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The silence between us is suffocating. The doctor comes in for a final check. A few stitches and a guarantee to be pretty sore for a few days. The nurse goes over the at-home care steps for my leg wound and hands me my release papers. The ride to my apartment is just as silent despite the blaring tension. There’s still a lot of police presence when we pull up to my building. Tate puts his hazards on and jumps out. I slowly climb out as he rounds his SUV.
“Let me help you up the stairs.” He reaches out to grab my elbow, but I swat him away.
“I don’t need your help.” I make a poor attempt at hiding my muffled grunt as I take my first step.
“You can barely put pressure on your leg. Let me help you—”
“I said no!” I bite the inside of my lip, fighting back tears. The pain is intense, even with the meds. Thankfully, he steps back and allows me to walk on my own. By the time I make it to my door, my leg is on fire. A shiver races through me at the police tape across my apartment door.
“S’cuse me, you guys can’t be up here. This area is blocked—”
Tate pulls out his wallet and shows his ID. “Tate Deveraux, and Miss Parks. This is her place. We’re just here to grab a few of her things.”
The officer looks me over. “Be quick. This is a crime scene.”
“Will do.” Tate puts his arm out for me to walk in, but my feet suddenly feel cemented to the ground as everything crashes into the forefront of my mind. The explosion. The smoke. The flames were too close. What if Tate had been the one to walk in first—if the bomb had reached its true target? My stomach knots, but I push it down. “Grab some things. Be quick.”
I give him a thumbs up and hobble in, my steps faltering again. My poor kitchen is not much of a kitchen. The cabinets are blown out, and glass is everywhere. Shattered dishes litter the floor. I take tentative steps forward, my chest tight, and bend down, grabbing a shard of porcelain. I flip it over, and my shoulders slump.Coffee because crack kills. “What did my mug collection ever do to this guy?” I ask, gazing at more broken mugs.
“Mindy—”
I flinch when Tate’s hand presses against my shoulder. Standing, I whip around. “Unless I’m being murdered, I suggest you keep your distance. Otherwise, my fist is going to meet your face.”
He pulls back. I turn on my heel and make my way down the hall, slamming my bedroom door behind me. Clenching my eyes shut, I let out a huge breath and try to focus on finding some sort of balance. “Fuck,” I hiss, biting back tears. Fighting off a stalker was more fun when I was keeping myself distracted by a sex god. Now that that’s done, I have to focus on the fact that I am, indeed, being stalked by some psychopath. But why? What’s so special about me that someone is going out of their way to get my attention? Maybe my comment to Fay at the hospital wasn’t insane after all. Maybe if I stop hiding and come out and say, “Here I am,” he’ll show himself. Maybe this is all a misunderstanding? Or maybe I’m in denial and just want to live my normal life.
Speaking of normal, it’s been a few days since I walked out on Russell. Shockingly, he hasn’t called or texted. Which leads me to believe he did, in fact, fire me.
A small sense of relief washes over me, but the loss of income scares me. I don’t have anything to fall back on, and that’s more than a little nerve-wracking.
A knock on my door startles me out of my thoughts. “We gotta go.”
“You knock on my door again, I’m going to knock on your face,” I yell back. Jerk. Pushing off the door, I get to work, packing a few days’ worth of clothes and toiletries. When I exit my room, Tate is standing by the front window. He drops the blinds and walks toward me, reaching for my bag, but I pull it back.
“No. Touch. What do you not understand?” God, I’m being a bitch, but my ego is bruised, my heart is hurting, and I don’t know how to act any other way. I refuse to let him see how much his decision affected me—especially since it was a decision I had no say in. He backs off, which I semi-regret because, to be honest, the bag is killing my shoulder.
I hate this distance between us. On the drive to the hotel, I open my mouth a dozen times to ask why he’s doing this and how he can so easily shut off his feelings, but I decide not to say anything at all. Maybe I misread his intentions. The first real guy who shows an interest in me, and I get all clingy. Pathetic.
My phone rings, saving me from my inner turmoil. I gaze down at the screen.Unknown Caller.
“Who is it?”
I look over at Tate. “An unknown caller.”
He sticks out his hand. “Give it to me.”
“I can answer my own phone. You’re not taking away the joy of me yelling at a telemarketer on top of everything else.”
His eyes bore into mine. “Give it.”
I grunt. “Fine.”
He answers the call, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”
“Oh… hello?”
“Who’s this?” Tate growls. Great, the poor telemarketer is going to hang up before I get a chance to yell.
“Vince. Uh, is this Mindy’s phone?”
