There’s a small parking lot with about twenty or so cars in two rows. I edge slowly down the first row, not sure what I’m even searching for.
But then… a black economy car pulls into the row ahead of me, slowly heading my way. I step to the left, willingly putting myself on the passenger side as it approaches.
Knowing I’m getting in that damn car with him.
It comes to a stop, and the window rolls down. Bending, I get my first real look at my tormentor.
I’m stunned by how normal he looks. Plain face, neither ugly nor handsome. Normal—with sandy-blond hair cut short and combed neat, mud-brown eyes, and thin lips. I had expected him to look like a monster. Maybe scarred. Deformed, perhaps. He was wearing a mask when he attacked me, and I always felt it had to do with more than just thwarting identification.
“Hello, Jos,” he says, and the hair on the nape of my neck rises. I recognize his voice. “Get in the car.”
Staring in the direction I just walked from, I half expect—and really want—to see Cruce bursting out the service door.
“You’ve got five seconds, Joslyn,” my stalker says, and my head snaps his way. “Otherwise, I’m leaving, and Lynn will soon be a dead woman. I’ll drive off, go to where I have her, and slit her throat. Before she dies, I’ll make sure she knows you could have saved her. And when it’s all said and done, I’m coming after you again. And that sure was long winded on my part, so your five seconds are up. Get in the car. Now.”
I jump, reaching for the door handle.
“Get rid of the purse and phone,” he says.
I glance at my phone—at my message typed and ready to go. A sharp pain hits me in the center of my chest for everything that’s probably becoming lost to me in this very moment. My thumb taps the send icon, and the message whooshes away.
My phone falls from my hands. I shrug, making my purse land beside it. After I open the door and slide into the passenger seat, I feel physically sick to my stomach to be sitting so close to him.
I force myself to face him. “You swear you’ll let Lynn go?”
“Scout’s honor,” he says with a leering grin.
“You have no honor,” I snap.
The smile slides from his face, and he bares his teeth. “When I finish with you, you won’t be so sassy.”
His eyes roam over my face, and I pray he doesn’t focus in on my earrings. They’re my only link to Kynan.
He doesn’t pay them any mind. Instead, he says, “Put on your seatbelt.”
I do as he says, woodenly pulling it across my chest and clicking it into place.
“I’m sorry for this,” he says, and I’m surprised by the genuine remorse in his tone.
“Sorry about what?” I grit out, seething with anger he’d dare to apologize for his atrocities.
“About this,” he says, and I feel a sharp pinch in my upper arm. A syringe is plunged in to the hilt. When he pulls it out, my head swims. I’m immediately dizzy, and it’s hard to focus on his face. “Sorry I have to drug you. I like it when you fight, but I need you docile for now.”
“Fuck you,” I try to snarl, but the words are thick and slurred. He’s amused. I can tell by his laugh. It’s the last thing I hear before darkness takes me.CHAPTER 25KynanWhen the doorbell rings, I leave my spot at the kitchen island, which has become my makeshift office since I’ve been at Joslyn’s house. She offered me her office, but I didn’t want to disrupt her normal flow of work throughout the day. She spends a lot of time in there, jotting down notes for new song lyrics and playing tunes she made up in her head on a keyboard set up in the corner, which she translates into written music.
I make my way to the front door, disable the alarm, and open it to find Saint Bellinger standing there.
I don’t know much about the man. He’s as mysterious as the night, but he comes with good references. The main one is from my former business partner, Jerico Jameson, whom I bought my company from. Jerico served with Saint briefly in the Marine Corps. He’s apparently a master of breaking into places and moving about unseen. Due to the fact he’s had military training, it makes him a prime recruitment opportunity for me.
Saint is immediately distinguished by the fact he’s wearing a custom-tailored suit that probably costs more than what most people make in a month. His dark hair is perfectly styled. Despite his large build, he stands there with grace. Smiling, I stick my hand out. “Kynan McGrath.”
His return grip is sure and strong. “Saint Bellinger.”