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It’s been almost a week since the day of denial and I still wake up hard every morning thinking about it. Is there anything in the world as hot as Sloan coming on my tongue after hours spent begging me for it? Does any other man alive know how good that feels?
No.Hellno.
That sight is for me and me alone.
That being said, not everything is perfect.
I’m getting very fucking tired of waking up every morning and being no closer to finding the stalker terrorizing Sloan than I was yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.
Today, I’m taking matters into my own hands.
Spencer walks into my office right on time with a list in his fist. He crosses the room and hands it to me at my desk. “As per your instructions, this is an exhaustive accounting of all the men who have ever dated or attempted to date Ms. Reeves,” he explains. “The ones with asterisks were long-term partners. The ones whostuck around long enough to gain personal information like what was in the letters.”
I nod. “And the others?”
“They are what I would call the ‘honorable mention’ crowd. Not previous partners, just all kinds of different contacts. Some have priors. This guy—” He points to a name. “—was pissed off that he ‘got dumped.’ As far as I can tell, he was just a customer at the diner and they didn’t click.”
“Copy that.”
“Now,thisfuck, right here—” It’s my father’s name, which makes my gut clench. “—she sees him regularly. He’s a piece of work.”
I nod again. “Yeah. I know that one.” I fold the list into a manageable piece of paper, stick it in my inner jacket pocket, then stand. “Thank you.”
I don’t have any other words because I’m sitting with a list of Sloan’s ex-boyfriends and lovers in my pocket and it is making me sick to know any of these fucks has ever touched her.
I never thought I was the first, of course—but being face to face with the list of those who came before me is sobering.
Though if anything, I pity them.
They don’t know what they missed out on.
I send a text to the group, then go to the gym to rendezvous before the day’s bloodbath begins. We meet up in a huddle in the parking lot and I assign jobs before we all pile back into Dixon’s truck and get rolling.
Dix is the driver. LaDuke is searching addresses. Colin is doing social media checks. I’m watching out the window and dreaming visions of revenge, thankful that these guys are my team.
“Check out this dude Jameson,” Colin says, holding his phone over to me. “He’s still got pics of Sloan all over his Instagram.”
Sure enough, half the motherfucker’s feed is my woman. Sloan cooking. Sloan fishing. Sloan on his arm at some office Christmas party.
There’s something in his face that makes me see red. A slimy smugness.
“We’ll start there,” I decide. “I have some questions I want this fuck to answer.”
When Dix pulls up at his place, we sit and observe for a minute. “There he is!” Colin holds up his phone to match the face to the profile picture. And sure enough, that’s him, climbing into the driver side of a little black Toyota truck.
“Follow him.”
We trail this tool to The Low Down. It’s a dive bar in the middle of Seattle, but for some reason, all the personal injury lawyer, ambulance chaser types—a tribe that counts this Jameson bastard as a member—love this fucking place. It’s nothing but a firetrap with “ice-cold” draft beer advertised on the sign and a boarded-up window in the front.
There are any number of fancy rides in the lot—a Ferrari, a ‘Vette, a Porsche, and a couple other midlife crisis penis cars. Dix pulls his Hummer in beside the tool’s Toyota, and I climb out the same time the douche bag does.
“Jameson Parker?”
He stops and looks at me. I don’t know why I’m surprised when recognition spreads across his face. “Beckett Daniels. Son of a bitch! I always wanted to meet you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not here on behalf of Make-a-Wish.”
He chuckles and waves a hand in my face. “A washed-up, ‘roid rage hockey freak is hardly my Make-A-Wish. Doubt it’s anyone’s.”
