I enter the lobby of my apartment complex. It’s not the fanciest place in the city, but the rent was reasonable, at least as far as housing downtown goes. I press the button for the elevator and wait, hoping the two young college girls who rent an apartment down the hall from me don’t show up and start fangirling all over me. As usual, the elevator doesn’t seem to be working, so I open the door to the stairwell.
I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear the door close behind me. A few seconds later, it opens again. I reach the second floor and when I try the door, it’s locked.
“Are you kidding me?” I groan, turning to head back down the stairs.
I freeze in place when I see a man wearing a black jacket and shining golden goat mask standing at the top of the stairs, cutting off my only way back out. My throat is instantly dry, and I’m not sure any sound would even come out if I screamed. My heart hammers in my chest. “W-what do you want?” I stammer. My voice comes out as a strained whisper, as if any sound too loud or sudden might make him charge at me.
He laughs, and the sound is disturbing, like something from a nightmare. It’s deep, jarring, and inhuman. “I want you to know you’re marked.”
“I have Mace in my purse, asshole. Don’t come any closer,” I say. I can’t seem to catch my breath. Everything is spinning, weightless, moving slow and fast at the same time. I put a hand on the door handle behind me, steadying myself.
He raises a gloved hand and drags his index finger across his throat. He points at me and then turns to walk down the stairs.
Just like that. It’s over. My brain is playing catch-up, struggling to process what just happened. The reality of it closes in on me piece by piece. That was a stalker. All the stuff in the media, the rumors, the jokes. It’s real.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to sink down and cry. A few moments later, I hear the door below close. I slowly move to the corner of the stairwell, sitting in the corner and hugging my knees to my chest. I could call the police, and maybe I will later, but I can’t even begin to describe the guy. He’ll step on the street outside and disappear. There’s no point.
Instead, I pull my phone free with a shaking hand and call my agent.
“Makayla, honey. I was just about to—
“Frank, I want you to hire a bodyguard for me. Get me the best money can buy.” I doubt this is what Kennedy had in mind when she told me to be more loose with my money, but that’s one of the last things I’m worried about right now.
“Is this about the stalking thing?”
“Can you do it?” I ask.
“Sure, yeah. I know a few people. Just let me make some calls.”
I hang up the phone and cover my face. My eyes are only closed for a second before I snap them open again, worried another masked person could be peering around the corner of the stairwell.
Jesse. I wish you were here.
The thought rises to the surface of my mind like an unexpected belch. Surprising, unwanted, and embarrassing. Jesse Slade. My old high school sweetheart. The guy who I trusted with my heart. The guy who ripped it in two without a second thought.
Yeah, I wish you were here Jesse, so I could punch you in your perfect teeth. I don’t care if I have never felt as safe as I did in his arms. I hate him. He’s a bastard, and I hope I never see him again.
25
Jesse
I half-throw Janette Springfield in the back of my car, shielding her with my body and slamming the door behind her. Car doors slam in the distance and engines rev. I unholster my Glock, climbing in the driver’s seat and setting the gun in easy reach.
“Oh my God,” she breathes from the backseat. Her perfectly curled platinum blonde hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat.
I slam the gas, spinning the tires for a second before they get traction and we tear out of the parking lot. I can still see the venue in my rearview. Over fifty thousand fans in there just watched me pull the biggest country music star in the US off-stage. They would probably be upset if eight masked men hadn’t rushed after us.
“This is fucking insane,” says Jannette. “What were they thinking?”
“They might have just wanted to get you off the stage. To draw you out like this,” I say.
“Then why did we leave?” she demands.
I shift gears, fishtailing around a corner and catching a glimpse of the three cars speeding after us. I hear them slam on their brakes when they can’t make the turn fast enough. “Because they don’t know who they’re fucking with. Do you want to run and hide, or do you want to send a message?”
I glance at her in the rearview. She’s frowning. “Run?” she asks.
“Wrong. I’m not the best because I wait for my clients to be targeted and react. I’m the best because I find the source of the problem and fucking shut it down.”
I hit the emergency brake and skid to a stop in a dimly lit alley. “Wait here. Don’t get out for anything. Do you understand?”
She shakes her head. “Just keep driving.”
“No. We’re sending a message,” I say.
I stand outside the car, headlights beaming from behind my back. The three cars pull in front of us a few moments later, slowly crawling to a stop. They park, and for a long while, nothing happens. I’m standing, Glock in my hand, waiting, and none of them get out of the car.
Finally, the doors open and men start to file out. Four men wearing gold goat masks and black clothes with their hoods up.
I hold my gun up, making sure they see it, and then set it on the hood of my car. I crack my knuckles and roll my shoulders, planting my feet wide. The men glance at each other and nod, moving toward me. I have friends in the justice system, and I can get away with a certain level of violence, but I don’t push it unless I have to. Besides, I still haven’t found a message I couldn’t send loud and clear with my fists.
These are the moments I live for now. The five of us are brightly lit by the headlights, and there’s no sound but the idle hum of engines and feet scuffing on wet pavement. The only thoughts in my head are pure--primal--hurt or be hurt. Kill or be killed. Do the job.
I walk toward one of the masked men, leaving my arms at my side. Before I can throw the first punch, the biggest of the masked men steps forward, holding a hand up.
“Jesse Slade,” says the man. His voice is being run through some sort of distortion device that makes it sound inhumanly deep. He tilts his masked head in a way that makes me imagine he’s sneering. “I see you’ve stayed in shape over the years.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I growl.
He waves a dismissive hand. “A ghost, you could say..”
“I’ll rip that fucking mask of your face and jam it down your throat. Who are you?”
He laughs. “I’m sure you would like to. But my plans for you are just beginning. Tonight is just so you know the game has begun. You’re marked, Slade. And we’ll be coming for you when you least expect it.”
I suddenly wish I had just shot the fuckers, but now they all aim weapons at me, preventing me from doing anything but watching this asshole walk away.
The man backpedals casually, twirling a finger over his head. “Pack it up boys.” He gets behind the wheel of his car and then sticks his head out the window. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Slade.”