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CHAPTER 6
Ava
In a few moments, I’ll return to the sad precinct where I filed the police report, and I’m just…tired.
I want this stalker ordeal to end. Admittedly, having Brandon around is nice, mostly. I normally feel safe in my building, despite my “appallingly lacking security building.”
Having a sexy Brit with a gun and who’s not afraid to use it is about the only reward since this whole thing started. While getting ready for today, I think of an upload I need to edit, and the next Wellseasoned newsletter should have gone out three days ago, not to mention I’ve been MIA on social media.
Hopefully, my followers understand the much-needed break aftereverything.
Brandon emerges from the second bedroom, down across the hall from mine, and pulls me out of my musing. He’s dressed in another pair of jeans that mold perfectly to his sculpted body and a cable knit sweater that normally shouldn’t be sexy, but it’s working for him, and all I want to do is smooth my hands all over it.
He stops and takes in my outfit when I stand at my full height—jeans, black sweater, and my hair tossed in a high ponytail. My go-to cute and casual look. The showstopper of my outfit are the black suede thigh-high boots.
The heels on these boots are impractical for walking around cobbledstone SoHo streets, but Sierra once said these were myfuck meboots.My foot isn’t hurting as much today, and I think I can get away with a few hours in the stiletto heels.
Besides, I want Brandon to see me in them. To see me as awomanand not just Ash’s baby sister.
Also, the extra time I took with my make-up this morning helped my baby face look a little more mature.
“Ready when you are,” I say, though I’m not just talking about us leaving.
Brandon clears his throat and reaches for his gun and holster on the coffee table. “Now. I’m ready.”
Once we’re properly attired for January winds and lock up, Brandon takes my left arm while I death-grip the banister with my right.
“Those boots are impractical, you know,” he says once we clear the stairwell. He goes ahead of me to push the building door open, and the wind whips his hair back.
“Yes, but I look good in them,” I retort.
Brandon doesn’t respond as he turns his face from the wind, but I swear I see a smile creeping up.
The few blocks walk to the police precinct is thankfully uneventful. Brandon is ever alert, looking at those walking past us in typical New Yorker fashion and paying us absolutely no attention.
A man in a black hoodie like the guy in the deli, and similar to one I’ve seen lurking around Greene Street, moves past us. Brandon must catch my quiet inhalation.
Leaning down to whisper in my ear, he says “Relax, Ava. Have to keep our cool. There’s probably a million men walking around today with black hooded jackets.”
“Of course,” I say, feeling ridiculous because I’m so jumpy. Brandon is right. Can’t breakdown every time a male in a dark hoodie is near me. In a city of millions moving about every day, the stalker can easily hide in the crowd. He could be right next to me, and I’d have no idea.
I chance a glimpse at Brandon. In these boots, we’re the same height. His profile is unreadable, and his lips press in a tight line as we round the corner where the police precinct is located.
Breaking down into unattractive sobs after seeing the video of the shooter cleaning the gun, I felt embarrassed at how I soaked the front of his shirt. I blame myself for not being able to put a stop to what happened, but as Brandon reminded me, I haven’t done anything wrong.
Every action this mad person takes is theirs alone and has nothing to do with me.
Brandon tightens his hold on me when we reach the steps adorned with anti-police graffiti in various spray-painted colors. The building looks even worse for wear than the last time I was here.
After a bored-looking receptionist tells us to sign in, we sit in the waiting area’s wooden benches that appear no cleaner than the steps we just crossed. Thankfully, the wait is short. A slim woman with a dark pixie haircut appears and calls out our names.
Brandon and I stand and shake the woman’s proffered hand. “I’m Lieutenant Cortes. Nice to meet you both.”
“Likewise,” I answer for Brandon and me.
“Follow me to my office just down this hall,” she says, and she briskly maneuvers us between all the activity in the hallways as officers mill about. “Have a seat.”
Brandon and I take the two seats before her wooden desk, and Lieutenant Cortes closes the door and takes her seat across from us.
