Chasing Red (Chasing Red 1)

Betrayal was like a rabid wolf, able to sense even a whiff of weakness. Its purpose was to devour and destroy the fainthearted.

How many times did our paths need to cross before I learned?

I showed the world what it hated to see: someone strong and unaffected, but inside I was nothing but a heartbroken disaster.

I was moving but I wasn’t feeling, looking but not seeing. I boarded the bus to Kara’s place and walked the distance from the bus stop to her place. I was so immersed in pain that it took all my strength to keep it inside. I was in a complete daze. When I crashed into a solid object, I didn’t even react. I just crumpled to the ground.

“I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

A deep masculine voice spoke. Someone knelt in front of me, but I couldn’t see. My vision was blurry.

“Damn.” A low curse. “Here, I got you.”

I felt strong arms pull me up, then push a cloth into my hand. I looked at it, bewildered.

“For your tears,” he said. “You’re crying, Angel Face.”

I was? My hand reached for my cheek, feeling the wetness there.

“Kar,” I choked. “I need Kar.”

“Kar? You’re out of luck. She’s not here, but she’ll be back soon.” He steered me onto Kara’s porch. He sat on the white bench, looking at me expectantly. I followed and sat on the opposite end, as far away from him as I could.

“I’ll just wait with you here until Kar comes back. Okay with you?”

I nodded, shutting out everything.

When I heard the strum of a guitar, my head turned toward the sound, and I found him playing the instrument. His long, nimble fingers strummed the strings with expertise.

He was playing “Let Her Go” by Passenger.

Oh, isn’t it ironic? I came here to forget, but I was getting salt rubbed into my wound.

His voice was deep and raspy. I closed my eyes, feeling a pang in my chest as I listened to the lyrics.

We sat together without talking. I listened as he played songs. He let me be, didn’t ask what was wrong. I was grateful for that.

After a while, I glanced at him. I’d seen him before. I was sure of it. His hair was thick and dark brown, almost black. It was slightly curly and long enough to touch his shoulders. It looked disheveled, as if he ran his hands through it several times. His features were sharp and beautiful, reminding me of a statue of a warrior angel I’d seen once.

He wore an ancient short-sleeved black shirt, a pair of old, faded jeans that had holes on the knees, and Converse sneakers. Sitting comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, with the guitar propped on his knee, he continued to play. He looked at ease in his own body.

He impatiently swatte

d the hair that fell on his face, revealing three silver stud earrings in his right ear. Around his wrist was a black leather band that was fraying at the edges, like he hadn’t taken it off in years. I spotted several rings on his fingers.

He stopped and pulled a black hair band out of his back pocket. Placing it between his teeth, he reached back and gathered his long, dark hair in his fist and quickly tied it in a messy bun. Then he started to play again.

There was something wild and masculine about him, I observed as I studied him—something free. He had an I-don’t-give-a-damn air about him. I envied that.

Startling light-blue eyes looked at me curiously, deep dimples popping out as he smiled.

“You still have my towel?” He had a twinkle in his eye that I assumed warned everyone he was trouble. And I’d had enough trouble.

Towel? What was he talking about?

He had a slight accent that I couldn’t place. I realized I didn’t even know his name or what he was doing here when I heard someone call my name.

“Ver?”