Make Her Mine

“No. Not okay.” Lowering my gaze to the floor, I stretch my finger toward the front door. “Get out, Ian. I’m done having this conversation.”

He’s completely silent for so long I have no other choice but look up to find him gaping at me. Like he expected me to fall for it all over again. He expected me to do the same thing I did last time, destroy myself trying to help him get his shit together. Not this time.

I storm across the room and yank him upright.

“Skye, listen to me.” He shakes the crumpled letter in my face. “Look at the name on this. Look up the CEO of Borealis Group—it’s not Rich Tomlinson. This letter is fake.”

“I said get out, and I meant it.” I shove him toward the door.

“I’m trying to tell you the truth!”

“Right, some random person stuck his name on the signature line of a casino’s letterhead in the hopes you’d accidentally pay them a debt you say you don’t owe? Do I look stupid?”

“Just look it up, Skye,” he says, still hovering in my doorway.

I slam the door in his face and pull the chain across the lock. Leaning back against it, I take deep breaths for what seems like hours instead of a few minutes. I stay there, on the verge of tears for the second time tonight, until I finally hear Ian give up, his footsteps retreating down the staircase.

Then I drag myself over to the kitchen counter and pick up my phone.

It doesn’t take long to find Borealis Group online. Or their About page with a lengthy bio, complete with a photograph of their CEO, a guy named Andrew Kirby. A search of the name Rich Tomlinson brings up a few random social media profiles and an article about a famous blogger who writes posts from his cat’s point of view.

This doesn’t prove anything, though. My brother has gotten involved with sketchy people plenty of times, and since I can’t find Rich Tomlinson it probably means the worst. That my brother owes money to a shady guy who doesn’t mind impersonating CEOs.

Same shit, different day.

I collapse onto the couch, the wait screen still humming on my television, ready for a movie night that’s not going to happen. I shut the TV off, pull the throw blanket over my head, and stifle a groan.

Now what am I going to do?

13

Stone

My head is still reeling as I drive toward Skye’s place for our second night out. I spent all morning playing and replaying the camera footage from the last couple of days. I’d watched the late-night footage a few more times than necessary—the video captured her after she padded out of the shower and into her bedroom to grab a silk nightie off her desk chair. She’d exposed her full, perky tits to the camera lens for one mouth-watering, far-too-brief moment then pulled her nightgown on and clicked off her lamp.

But mostly, reluctantly, I’d witnessed her fight with Ian. Something was off about the whole thing, though I couldn’t quite place my finger on what. Skye was understandably pissed off about Ian’s gambling addiction rearing its ugly head again. And Ian dodged all her questions exactly like I expected him to—after all, no true addict would admit their problem in the face of an onslaught like Skye’s, even when staring at a stack of proof a mile high.

No, the part that stuck out to me was a smaller detail. At the tail end of their fight, as Skye burned out of her anger and settled into just being resigned at the situation, Ian did something unexpected. He told her that the name in the signature wasn’t the CEO’s. And then he’d challenged her to look it up, which she did.

If Ian was just another one of Rich’s debtors—the kind of person who burned through loans from every reputable source before turning to Rich in desperation—then why would Ian call his sister’s att

ention to the motherfucker’s name? It would throw Skye off the scent, sure. Since Rich isn’t tied to Borealis Group online, or to any group online, virtual prick ghost that he is, she might believe the letter was a fake. But Rich isn’t the type of name you want your little sister to know. And if Skye believes Ian, and doesn’t think this letter is from a casino after all, won’t she start asking a whole lot more questions that he wouldn’t want her looking into?

Maybe I’m just thinking too much like me, but I’d never want a person I loved within 500 miles of a man like Rich Tomlinson. I’d let her believe anything she wanted about me—just as long as she never learned about the things that man makes people do.

I’d rather let Skye be angry at me, throw me out, write me out of her life permanently, than put her into the path of Rich’s men.

But then, Ian’s already done that. The fact I’m here, picking her up for a date, is proof. She’s mixed up in this, whether I like it or not, and that’s Ian’s fault.

I clench my fists around the wheel as I whip into a parking spot at the bar beneath Skye’s place. Deep breaths. I don’t want her to see the rage on my face, or the confusion about her brother’s actions. And, honestly, I don’t want to think about any of that right now either. While I’m technically here because I need to do some follow-up digging so maybe she’ll confide in me, my need to be with her is all too fucking real.

I want to forget this job. Forget everything but her scent, soft and addictive; her taste when I drive my tongue between her legs; the way her supple body melds against mine; and the way her pussy clenches around my cock when I thrust into her.

I press the doorbell. There’s a long pause, during which my palms itch to grab her from the hallway and drag her out into my truck.

Instead, the door buzzes, unlocking in front of me. Guess she’s not ready to go yet.

I push open the door and take the stairs two at a time. Skye’s already opening her front door, smiling at me from the entrance. Another door clicks behind me, and I whirl around, paranoid as always, constantly on alert for anyone watching me. Watching her.