Dropping her chin to her chest, she said honestly, “I hate that name.” Not that it wasn’t a nice name, but since she was forced to answer to it instead of her own, it put a bad taste in her mouth.
Because she was looking at the ground, she saw his hand coming and didn’t startle when she felt a finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. Less than a foot separated them, and at this proximity she was reminded of just how massive he was. Broad shoulders and a thick chest tapered to a narrow waist somewhere way below her line of sight. He towered over her five-foot-seven-inches frame and the bad lighting off to their side made his features all harsh lines and hollowed shadows.
“You got a last name, then?”
She arched a single brow. “Do you, Irish?”
Of course, she knew he did. Everyone had a last name. It was more a question of whether or not they chose to use it, and around here, a lot of people went the way of Madonna and Cher.
A slight twist up at the corner of his lips. “Guess I’ll stick with ‘kitten,’ then.”
Kat tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. The idea of any man using an affectionate name with her—especially the man whose deep, raspy voice gave her goose bumps every time he spoke—was so foreign that a short, nervous laugh burst out before she could bite it back.
He canted his head slightly and raised a curious eyebrow at her reaction. Clearing her throat, she tried to sound aloof. “Whatever trips your trigger.”
“You wanna come in for a drink and let your nerves settle for a bit?”
Suddenly, she remembered about the eyes and ears and thugs and money. All she wanted to do was get to her shitty apartment, down a few glasses of Jack Daniel’s from Lenny’s abundant supply, and sink into an inebriated oblivion where reality ceased to exist.
Her eyes darted around the back lot, searching the corners cloaked in pitch for any signs of lurking figures with watchful eyes.
“Uh, n-no, I gotta get home,” she stammered as she finally opened the car door and sat behind the wheel.
He gripped the doorframe, preventing her from pulling it closed behind her. “You sure you’re okay?”
Using a lifetime of feigning things she didn’t feel, she pulled up the corners of her lips and showed her teeth. “Absolutely.”
“Wait, I think you dropped something.” She looked over just in time to see him squat down and retrieve the crumpled placemat from the ground. “This yours?”
Her stomach sank as he opened it up. “Nope, not mine. Thanks again, Irish.”
She didn’t wait for his response, just slammed the door, started her car, and got the hell out of there.
Chapter Three
Kat probably checked her rearview mirror at least a hundred times, trying to see if any cars were following her, but all she saw was the ambient glow of her taillights as she wound her way through the back roads. She’d obviously seen too many action and suspense movies lately. From now on I watch strictly rom-coms. There wasn’t anything in a Katherine Heigl movie that could add to her paranoia.
Ten minutes later, she hit the two-stoplight downtown of Alabaster. Another five minutes and she was in her upstairs apartment over the local tattoo joint, throwing all three deadbolts and securing the chain lock.
Kat sagged back against the door and didn’t even try to stop her knees from buckling as she slid to the floor, a shaking bundle of nerves. Over a decade had passed since she’d felt helpless against the sexual advances of a man, and yet all it took was a single moment for it all to crash in around her. She despised the binding vulnerability that made her weak when she needed to be strong. A target when she wanted to be a weapon.
Clenching her hands into fists to stop them from trembling, she forced herself to take deep breaths and forget about past threats so she could focus on the new one.
Looking around, she studied her small studio for any signs that someone had been there, but as far as she could tell from her current position, everything was exactly as she’d left it.
The black futon couch in its upright position still had her leopard-print Snuggie thrown over the back. Her latest movie purchases—her main form of entertainment—were spread out where she’d left them on the old trunk she used as a coffee table, dining table, footrest, and nightstand. The kitchenette to the right looked untouched, its mini-counter bare except for the microwave and toaster she used to cook most of her meals.
So, she thought, unless they’d done something to, or were still hiding in, her three-quarter bathroom off to the left, her place was uncompromised. For now.
Pushing off the floor, she got to work on doing what she could to feel as relaxed and safe as she possibly could in her situation. She poured a full glass of Jack and downed half of it on the spot with four ibuprofen before refilling it and setting it on the wooden trunk.