I make my way to the changing room, the last door at the end of the hall by the exit. It looks like a middle school locker room. Smells like one, too. Hell, even feels like one sometimes. Uncomfortable. It’s empty, all of the women working, but I’ve had my fill of this place for the night.
I’m getting out of here.
I go straight to my locker on the end, opening it and grabbing my black duffel bag to gather my things. I strip out of the skimpy black lingerie, changing into a pair of yoga pants and tank top, putting my coat on over it. Running my fingers through my hair, I pull it back into a ponytail as tingles creep along my spine, an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I glance around the vacant locker room.
It’s strange, the sensation that flows through me. It’s one I’m all too familiar with. It’s the feeling of being watched, the feeling that I’m not alone, even when I know I am.
Paranoia is a bitch.
Grabbing my bag, I slide my feet back into a pair of cheap black heels before leaving. My footsteps stall outside, and I glower. I hoped I could skedaddle out of here without enduring an awkward goodbye, but no such luck.
He’s hanging up from his call when I appear.
“Sorry again,” he mumbles, shoving the phone away as he eyes me. “You off work now?”
Technically, I had the entire night off, but this is the only place I’m willing to meet up with him. “Yep, heading out early.”
“You, uh... want me to walk you home?”
I force a smile. “Nice try.”
“It’s just an offer,” he says, raising his hands defensively. “Just looking out for you. It’s late, and dark, and—”
“And I can take care of myself, thanks,” I say, cutting him off.
“You ever going to trust me, Morgan?” he asks. “I’m here to help you.”
“I know,” I say. “But trust, well… it’s not easy for me. And it’s not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t trust anything. You know how it is.”
“I do,” he admits, frowning. “Anyway, I should go. You okay? You need some money or, uh…?”
He goes to reach for his wallet.
I want to hit him in the nose for it.
“I don’t want your money,” I say. “I’m not a prostitute.”
“Of course,” he says. “I just figured…”
“That I needed money,” I say, finishing his thought, “but I don’t need money from you. What I need is for you to actually do your job, detective.”
He grimaces. He doesn’t seem to ever like that reminder.
Detective Gabriel Jones with the 60th precinct.
“Look, I’m going to talk to them again,” he says. “First thing tomorrow, I promise.”
“Thank you.”
Gabe leaves, getting in his unmarked black Ford with tinted windows. I wait until he’s gone before I start walking, keeping my head down, my steps hurried. My gaze flickers along the road, making sure he isn’t circling and following.
He’s done it before.
I’ve caught him every time.
There’s no sign of the black Ford, but I still can’t shake that feeling, the one that tells me something is off. I run the last block to my building, darting inside and pausing by the entrance, staring out the square glass window, waiting for somebody.
Nobody’s around.
“I’m losing my mind,” I grumble, padding up the stairs to my top floor apartment.
First order of business is a hot shower. I scrub every inch of my body, washing it all away. Every touch, every kiss, and every thrust—I purge it from my memory as if it never happened. Afterward, I dry my hair and grab a too-big, plain white t-shirt from my closet, not bothering with any other clothes.
I head for the steep winding metal steps in the corner of the tiny living room. Scaling them quickly, I push the door open at the top and step out onto the rooftop.
The frigid winter air slaps me, stinging my face and assaulting my bare legs, but I ignore it. Pulling myself up onto the concrete ledge along the side, I peer out into the city. Nine, maybe ten o’clock at night, a Sunday in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, not far from the East River. I can see for blocks, a bustle all around me as cars fill the streets and people walk along the sidewalks.
I’m barely out here for a minute before that feeling rolls through me again, so intense my stomach clenches.
I hate the sensation.
It’s like being haunted, like there’s always a ghost around me, following me, taunting me, not ever letting me be in peace.
I don’t move, don’t bother to look, as a chill ripples down my spine. Despite my best effort to stay composed, I tremble, goose bumps erupting along my skin as my hair stands on end, my reaction having little to do with the coldness outside.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper, staring out at the city.
“My money.”
The voice rings out behind me, so close… too close. The gravelly deep tone hits me like a punch to the chest as it unexpectedly answers my question.
Someone’s here. Oh god.
A shaky breath escapes me as I turn to look behind me on the roof.
The second I see the face, every muscle inside of me seizes, my heart even skipping a beat, hesitating, like it hasn’t in a long time. My eyes scan him in the darkness—sharp features, strong jawline, sturdy build and a long scar that cuts through the side of his face, the jagged groove glowing in the moonlight. His eyes are opposite shades of blue—one damn near midnight, while the other is more of an early morning skyline.
Classically handsome, maybe not, but something about him is mesmerizing, like watching him is hypnotizing. It’s not enough to overshadow my fear, though, because he’s just as alarming as he is alluring, maybe even more so.
Scratch that. Definitely more so.
He stares at me, not a flicker of emotion showing on his face. There’s almost something inhuman about it.
I’m not sure what to say or what to do, so I just stare back, but he doesn’t seem to like that. No, his cheek twitches, his eyes narrowing, so I avert my gaze, scanning the rooftop around us.
Think. Think. Think.
He’s blocking the way back inside, so I glance behind me, over the ledge, at the busy city street below.
Ugh, that drop would hurt like a son of a bitch.
“I don’t recommend jumping,” he says, “unless you want to go splat.”
I turn back to him. He’s right. The odds of surviving that fall aren’t in my favor. “What do you want?”
“I just told you what I want.” He takes another step toward me, and another, and another, until he’s close enough to reach out and shove me, if he wants, since I’m still sitting on the ledge. “I want my money.”
“What mon—?”
His hand darts out, snatching ahold of my throat, long fingers wrapping around and squeezing, literally cutting off my words, silencing my plea of ignorance. I gasp, startled, panic flowing through me as the force of the blow thrusts me back.
I damn near lose my balance.
The only thing keeping me from tipping over the edge is his strong grasp, but it’s also cutting off my flow of air, so…
Reaching up, I clutch tight to his wrist, but I don’t fight. If I fight him he’s liable to throw me right over the side, so I just hold on, clinging like he’s my life raft, because if I go over, I’m taking him, too, not a shred of doubt about it in my mind.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he says. “If you had enough balls to steal from me, you shouldn’t have a problem owning up to it.”
He jerks me toward him, yanking me onto my feet on the roof. I inhale sharply when his hand leaves my throat, my knees weak, dizziness obscuring my vision. I’m half a second away from collapsing, my legs buckling, when he moves closer, pressing into me, pinning me against the concrete ledge, keeping me upright. He wedges between my legs, prying them apart, trapping me in place with his body. I’m hyper-aware of the fact that I’m nearly naked, damn near straddling his leg right now. I’m not sure if he realizes it, if he knows his knee is pressing into my crotch, but I hope not, because ugh… let me find some dignity here, will you?