And me, to an extent.
But now I saw nothing of the man who threatened my prom date with a Glock before kissing me on the head and telling me I looked beautiful.
That night I saw the president of a motorcycle club who killed snitches.
One could classify a journalist as that.
“You’re smart, darlin’. You ain’t gonna be doin’ that shit for long, we both know that,” he said.
I didn’t respond. I knew I didn’t need to, nor would anything I said make much of a difference. Steg had already decided what he needed to say, so I was going to let him say it.
“You’re also like me. Want to be the best. At the top. Willin’ to do a lot to get there. I was. I did.” He eyed me with a hard stare. “But I ain’t ever goin’ against my club to get to the top. If I did that, I wouldn’t be at the top. I’d be six feet under. You get what I’m sayin’, sweetheart?”
I swallowed. “If you’re saying that you think I’d betray the family I’ve had for fifteen years to sell a story to a public that will only read it to be entertained before going back to their carefully structured and boring little jobs, then you don’t know me half as well as I thought you did, Steg,” I replied confidently. I was a little freaked, for sure, but I didn’t do “sniveling mess.” I spoke up for myself.
Now, at least.
Nor did I do things like wear my fear, and I most certainly did not wear my heart on my sleeve. Been there, done that, got a lot of blood spattered all over that particular T-shirt.
Emotions stayed locked in a closet in the back of my mind, my face impassive.
Steg stared at me a beat, then like ripping a mask off, the man I’d known came back. His eyes turned liquid, and he grinned, clinking the top of his beer bottle against mine.
“Glad to have you in the family, sweetheart.”
I’d been there for four years, and Steg was right—I was already the senior editor of the publication. But working your way up to a good position on a sinking ship wasn’t ideal. Layoffs were becoming disturbingly regular, the pay was crap and I wouldn’t be surprised if we joined the Titanic in a few years. Plus, even a senior editor still had to do crappy stories, because when I flat-out refused to write about any of the kidnappings or shootings or murders to do with the Sons of Templar, crappy stories were all there was.
Hence the diversification. And blogging about how to style expensive designer secondhand items with tops from Target was fun.
And popular.
Not popular enough to quit my day job, but I got attention and freelance offers from online women’s magazines.
I was twenty-six—not exactly young and fresh, but I could still chase my dreams. In order to do that, I’d have to leave Amber. My best friends. My family. A career didn’t mean enough for me to do that.
Yet.
But my feet were beginning to itch.
And also yearned for more pairs of shoes that I couldn’t afford, even with cheap rent, discounted designer shoes and supplementary income.
Plus, the demons were chasing me around this place, ghosts lurking in every corner. The whole town was turning into a graveyard. I’d eventually have to leave, if only so I could escape the memories. The ghosts.
But not now. Or even soon.
Someday.
“Very happy to see that you didn’t turn into a pumpkin,” a deep voice declared from behind me, jerking me out of my thoughts.
I jumped, mostly because not all my motors were running without caffeine, especially after only thirty minutes of actual consciousness.
I knew who it was before I turned. The accent was the first giveaway, rough and unnatural, filtering through the air in a way that should have rubbed me the wrong way but instead curled around the words perfectly. Uniquely. And curled around other places. Places that obviously didn’t need coffee to wake them up.
I turned, but not because I wanted to. I wanted to run, but Shelly was still making my coffee so I was somewhat of a prisoner until then.
Plus, I’d promised myself that the only running I’d do was from ghosts in the figurative sense. My life would be in shambles if I ran from all of my corporeal problems too. I just had to figure out how to stand my ground.
“What?” I asked, my voice scratchy like I’d smoked a pack of Marlboros the night before.
I wished. Giving up five years back was the hardest thing I’d done. And I only ate chocolate twice a week. Mostly because I had wine the other five days.
But still.
Man, did I want a smoke.
It would stop me from licking his jaw.
He was wearing a simple, crisp white tee that molded around his muscles, stark against his latte skin. The stubble of the previous night was gone, revealing the very jaw I was contemplating licking.