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It’s not that I don’t like my life. I do. I was born here, went to community college down the block, lived here my entire life, and will likely live here for the rest of it, too. And I’ve been with guys before, but nobody who lasted longer than a month. Even then it was all casual.
It’s not a bad life by any means. I love being near the ocean. I like my apartment, now that I’ve redecorated the place. My job is decent when my boss isn’t being an ass about my weight, and my regular customers are great. Plus, I love my brother. I just can’t help feeling like there’s something missing. Some big piece of me out there that I haven’t stumbled upon yet. Something that will make all the other puzzle pieces click into place.
Unraveling myself from my thoughts, I reach the end of the boardwalk. My turnaround point. I normally stop here to stretch, or shake my muscles out before I jog home, but there are a couple of guys at the end of the pier. They’re passing around a brown paper bag and swigging from whatever’s inside, the scent of pot rolling off them in waves that makes my stomach pitch.
Keeping my earbuds in but shutting off the volume, I stop a good ten feet from them and pause just long enough to catch my breath. Before I can turn around to run the other way, one of the guys catches my eye and elbows his friend sharply.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He rakes his eyes up and down my body in a way that makes me want to cross my arms over my breasts, even though I know he can’t see anything in my modest tracksuit. “How you doing?”
The other guy leers at me. “Come on over here, girl. You got a boyfriend?”
“Course she does,” the first one yells, still staring at me as he tugs his lower lip between his teeth. It’s probably supposed to look sexy, but it just makes my skin crawl. “Who do you think she’s keeping that ass so tight for?”
I’m already spinning on my heel, my cheeks burning hot. I want to tell them to fuck off, but I’ve lived here long enough to know when to pick my battles. And anyone who’s drinking and smoking up at the pier this early in the morning is definitely battle. So I jog away, my muscles on fire because I didn’t take enough time to rest.
And then, I hear my worst nightmare. The harsh pound of feet on the boardwalk behind me.
They’re following me.
“Hey, bitch, we’re talking to you!” A rough hand closes around my wrist, jerking me out of my stride. I stumble to a halt, suddenly breathless because my heart is lodged so far into my throat.
“Don’t—” I rasp, but what happens next comes so fast it nearly knocks me off my feet. It’s only later, thinking back on the scene, that I can piece together all the details. As I stand attempting to pull my arm free from the creep’s grasp and trying to tell him not to touch me, someone else collides into him. Fist-first. The grip on my arm falls away, and the man raises both hands to shield his face.
It’s too late.
Another heavy punch sends him sprawling on the boardwalk where he lands with a heavy thud. My rescuer, an enormous guy—at least half a foot taller than my 5’7”—with bulging arms and a tattoo on one bicep, shoves me behind him.
“Thank you,” I gasp, still rubbing my wrist.
He doesn’t seem to hear me. He looms over the guy on the ground, dirty blonde hair tumbling across his bronze forehead as he glares down. “Touch her again and I’ll make you wish you were dead,” my rescuer growls in a tone that makes my heart skip a beat. Or three. Wow.
No one has ever threatened anyone because of me before. No one has ever sounded quite so overprotective. And I won’t lie, it’s hot as hell.
But before I can ask his name, or even get a good look at his face, he’s gone, storming up the boardwalk toward the guy who put his hands on me and his catcalling friend. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I should wait here, or follow the man who saved me, or just go. When he doesn’t look back in my direction, I convince myself I misheard the possessiveness in his voice.
It wasn’t me he was protecting. Hell, he probably just has some beef with those guys and I was just in the way of his revenge. I shake myself out of the bizarre—and scary—headspace this whole morning has created, turn away from the scene, and start my long jog home to get some rest before work.
And I make a mental note to buy pepper spray before I go in tonight.
2
Skye
The diner is packed, which is always unusual for a Monday night. There must be a big fight this week—Atlantic City tends to fill up in the off-season when fight nights come up. People fly or drive in for those a few days early, and they usually want to get their junk food on while they’re here.
Which works out well for me. I could use the money since my car is on the fritz and it’s looking like I’ll have to replace the Neon sooner than later. I pocket yet another twenty-dollar tip, my third of the night, and then swing by the register to key in another table’s order of four cheeseburgers and extra onion rings.
The moment I touch the register, the skin at the back of my neck prickles, bringing the tiny hairs standing to attention. I swear I’m being watched. And I don’t mean by customers casually glancing in my direction or by my co-workers as they pass by. I mean watched. After what happened at the pier this morning, I’ve been on edge all day—and for good reason. Swallowing down the sudden dryness in the back of my throat, I turn my head slightly to survey the room, my finger still held in midair, ready to finish keying in the order.
Sure enough, at the back table—the one near the restrooms where hardly anyone ever sits—wedged into the four-person booth by himself, there’s a man staring straight at me. He meets my eyes when I look at him, and my breath stalls.
Wow.
Muscles bulge on his arms and beneath his plain black T-shirt, which is just tight enough to tease how much more is left to explore, there’s a tantalizing curl of black ink running down one of his biceps. I want to see the rest of that tattoo. Badly.
Add that body to his messy, just-fell-out-of-bed dirty blonde hair and eyes so blue they’d give a glacier a run for its money, and he’s sinfully delicious. Perfection.
Even more noticeable than his good looks, though, is his confidence. He absolutely exudes it. He meets my gaze head-on, refusing to look away or bury his nose in the menu to pretend he wasn’t staring. His stare is calm, steady. Like a man who knows what he wants.
