Mine

If he was on my level, then this had nothing to do with Zola. In fact, I’d probably wasted valuable time looking in the wrong places. There was no way Alexander’s cocaine-induced ass would’ve climbed a tree and shot with such precision. I doubted Takako or CiCi could’ve done it either.

There was always the chance that they pretended to be who they were for all these years only to truly be some secret assassin getting close to Zola. But for what? If that was the case, they had done it to get closer to me. While I had enemies, none of them—barely even any of my friends—knew about Zola.

Where the fuck are you? Come shoot me!

“Stay here with Zola. I’m checking the area.” I gave the order to my men and ran outside, placing my gun up. The whole time, I scanned the area, searching for the psycho.

He’s too damn good. Why would Zola have such a skilled stalker like this? No. this is bigger than her.

Different parts of the grounds around the mansion had been roped off. Police, media, and EMT vehicles crawled around the place. It could’ve been due to my tussle with Trigger, but the sound of the gun and broken glass sure brought everyone upstairs. Everywhere I looked there were reporters, cops, cameras, microphones, and about a million miles of cable.

Still scanning the space, I never broke stride, elbowing this guy or that person who ended up in my way. The scene had shifted into a sideshow. TV crews had set up like there was going to be a big press conference. A food truck had even rolled to the front of the gate and started selling tacos. The crowd shifted and swelled like a darkening storm during hurricane season.

I spent thirty minutes combing the place and saw nothing. It was all out of order. All chaos. All suspicious strangers looking odd.

Damn it. I fucked up. He’s gone.

I rushed back inside, slipped through the crowd, ran up the stairs, burst through the door, and headed to Zola’s dressing area. She was wearing the robe from earlier and was sitting on the couch. Someone had given her a towel, but there were still red paint stains around her neck and on her hands.

Baptiste arrived minutes later. “What the fuck happened?”

“He shot her with a paint gun. Some sort of sniper specialty.”

Baptiste walked into the room, stopped at the shattered glass, and pointed at the tree. “He sat there?”

“Yes.”

Baptiste pulled the trigger of an invisible gun. “It would’ve been three clear shots for a guy that had knowledge. Even though it was paint bullets, there would’ve been kick back. And he never fell out of the tree while he was shooting.”

“He knows more than we thought.”

“This is higher.”

“It is.”

Zola entered the conversation. “What do you mean?”

I sighed. “We’ll talk later.”

People opened the door and entered the dressing room—news crews. Reporters. Alexander and the rest of Zola’s make up team.

At that point, I’d had enough. “Get the fuck out of here!”

People looked at me in shock.

Pulling out my gun, I swept Zola up for the second time that day, parted the sea of bodies, and rushed us downstairs to the car.

After a while, Baptiste reached to my side. “You can put the gun away. It might be easier to hold her.”

Zola added, “And I can walk, Hunter.”

My jaw clenched. “Both of you be quiet.”

Zola held me tighter. “Hunter, I’m okay.”

“He sprayed red paint on you.”

“I know.” She trembled.

I glanced at Baptiste. “Did you find anything at the makeup team’s apartments? Was there anything that could be helpful?”

“Nothing. Takako has a small fascination with Zola, and it looks like Takako might be overcharging on the makeup budget to get extra, but that was it.”

Zola raised her eyebrows.

“Alexander does more than cocaine,” Baptiste continued as we waited for the car to arrive. “He pops pills too and has several sexual assault cases he’s going to lose soon. The scandal is set to come out in a week. Apparently, he threatened the reporter, and the reporter punched.”

“That explains the black eye.” I nodded. “That also makes him look like a pussy next to our stalker.”

“No way our stalker is getting punched by some gossip reporter.”

Zola trembled as I set her down.

“What about CiCi?” she asked.

Baptiste stirred, but continued to talk to me. “CiCi means well for Zola, but she’s also getting pressured by her pimp to recruit Zola. I saw a couple of emails. She told Mr. Moon she’ll ask Zola in a few weeks, but I don’t think CiCi intends to. That might be dangerous for her, if she doesn’t do it.”

Zola shook her head in shock. “Pimp? Recruit me? What?”

“Long story,” I muttered. “I’ll tell you later.”

The car pulled up.

Baptiste let out an exasperated breath. “I’m sorry, Hunter. I’ll do better next time.”