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I take a swig of my water, grateful that I have a trainer and a best friend in Ben. We’d both left Michigan eight years ago after high school for college in New York City—and have been inseparable since the moment we met at summer football camp in fifth grade. Now we’re roommates in Brooklyn and he owns a gym where he trains every single kind of person, celebrities even.
He’s also been my biggest supporter over the last couple years while I got back on my feet, even got me into private security. Which is much better than being a New York City cop. Paid a hell of a lot better too.
“I think I’m going to hit the showers. Don’t want to overdo it like last week.” I take another gulp of my water.
Ben smacks me on the back again. “Good idea. I was going to suggest the same thing, but…”
I chuff.He didn’t want me to snap at him. “Appreciate it.”
A chime goes off in Ben’s pocket and I immediately know it’s Wren’s special ringtone. Though she and Ben called it quits after graduation, they still had an on- and off-again fling when she came to town, or he visited his parents. The poor bastard is still in love with his high school sweetheart, though he’d never admit it.
I’ve been trying to get him to go out with a couple of the women hitting on him constantly, but he always has some excuse. When I suggest he just do long distance with Wren, he brushes it off, though I know he wishes she could move here. The only complication is that she owns a flower shop there and loves living near her family. The last thing Ben wants is to move back home, at least not now while the gym is thriving the way it is.
Ben thinks I miss the smile that flashes across his face when he hears her phone notification, but I don’t. The guy is head over heels. He opens the message, and a look of seriousness passes over his face. My gut clenches. “What is it, man? Wren okay?”
Ben makes a noise but doesn’t bring his eyes up from his phone, instead he starts reading something. His jaw tightens and a pissed look flashes across his square features.
I’m starting to panic now. Ben never has that look on his face when he talks to Wren. “What’s going on? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath.
I get the urge to take his phone and read whatever it is that’s got his panties in a twist, but I don’t. “Tell me.”
Ben’s blue eyes dart up to mine, his face red with anger. He looks about ready to punch something. “It’s… well, I don’t know if you want to know what it is.”
My stomach rolls. That can only mean one thing if he doesn’t want to say what all this fuss is about: Birdie.
My mouth goes dry just thinking about her. Though I have no particular feelings about Birdie anymore, I’m not a total asshole. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her. “Is she hurt?”
He shakes his head, and I feel a stupid sense of relief wash through me. “Not yet.”
Well, fuck. “What does that even mean? Spit it out, dude.”
Ben hands me his phone, and it’s some article from one of those dumb celebrity magazines. “Read it,” he grunts like a caveman while pushing his brown hair from his forehead.
I wipe some lingering sweat off my brow and start to scroll through the article. I’m not going to lie; I do my best to keep all things Birdie Wilder off my radar. But when your best friend’s “girl” is best friends with her, and your best friend still talks to her, sometimes, it’s hard to keep her completely away from my life.
My eyes go wide as I read the headline:
Birdie Wilder’s Stalker Sends Threat
I see why Ben is upset now. He’s afraid for Birdie. Stalkers are no joke. I dealt with a few cases while I was a cop, and now in private security, and it’s scary how obsessed people can become with someone—especially when it comes to beautiful women and celebrities. Both of which Birdie has going for her, no matter how much I want to pretend otherwise.
When I get to the stalker's note, my jaw clenches. I have to stop myself from throwing Ben’s phone at the wall. Whoever this stalker is, they’re not playing around.
I read the words on the page. The note is super cliché, like one of those kidnapper movies where the letters have been cut out from newspapers and magazines.
You’re mine, Birdie Wilder. When I get my hands on you, you’re dead. I can’t wait to touch your cold—
I thrust the phone into Ben’s chest. I can’t read any more of that shit. It feels wrong to even give that fucking creep, whoever they are, the time of day by reading that. I clench my fists and get the urge to punch something. A lot of somethings.
Ben looks the same way, though he has a right to be pissed. I don’t. Birdie isn’t my friend, and she hasn’t been for a long time.
“What the hell,” I breathe out, running my hand over the back of my neck. “That’s some messed up fucking shit right there.”
Ben stares at me for a moment, his eyes calculating. “I thought you didn’t give two shits about Birdie girl.”
Birdie girl. “I don’t,” I cringe. But he knows I’m lying.
