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Sure, there was the money. The money was enough for some people.
But Reagan had her own money.
And she didn't strike me as someone who would put up with his dickishness just to get more.
So why would she stalk him?
Yeah, that was the question.
I had a feeling I would have another opportunity to figure that out, though.
Maybe even later that very night.FOURNixonShe was there again.
I pulled up to Michael's office building around six, finding a good spot, and parked.
It had been three nights.
Three nights of nothing.
No Tesla.
No Reagan.
No stalking.
I was starting to wonder if my threats had worked, that she had taken some time to consider them, weigh the pros and cons, then rightly decided to let the whole thing drop.
There had been a distinct surge of disappointment, though, at that idea.
Why?
Yeah, that was the fucking question, wasn't it?
Because it made no sense that I wanted to prolong a case I was so clearly not interested in. Except, obviously, I was. In an abstract way. In a way where I couldn't seem to stop fucking thinking about Reagan.
I tried to convince myself that it was a professional interest. That I was trying to work out why a beautiful, successful, worldly, and seemingly content woman like her would stalk such a piece of shit.
It didn't make sense.
Even as I tried to make myself believe that, however, it was clear even to me- and let's face it, I could be a bit dense about things like this- that the interest was a bit more than that.
I didn't spend an hour perusing her Instagram because I needed to for the case.
That was all me. All my curiosity. All my interest.
I hadn't exactly spent a lot of time with her, but it had left more of an impact than I had anticipated.
She was clearly the boss at her work, but she treated Krissy like a friend. She was rich as sin, but she seemed grounded and well-rounded. She clearly gave a shit about the environment. She babbled.
I fucking hated babbling, people who filled precious silences with useless noise. But I found it more charming than I should have.
"Christ," I grumbled, raking a hand down my face, the coarse hairs catching the palm of my hand, reminding me I needed to add a shave to tomorrow's morning routine.
I needed to get laid.
That would explain the uncharacteristic interest in a woman who was clearly a bit of a head case if she was stalking someone.
I just hadn't been around a woman in too long. That part of me was craving contact.
How long had it been?
Three months?
No.
It had to be closer to six.
"Shit."
"Knock knock," Reagan's voice sounded from beside me, in my car, making me jolt to find her leaning in my open window, arms folded on the bottom, giving me a small smile as she reached in, hit the unlock button, and then just... fucking... let herself in.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, shaking my head as she slid into the seat, reaching for the bar underneath to slide it back, giving herself some legroom.
"Well, if we are both going to sit here for another hour or two, I figured we could keep each other company."
"You can't keep me company, Reagan. My job is to make sure you get the hint, and take a hike."
"You're doing rather poorly, wouldn't you say?" she asked, reaching across me to stab her finger into the ignition, then messing with the radio.
Christ. She smelled good, too. Something soft and almost fruity. Peaches, maybe? She smelled like fucking peaches.
"You need to get out of the car, Reagan." Even if I genuinely didn't want that. What I wanted was for her to flick her shoulder-length hair so I could get another hint of that smell, could look at the column of her neck. Lean over and sink my teeth into the flesh.
Fuck.
I would need to pull myself off this case if I couldn't get my shit together.
"Oh, come on. Admit it. You're as bored as I am. And you have a radio. Let me listen for a few minutes before you kick me out," she demanded, settling on, of all fucking things, a bass-thumping rap song.
"Are you serious?" I asked, brows knitting.
"I hope you don't have a stick up your ass about rap. Because we are macking hoes and raking in dough this evening."
"Macking hoes?" I repeated, feeling my lips curve up at the turn of phrase.
"I know. Not very feminist of me, huh? But I choose to believe these particular hoes like being macked. Which makes this an empowering song."
"You're a fucking trip."
"Sh sh. Ja Rule's part is coming up," she hushed me, kicking out of her shoes, propping her feet up on my dashboard, mouthing the words to the verse, shoulders gliding a bit side-to-side. "Don't give me that look. These are the anthems of my youth right here."
