix.
Chapter Two
Taylor paused outside The Fix, still uncertain. But what choice did she have? She could either run, or she could get help. And--
"Taylor!"
She turned, to see Megan Clark behind her. A makeup artist by trade, Megan had recently started working at The Fix to make some extra money. A fact that reminded Taylor that she could surely do the same if the new hole in her bank account made it necessary.
"Why aren't you in there? Aren't you working today?" Megan asked.
"Mina's covering for me. I'm feeling crappy so Jenna sent me home. But I really need to talk to Brent, so I thought I'd grab him before I go mega-dose on NyQuil and crash." As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Megan would want to know what was so important it had Taylor running to Brent. Not because she was inherently nosy, but because they'd become good friends. And good friends talked.
She cleared her throat, then rushed on before Megan could get any reply in. "Are we running this weekend?" Megan, Mina, and Taylor had started training together for a 5K, with the ultimate goal of running in the Capitol 10K next year. A goal they probably wouldn't reach since most of their running sessions turned into too-short runs and too-long breakfasts.
A couple circled them, then pulled the door open.
"We're blocking traffic." Megan shoved her cat's eye glasses up her nose, then reached for the door as it closed behind the couple. "And yes," she said, holding it open for Taylor. "Absolutely we're running. And after, there's this new place that's supposed to do amazing Tex-Mex breakfasts. We should check it out."
Taylor bit back a smile, amused by how well the conversation was tracking her own thoughts. "Sounds good," she said, then stepped inside. Immediately, the noise surrounded her. The familiar, constant din of a bar full of carefree people who'd come to have some fun. "I'm going to go find Parker," Megan said, referring to her ultra-sexy boyfriend. "I was supposed to have met him five minutes ago. Oh. There's Brent."
Taylor followed Megan's finger to the back, told her friend she'd catch up with her later, then wove her way through the crowd until she reached Brent, who was standing by both Tyree and Reece. Great. So much for keeping this on the down low.
"I thought Jenna sent you home," Reece said in lieu of a greeting as Taylor approached.
"She did. I needed to come back." Taylor looked between the three of them, working up the courage to pull Brent aside and spill all of her woes. She knew she needed to, and the sooner the better. Already she felt calmer, just standing near the three.
And why not? She was awash in a sea of testosterone. And she was certain that any one of the three would help her if she asked and protect her if she needed. They were just those kind of guys. Reece, the bar's manager, with his stellar body covered with intricate tats, and the shaved head and beard he rocked so perfectly. Tyree--the original owner and founder of The Fix--who stood like a grizzly of a man, exuding both strength and patience. And Brent, a former cop and single dad who ran security for the bar. He was the only one of the three who hadn't been anointed as a Man of the Month, although Taylor happened to know that wasn't for lack of trying. Jenna was forever harassing him to enter, and lately Megan had jumped on that bandwagon, too.
Taylor figured they'd win that battle eventually. And when they did, Brent would win the contest. He had the kind of good looks Hollywood casting agents rubber-stamped with Leading Man. And the best part about Brent was that he didn't even seem to realize it. He focused on his job, his daughter, and his friends.
Today, Taylor really hoped she ranked in that last category, because his help was the reason she'd come back.
"--okay?"
She shook her head to clear it, then realized she'd only heard half of what Reece had said. "I'm sorry. What?"
"I said, hurry and get whatever you came back for, then get out of here. Trust me."
"He means that Jenna is in full-on mother hen mode," Brent said, chuckling. "If she sent you home, she wants you home."
"Got it," Taylor said. "But could I talk to you first?"
Brent's whiskey-brown eyes widened. "Well, sure. But the contest--"
"I know," she said. "But it's important. It's, um, a security thing."
At that, he shifted from laid-back to all-business. "We can talk in Tyree's office. I'll catch you guys later," he added to the other two, who, to Taylor's relief, didn't ask a single question.
As soon as she'd crossed over the threshold, she shut the door behind her. Brent noticed, but said nothing, just nodded to the guest chair in front of Tyree's desk. She sat, expecting him to sit in Tyree's chair. Instead, he leaned against the desk, his brow furrowed with concern. "So what's going on?"
"It's not about The Fix," she said quickly. "I'm sorry if you thought there was some sort of crisis on the job. There's not. Or, I guess, if there is, I don't know about it." She wanted to spit everything out. Instead she was rambling. Why was this so difficult?
Except that was a ridiculous question; she knew damn well why it was difficult. Because she'd been self-reliant for so long that getting help almost felt like she was breaking a secret pact she'd made with herself all those years ago. In a way, she supposed she was. But things had changed, and she loved this life. And, dammit, she wasn't going to give it up without a fight.
"It might be easier if you close your eyes," Brent said gently.
A laugh burbled out of her. "Is that what you tell Faith?" she asked, referring to his five-year-old daughter.
"Sometimes. It works."
She shook her head. "I'm okay. It's just hard figuring out where to start."
"Start with what brought you here. Then you can go backwards."
"I'm being stalked." There. She'd said it.
In front of her, Brent's face remained exactly the same, and she thought that he must have made a damn good cop if he could sit across from a witness or a suspect and not react at all. "You're sure?"
She nodded.
"Tell me what's happened."
She passed him the crumpled note that she'd shoved into the leather messenger bag she used as a purse. "Someone left that for me on the bar. Cam found it yesterday and gave it to me just a bit ago."
He took the note carefully, then moved around the desk to unfold it, using a tissue so that his fingers didn't directly touch it.
She grimaced. "I didn't think about messing up fingerprints. And I left
the envelope on the bar. It's probably buried under a mountain of old food and yucky napkins."
"I doubt there are prints anyway, but I prefer to be careful." He continued what he was doing, then frowned when he saw the words.
"You belong to me," he quoted, then looked up. "Do you know who sent it?"
"Maybe," she said, then explained about the other note with the quote from Sweeney Todd and how the note he was holding might be a reference to The Phantom of the Opera. "There's a guy in my department at school who's been asking me out. But I just don't think he's the type to take pictures of me or throw bricks." She shuddered, once again thinking about what could have happened to Jenna. She'd lost control of the car, but the damage to the car had been minor. Crunched metal, but nothing that affected how the car drove. And Taylor could live with a bumped and bruised Corolla.
"Tell me about the picture."
Obediently, she passed him her phone, open to the text message.
"You're wearing a Phantom T-shirt. You might be right about the student."
"Maybe." She hoped she was. A scary Reggie was a lot less scary than the alternative. "I don't know. He's so ... mild," she finished lamely.
"Still waters," Brent said. "And if he has psychopathic tendencies ... well, you just never know what he might be capable of."
She nodded, feeling both numb and oddly better. She was doing something, and action felt good. "So you think it might not be out of character for him to have thrown the brick?"
"I'm not sure he did throw it. Three other cars had bricks thrown through their windows that week. The police have been searching footage from nearby cameras, but so far, no leads on who did it."
"Really?" She sat back in her chair, relieved that it was looking less and less that her past was coming back to haunt her. Still, she wasn't too keen on being stalked in her present. "So what should I do?"
"Well, you're not staying at home tonight. Not until we get you some decent security at your apartment."
She nodded, thinking about how much that was going to cost.
"And I'm going to talk to Landon."
At the name, Taylor felt something warm and reassuring flow through her. She didn't know Landon well, but she trusted him. A gorgeous black man with kind eyes, a close-shaved scalp and beard, and a full lower lip, she'd first noticed Landon when she'd bumped into him--literally--at the entrance to The Fix.
That had been mortifying--she'd been such a klutz. And despite the fact that the feel of those hard muscles had definitely resonated, she'd put the memory aside. At least until the next time Landon had caught her eye. He'd been at The Fix with Derek Winston, the heir to a hotel chain and one of tonight's contestants for Mr. July.
Then again, caught her eye wasn't entirely accurate. More like captured her with his intense, heated gaze.
That night, Landon and Derek had been sitting at the bar, and she'd been sitting with Mina and Megan just a few feet away at one of the tables by the windows. He'd turned, their eyes had locked, and zing--Taylor had felt the shock of his gaze running all the way through her, heating every part of her body all the way down to her toes--and more interesting parts in between.
They hadn't said a word, but that was the moment that Landon had become her unreasonable crush and her favorite bedtime fantasy, with his perfect ass and broad shoulders taking second billing to all the wonderful things that gorgeous mouth could do to her.
Then the full scope of what Brent was suggesting hit her, and Taylor shook her head. "I can't," she blurted. "I don't want to go to the police."
Brent's brows furrowed, because obviously any sane person would be happy to go to the police. Taylor, however, did not. "He's on leave, actually. Three weeks. Take it or lose it vacation, so he took off to do some work on his house."
"Oh. It's just--"
He moved closer, so that he was right in front of her, his eyes on hers. "I know the idea of going to the police makes people nervous, so I'm giving you a pass on that with the caveat that you file a report if anything more happens. And with the caveat that you let Landon help you."
"Can't you?"
He shook his head. "I've got too much on my plate right now. Landon's painting and redoing floors, but he's tackling it slowly."
"Still, that's time-consuming. And I doubt he wants to play detective when he's on vacation from that very job." She needed to shut up, and she knew it. There was no reason to turn down Landon's help, and the only reason she was hesitating was the fact that she was attracted to him.
The corner of Brent's mouth quirked up, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd read her mind. "He'll want to help you. I'm sure of it. And, hell. Maybe you can help him paint his house."
She drew in a breath, then slowly released it. "Okay. Sounds good. Thank you."
He nodded. "I'll give him a call in a bit. In the meantime, you can stay at my place tonight."
"Oh, no." She shook her head vehemently. "It'll probably all be fine, but if something bad did happen--I mean, with Faith there." She met his eyes. "No. Thank you, but no way."
For a moment, he just held her gaze. "Is there something you haven't told me?"
A chill raced down her spine. "No," she lied. "I just--she's a little girl, and I'd feel horrible if..."
She trailed off, and he nodded. "Fair enough," Brent said. "We'll get you a room at The Winston. Since Derek's about to strut his stuff across that stage, I'll get Reece to check you in, and I'll tell Derek as soon as he's done with the contest. He can give a heads-up to hotel security so they can keep an eye on your room. Just in case."
"Okay." She forced herself not to think about the dollars that were stacking up. "And Landon? I mean, Detective Ware?"
"I think Landon works just fine. I'll talk with him and explain the situation. I'll have him come by to see you in the morning. And I'll send Mina over later tonight so you have some company. Okay?"
She nodded as he checked his phone, then confirmed he had her cell number.
"You ready? We can go track down Reece and get you settled."
For just a moment, she hesitated. She didn't like being a burden. More than that, she didn't like being under a microscope. Too many secrets that had the potential of coming out.
But she also didn't like the idea of ending up dead. Or worse.
"Yeah," she said. "I'm ready."
Chapter Three
"Yo, Ware!" Matthew Herrington's voice echoed across the cavernous gym to where Detective Landon Ware was beating the shit out of a punching bag since he couldn't take his fists to Terrance Weems, a scumbag Landon had put away a year ago, and the system had kicked back out on parole. First thing Terrance did was go home and knock out his ex-wife's front teeth.
He was back in the pen, and he'd probably stay this time, but dammit, Landon had busted his ass to get the shithead locked up. To protect that poor woman whom Weems had spent years waling on. And one idiotic bureaucratic decision had destroyed all of that.
He loved his job, dammit. But there were times when the system was seriously fucked up.
"Your cell phone's ringing. Display says it's from Brent Sinclair. Want me to answer?"
"Just let it roll to voice mail," Landon said. He'd see Brent soon enough. Tonight Landon's buddy Derek was running the Man of the Month gauntlet at The Fix, just a couple of blocks away from Herrington's gym. That's what came from being in love. Derek's girlfriend was Amanda, and Amanda's best friend was in charge of the contest. Which meant that when one of the contestants had to drop out, she'd tagged Derek.
Landon assumed that Amanda had encouraged him to do it and would undoubtedly be yelling the loudest when Derek stripped off his shirt. They were a good match, Landon would give them that. But good matches were rare in his experience, and he hoped his friend appreciated what he had.
Then again, Derek had been topsy-turvy for Amanda for a while now, and the fact that she was finally all-in had Derek doing a permanent happy dance.
Which, of course, explained w
hy Derek had agreed to do the contest. And why Landon was heading to The Fix next, just to watch his friend's abject humiliation. Or rather, that was where he was heading after he'd burned off enough of his bad mood to be decent company.
He kept at it for another ten minutes, and by the time he stopped, his arms felt like spaghetti. "Not a bad workout," Matthew said. "Good thing I only invest in quality gym equipment. Pretty sure you would have come near to destroying another bag."
Matthew wasn't wrong, but there was humor in his voice.
"I was picturing a particular face," Landon admitted.
"Rough day at the office?"
"The roughest," Landon said. "Which says a lot considering I'm on vacation."
"Did it help?" Matt nodded toward the punching bag.
Landon tried out a smile, managed a slight grin. "Guess so. At least a little."
"Then I'm happy to have been of service. You heading to The Fix?"
Landon nodded. "As soon as I shower. You?"
"I shouldn't, but I am."
"Shouldn't?" Landon had been mopping his face with one of the chilled towels that Matthew kept in three small refrigerators around the gym. Now he peered at his friend. "Why not? I know you're not giving up whiskey. Selma would disown you."
Matthew and Landon had met in high school, where their favorite occupations were running track and teasing Selma, Matthew's quirky sister, who now ran a local distillery that was gaining national attention.
"Nah, nothing like that," Matthew said. "It's just that there's this woman who hangs out there sometimes. This lawyer, and she's, well, it doesn't matter..." He trailed off with a shrug, and Landon sighed. He considered diving into part two of his lecture about how Matthew needed to get over the fact that he'd dropped out of high school. He'd opened a successful chain of gyms, had a full-to-overflowing bank account, and was a genuinely nice guy. Any woman who couldn't see that was an idiot.
Not that Matthew lacked for female companionship. As a gym owner, it was part of his job to stay in shape, and Landon had noticed that Matthew rarely lacked a woman on his arm. Or, presumably, in his bed. That, apparently, wasn't enough to quiet the self-doubt. Which, Landon thought, was a damn shame, because Matthew actually wanted a relationship. Wanted to wake up next to a woman, and go to bed with her every night. A lover. A friend.