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Chapter 7
Aiden
I SCAN THEroom as I walk into the police station, and it only takes a second to spot Noah. Even in uniform, he sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the men and women he works with. Then again, at six-foot three, as wide as a house, and covered with tattoos, it would be difficult for him to blend in, even if he tried.
Growing up, my father used to tell me almost daily that Noah wouldn’t amount to anything, that I needed to cut him out of my life. I never listened; we were inseparable, regardless of the fact that we grew up in opposite realities.
His family lived in a small house on the outskirts of town, surviving paycheck to paycheck, his mom Rebecca was a single mother and a teacher at the high school. Our house was in the middle of town, right next door to the mayor’s, and my dad ran a million-dollar construction company. My mom stayed home—not to take care of my sister and me, but to be sure she made it to her biweekly nail appointments and was available whenever my dad needed her to accompany him to a lunch or dinner.
But the biggest difference was, he grew up in a house filled with love and respect, while I grew up hearing constant arguments, mostly to do with the affairs both my parents had and the money we had too much of but still never enough to keep either of my parents happy.
Shaking off those thoughts, I head in Noah’s direction, and he pulls his attention off the man he’s talking to. His eyes meet mine right before he gives me a shit-eating grin. “Look what the cat dragged in.” He saunters toward me, and people move out of his way, which is wise.
“You need to lay off the gym, buddy.” I dip my chin toward his arms that are about as wide as tree trunks and seem to have grown since I saw him a couple of weeks ago.
“Nah, I need these guns so I don’t have to use the one at my hip.” He flexes his muscles, making a few people standing around us laugh. “So what are you doing here?”
“I need to ask you a question about something, if you have a couple of minutes,” I tell him, and he looks around.
“Sure, let’s grab a coffee next door.” He leads the way out of the station, and when we step outside, his gaze meets mine. “Is it your mom or your dad?” he asks low, and I shake my head.
“Neither.” I open the door to the coffee shop, and he steps in before I do.
“Bridgett?”
“It’s not my sister,” I tell him, and we both order before taking a seat at one of the tables near the door.
“All right, you have me curious. What’s this about?”
“I need to know what can be done if someone is being harassed over text.”
“Someone’s harassing you?” he asks, his brows darting together.
“No.” My jaw flexes. “I met a woman, and it turns out she was on a dating site, talking to someone who was using my photos.”
“So she was catfished. There’s nothing that can be done about that.”
“She was, but that’s not it.” I crack my neck. “When she found out he wasn’t who he said he was, she confronted him, then changed her number. Recently, he got her new number somehow and has been harassing her since then,” I say, and he stares at me a long time before sitting back in his seat.
“Who’s this woman to you?”
That’s a great fucking question, one I don’t know how to answer. All I know is driving away from her last night was harder than it should have been, especially when I saw her in the rearview mirror, standing out in the cold watching me leave.
“Right.” He sits forward and places his elbows on the table when I don’t answer. “You said she was catfished by a guy who was using your photos?”
“She was.”
“Brother, I don’t need to remind you that it wasn’t long ago that hundreds of women were throwing themselves in your path to get your attention. So are you sure she’s telling you the truth?”
“I’m sure,” I don’t hesitate to answer. “She convinced herself that I really am the guy and that I’m playing some fucked-up game with her.”
“Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head, then glances out the window before looking me in the eye. “Has the person threatened to physically harm her in any way?”
“Not that I know of.” I rub my jaw that I forgot to shave again this morning. “She said his texts have just gotten a little more colorful.”
“Then it sucks to tell you this, brother, but there is nothing that can be done at this point. In order for her to get a restraining order, the person harassing her would need to make bodily threats against her. And that would only come in handy if she knows who this person is, which it doesn’t sound like she does.”
“She doesn’t, at least not that I know of.”
