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I have an idea, but it’s not something I’ll give a voice to. Especially not in front of this man.
When I got the call earlier this summer, the number wasn’t listed, so I picked it up. I had expected someone looking for Rhea, maybe our airhead roommate Lucy calling from a friend’s phone to touch base and ask for the tenth time how much water she should give the plants. I definitely hadn’t expected to hear the voice from my nightmares. I didn’t expect my muscles to loosen, as if I was about to roll over and play dead, or the phone to fall from my hand.
I said nothing, pressed my hand over my mouth to contain a scream, and blocked the number. Since then, I’ve ignored every call I’ve gotten, tensing whenever the phone rings. Fortunately, I’ve been with Rhea, so the only person who calls me doesn’t have any need to. Everyone else just texts nowadays.
It's been years since I escaped, years of healing and nurturing and growth. What are the chances that my past catches up to me, and not even a month later, I’m being taunted in the dark and shot at in the dead of night?
I’m spiraling, my chest not able to expand enough to accommodate my wild heart, but Remy’s voice brings me back to earth.
"Being rich and powerful will make you a lot of enemies. My father being dead means they feel bold enough to make moves." He turns to the cupboards and produces a bottle of some dark liquor. The muscles in his back flex and ripple as he moves, and I errantly appreciate that he is shirtless this time. "It's late... or early. Scotch, coffee, or Irish coffee?"
My eyes find the glowing green numbers on the oven. Four twenty-six. No way am I going to be able to sleep now. "Coffee," I say, and Remy sets about making a pot of it, then pouring himself a glass of scotch all before turning back to face me.
"They didn't come for you, but you were in the way. Once you got out of the pool, you made yourself known, and they took their shot. But as I said, whoever it was, they're a miserable marksman. Tells me they're not much of a threat." He swirls the scotch around his glass and then takes a swig. I watch him intently, trying to understand what he’s getting at. Remy purses his lips together, savoring the alcohol burn as he considers his next words. "Who goes swimming at four in the morning anyway?"
"People who can't sleep." I snap. "What about you? What were you doing awake at four in the morning? Watching me?"
Remy grins and makes no effort to deny what we both know. "I don't sleep much. Tonight, it seems that's a good thing." Turning, he grabs a mug to pour my coffee into. "So, how do you take it?"
I blink, unsure of how to answer that. When his question is only met with silence and the reddening of my cheeks, he glances over his shoulder, his grin more of a smirk. It sends a thrill through me like a bolt of lightning that starts in my chest and goes all the way to my toes, causing them to tingle. "Your coffee, I mean. Dark or with cream and sugar?"
I clear my throat and hope the embarrassment isn't so noticeable on my face. "Creamer, please."
He raises an eyebrow and turns back to the fridge, where there’s an assortment of flavored creamers always on hand. We survive summers without six-dollar coffee every day, but only because we keep the kitchen stocked with idiot-proof ingredients to turn our black coffee bougie. I never drank coffee before I met Rhea and now, I can’t imagine life without it. "Any requests?"
"Dealer's choice." I wrap the towel tighter around myself as Remy pulls a bottle off the shelf and stirs its contents into my coffee before pressing it into my hands. The warmth is immediate, but deep down, I’m as cold as ever.
Remy seems confident that the shooter wasn’t coming for me, but I don’t know how else to explain the weird string of events today.
"I guess I'm lucky you were still awake." I say, looking up through my lashes to watch his face.
"Luck has nothing to do with it." He says, softer than I’d have thought him to be capable of.
The chills erupt over me again as I try to understand what exactly he means by that. But he doesn't give me a chance to wonder for long before he plants his hands on either side of me, boxing me in.
"Tell me something, Claire."
His voice is low, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s trying to be seductive or if he suddenly remembered his sister is asleep upstairs. Meanwhile, I can’t keep suspicion from creeping into my voice. "What's that?"
"Is there anything I should know about you? Crazy ex-boyfriends, stalkers, maybe some loser you friend-zoned that would be trying to hurt you?"
The question takes me by surprise. It sounds absurd. I’m not the kind of girl that would attract the attention of a stalker—I’ve watched enough Dateline to know that the girls who end up with stalkers are all brilliant, bright, kind, and outgoing. Rhea is the type who attracts obsessive men.
I am none of those things, and yet…
An icy finger traces up my spine. If Remy wasn’t watching me so intently, I’d turn to be sure that no one’s behind me, to make sure there’s no ghost standing at my back, breathing cold plumes of air on my neck.
"No." I finally answer. "I don't get close enough to anyone to make enemies."
It takes a moment for him to consider that, and I worry that my face or the long pause has given me away. "Smart." Remy nods his approval as if that isn't the most pathetic thing I've ever said out loud. "And Rhea? You two are close?"
"She's all I've got." I nod.
"Does she make many enemies? Long list of ex-lovers, former friends, any of that?"
I scrutinize his face, wondering where this is going. Remy is likely just an overprotective older brother, but I don't want to betray Rhea by answering these questions. I also don't want to lie to Remy if it means danger for Rhea.
"I know she dates around." He says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You don’t have to worry about me judging her or something. Anybody you can think of who would be mad that she's moved on or who may try to take her for ransom?"
