Son of a bitch.
There was no way in hell he was going to feed Stormy to that wolf. He went back into the bedroom and packed her bags, careful to take everything, from her mother’s picture to her toothbrush. Then he went through the motions of checking all the places he thought Stormy might hide cash or other valuables she wouldn’t want someone to steal. He checked under the mattress, in the ceiling tiles, above the cabinets, under the sink. He looked beneath the table to see if she’d taped anything there. Nothing. He looked around the room, trying to climb into Stormy’s head. The trouble was, he didn’t think Stormy was in her own head lately. She was in the head of the woman she’d become, and he had no idea how to discern the difference from this standpoint. He eyed a ceramic cookie jar on the counter and on a whim lifted the head of the ceramic cat and reached inside.
Bingo.
A thick envelope full of cash.
Christ, Stormy. He made a mental note to teach her about safer hiding places for her valuables.
His heart did that funky thing it had been doing since he’d met her. He ignored it, aware of the time ticking by, and stuffed the envelope in his back pocket. He brought the bags out to his car and went to pay a visit to Mrs. Fairly.
She answered the door wearing a light blue housecoat. She looked older than Logan’s mother, with gray hair and a friendly, round face. Recognition spiked in her eyes, and she smiled warmly.
“Hello there.”
“Hi, Mrs. Fairly. I’m Logan Wild.” He held out a hand and was met with a limp handshake.
“Yes. You’re Stormy’s friend.”
“That’s right. She asked me to come by to get her things. We’re going on a trip, and I wanted to settle up her remaining lease.”
“Oh, my. Is she leaving for good?” A crease formed between her brows.
“Yes, I believe so. How much rent are you due?” He thought of his mother, and the idea of her needing to take in a stranger for money bothered him. Mrs. Fairly had opened her house to Stormy, and even though he’d just met them both, he was thankful that Stormy had found a safe place to live.
“She’s on a month-to-month, dear. She’s paid up for this month.”
His soft heart got the better of him. “And how much was she paying per month?”
“Nine hundred dollars, but she’s all paid up, as I said.”
After giving her a check for six months’ rent, Logan gave her a talk about not opening the door for strangers and then he headed back to his office. It was too late to drive to Mystic if he wanted to pick up Stormy after her shift, and at least for now he knew she was safe. She may not like it, but until he could ensure that Kutcher would never bother her again, she was stuck with him.
Chapter Eight
THE DAY DRAGGED by despite the continuous flow of customers. Stella could hardly believe that the man who looked cold and possibly dangerous the first night she’d seen him at the bar made her feel safe and like she wasn’t alone for the first time since this nightmare began. She tried to ignore the other desires he was sparking.
She looked up at the door for the hundredth time today. Each time she did, a chill ran across her shoulders. She wasn’t sure if it was from wanting to see Logan or out of fear that Kutcher would walk through the door and drag her God knew where. Although that wasn’t Kutcher’s style. He was stealthy, like a ninja. He’d be more likely to hide in her apartment or in an alley so he could drag her into the darkness and leave her body in a Dumpster.
“He’ll be here,” Dylan said. “You still have fifteen minutes until you’re off work, and Logan, he never drops the ball.”
She tried to smile, but her head was still wrapped around thoughts of Kutcher. He’d been abusive, but she knew that wasn’t the reason he’d wanted her dead. She’d made a mistake the last time he’d come after her. As he was pressing the sharp point of the knife to her skin, she’d said, I won’t tell them about the ring.
The ring. That’s what he’d called his drug-dealing business. She’d overheard him talking about it and put the pieces of his shady life together. His eyes had glazed over, cold and dark, and as the knife violently tore through her skin, she’d thought her next breath would be her last. The second stab sent her to her knees—and then her neighbor had responded to her screams.
The flow of customers slowed, and Dylan leaned his hip against the bar, kicked one ankle over the other, and crossed his arms. “Do you want to talk?”
Stella leaned against the bar beside him. She’d been hoping he’d ask. She’d shared some of the details about her past with Dylan, like the fact that she was hiding from an abusive ex-boyfriend, although she hadn’t told him everything.
“Did you tell Logan about me?”