I stare at the black car, wondering if I’m imagining that I can see Jenna inside curled up on the back bench seat, fussing with her PJs, sipping from that ridiculous cup. She’sprobably scrolling on her phone and deleting the violent messages.
I should be the one to do that. She shouldn’t have to see them.
“Wait…” There’s motion in one corner of the camera.
Truman is growling, his floppy ears stiffening and raising up from his head.
“Who the fuck—” I’m out of my chair before the guy is halfway to the car. “What the fuck is that fucker doing in my tower?”
The guards lounging around the elevator lobby jump up when I scream past them. I don’t even bother with the elevator, just take the stairs three at a time, the guards racing after me.
The ones at the parking garage look up from their dinner when we blow out of the stairwell.
I punch the first one in the face.
“You useless sack of shit. What the fuck is that fucker doing in the garage?”
“Uh, well.” The guard licks his split lip nervously as I reach for my gun.
“Tell mewhat the fuck Jenna’s ex is doing in my goddamn tower.”
The guard shifts nervously at his post at the entry to the parking deck level. “He, um, had a key card, and he’s on the resident list…”
“Fuck.”
I’m furious that Jenna put herself in danger and livid that somehow the tower isn’t as locked down as I thought.
33
JENNA
Iwake up to the sensation of someone watching me.
It’s McCarthy.I keep my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for him to open the door, drag me to that broad chest, and kiss me like he’s starving for me.
He doesn’t actually care about me,I remind myself.
But I open my eyes anyway just to see the all-consuming desire on his face, just for me, like I’m the most important person in the world.
The center of his universe.
Brock’s muddy-brown eyes glare at me through the dark window of the car. He laughs when I scream, scrambling for my phone, which I’ve dropped somewhere on the dark floor of the car.
“McCarthy.McCarthy!” Still screaming, I smash my hand on the lock button, jamming my finger hard against the door. “McCarthy, help!Help!Where’s myphone?”
Brock’s pulling at the door handles as I’m trying to fish my phone out from under the seat. A foot smashes through the driver’s-side window, then the doors click, unlocked.
I don’t get to my phone. I do get my Stanley cup and start whaling at the hands that grab at me and wrap themselves in the silky fabric of my pajama shirt.
“Jenna, fuck.” He grunts when my cup connects with his wrist.
“You think I wasn’t going to find out?” he’s yelling at me.
The top of the cup flies off as I whale at the broad chest that appears in the door of the car, spilling sticky raspberry lemonade all over the white dress shirt.
“I bet you’ve seen him here before, haven’t you?”
“McCarthy?”
