Deep breath.
Darlene and I had met in gymnastics camp during spring break, then again in summer break, before I invited her over to my house. She became my best friend. She got taller, and her physical power compacted into a tight, womanly frame. Her voice matured, and she used it like a weapon to cut through anyone who stood between her and fame.
I landed on one leg coming off a triple pike vault and blew out my knee. It wasn’t even at the state championships or anything. It was a practice the weekend before. I let my team down. I couldn’t even look at them when they visited me in the hospital.
I wasn’t good at holding grudges unless they were against myself.
I’d continued singing lessons, though, and took up dance, which I loved and which my knees could handle. Darlene and I had the same instructor in our teens, and we did recitals as a team. If there was an audition for a commercial, we cut school to go. We were perfect together.
We plodded through college, but all we wanted to do was sing and dance. When Darlene had the brilliant idea to move to Los Angeles to “make it,” I agreed. Work in Chicago was tough to get. Not enough commercials. Not enough stage. Not enough of anything.
That went well for a while. Darlene was always going to be a star, but something happened to me on the way, and she saved me by making me her choreographer.
Who was late.
I took half a deep breath and got out of the car. I didn’t have time to de-stress in the front seat. I had time to yank my bag out of the leg space in front of the passenger seat, open the door, and get out all in the same move.
I almost closed the door before I realized the engine was still running.
Deep breath, Emily.
I took the rest of the breath with one hand on the car door, closing my eyes and pretending the deep breath I had the time for was a full five-minute relaxation exercise.
Keys. Tote bag. Clean clothes. Laptop. Close door. Chirp doors locked. Look around. Check the early morning shadow for someone coming from behind. The laptop wouldn’t fit in my purse, and it took an entire arm to carry. I’d have to cross the length of the building to enter on the parking lot side. I had a key card for the back door, but it was in the bottom of the clothing bag. When I got to the rear of the building, I stopped by the metal door to dig around for the key card.
I had this.
All I had to do was move my purse to the left side, shift the laptop, search around the clothing bag . . . but no. Wasn’t there.
Switching everything back, I let the purse slide down to my wrist, rebalanced everything, leaned the laptop on my knee while digging around my bag, taking stuff half-out. Wallet. Charger. Vitamins. Checkbook. Notebook. Sunglasses. Pistol. Tissues.
A breathtaking force hit me from behind, and as I was on the way down, with the black asphalt getting closer and closer, my hand locked around the key card, and I wondered if the laptop was going to break when it fell.
Half a breath took five minutes, and by the time I hit the ground, my lungs were empty. The air made an oof sound when it left me. Hard pressure fell on my wrists and lower back. A person. A man.
I had a stalker. His name was Vince, and I’d loved him once.
But with my face to the pavement, love wasn’t in the equation anymore. It had been replaced by anger, fear, and action.
Was it Vince? Had he followed me?
I smelled charcoal and gunpowder.
“Stay still.” His voice wasn’t Vince’s. I was in a shitty position, but it wasn’t him.
The voice was so commanding I obeyed it without thinking.
No normal woman would have relaxed in that situation, but I did. I couldn’t see anything but the glare of the sun between two buildings. My face was pressed against the dirt. I felt the guy move above me. I didn’t know if he was getting ready to drag me or hit me, but I wasn’t going to have a second chance to get away.
He didn’t drag or hit me. He snapped the key card out of my hand, giving me time to mentally prepare.
He got off me, and I jumped to my feet and went for him. I’d taken enough self-defense classes to get close with a kick, but I became distracted.
He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, and I’d seen a lot of gorgeous men. Nice scruff. Blinding blue eyes. Gray linen suit. Precisely untidy dark hair. And a perfectly formed hand that grabbed my ankle just as I was kicking him. He turned it in a swift move, and with his other arm, he kept me from falling on my face by grabbing me by the waist and holding me to him—my back to his front. His body was hard and thick as it curved against me. His arm was strong but not painful, and his hand held me tight at the rib cage without hurting. Three inches higher, and the flood of arousal that weakened my knees might take over.
What was I thinking?
“Let me go,” I barked.
“Calm down first.”
I jammed my heel into the arch of his foot and jammed my elbows back. I felt the air go out of his lungs, but he didn’t let go. Every time I inhaled, his arm got tighter around me. Something about it wasn’t threatening but secure.
“That’s not calming down,” he said into my ear. God, his voice.
Fine. If he wanted me to calm down, I’d calm down. He could have done much worse in the past few seconds, and it wasn’t like I had a choice.
“I’m not leaving this parking lot with you.” My voice was steadier than it should have been.
“Count backward from five, and I’ll let you go.”
Let me go? What kind of deal was this?
Not a deal a rapist would make. That was all I knew.
“Five. Four.”
“Don’t make a move for the gun.”
Is that what this was about? Darlene always said it would get me killed before it would save me.
“Three. Two.” I went slowly. I had no motivation to, except to collect my thoughts.
“You’ll never make it.”
“One.”
He let me go, took a step forward, and picked up the black pistol I kept in my bag. As soon as he had its weight in his hand, his face changed.
“You’re joking,” he said. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Yeah.” I crossed my arms. “By you. Whoever you are.”
“Why would you carry a fake gun?”
“Because I couldn’t get a license to carry.”
He laughed. On top of everything, he had a wonderful laugh. His face lit up, and his chest expanded the fabric of his shirt. His jacket opened to show a dark shape and a bulge under it. Unlike me, he had a license to carry.
“You a cop?” I asked, picking up my bag by one handle. “Because if you’re going to give me a ticket for having a fake, can you just give it to me so I can get to work?”
“I’m not a cop. Not anymore.” He dropped the fake gun in the bag and picked up the clothing tote. “You all right?” he asked as he brushed off my laptop. It looked undamaged. I tucked it under my arm and held my hand out for my things.
“I’m fine. What the heck was that about?”