Though he isn’t exactly runningtowardme, either. He’s been in my orbit for nearly three months, but he’s very hard to read, what with his brooding, quiet demeanor and dedicated focus to his job...whatever it is. He hasn’t really told me what government entity he’s from, and I haven’t wanted to ask. His credentials were enough for me—a strong jaw, powerful muscles, and dark eyes that make my toes curl.
“Guys, we’re having some technical issues on my end, so let’s plan to meet back here in a bit.”
I click out of the application and logout before the angry messages can fill my screen. Isn’t it enough that I have to deal with one psychopath? I don’t need an entire army of angry men with boners. God, could you fucking imagine the mob? Instead of wielding pitchforks and torches, they’ll be brandishing bottles of Jergens and fisting their cocks as they beat down my door.
After typing a quick response to my savior, I hurry to check that I actually locked the doors. Not that the locks will do much fucking good. I bought this beach house on the Carolina shore six months ago. Even though I got this place for a bargain, I can barely afford the mortgage, let alone replacing the shitty doors with something more substantial than particle-board crap. A bargain in this housing market is still highway fucking robbery. I can’t wait until I can afford to upgrade some shit around here.
The front door is latched and locked when I reach it. The house is quiet, aside from the intermittenttick-tick-tickfrom the ancient fridge. Nothing stirs on the beach. Not even the birds have ventured out to watch the sunset, though the clouds in the distance might indicate why. In spite of the ominous storm on the horizon, the sight begins to calm me. I’m alone.
I pad on silent feet to the side door and give the knob a jiggle. It’s locked as well, so that just leaves the back door. I cut through the kitchen and down a narrow hallway that opens into a smallmudroom. The lock is visibly engaged, but I give the handle a jiggle anyway. It’s perfectly secure.
A sigh of relief eases out of me as I hurry back to my bedroom. The message window for ScotlandYard842 is still active, but it’s hidden behind another of Desmond’s messages. He just doesn’t know when to quit.
Desmond: Don’t run from me, Daisy. It only makes me want to chase you that much more.
With a shudder, I move the cursor over the X in the corner of his message window. While I would love to be chased and pinned down by a man, it requires a level of trust that I just don’t have with this guy. Something tells me he’d never let me go if he caught me, and I’m not willing to test that theory. I press the button to get him off my screen.
Chaos ensues.
“No, no, no,” I whisper as hundreds of message windows cascade over my screen, all of them bearing his horrible name at the top. “Desmond, what the fuck do you want from me?” I scream.
The boxes stop reproducing, disappearing almost as quickly as they appeared until only the single box covering ScotlandYard842 remains. Two lines of text fills the box.
Desmond: You know what I want, silly. Now come outside and give it to me.
A scream lodges in my chest as I hurry to close the message box. My fingers shake, and I shut my eyes so that I don’t have to see my computer if it’s going haywire again. Because he’s lying. He’s just trying to scare me, and I can’t let him win. There is no way in hell he’s outside my house.
But then I ease my eyes open and see the message that was hidden just behind Desmond’s.
ScotlandYard842: Get out of the house.
A shadow moves outside my window. It’s little more than a flash of darkness before it disappears, but I saw it. Someone is out there.
I grab my shirt from the floor and pull it over my head. Desmond has taken enough from me over the past few weeks, and I’ll be damned if he’s getting anything more. My gaze darts around the room, looking for anything I can use as a weapon. I really should have taken my friend’s advice and gotten something more substantial than a fucking golf club. Looking at it propped in the corner, I realize how inadequate it is. Skinny and useless, just like my ex’s dick.
“Fuck it. This is what I have. I’ll make the best of it, just like he did.” I hurry to the corner and grip the golf club in my hands. What do I plan to do with it? I have no fucking clue. At least it gives me some distance.
I give it a few practice swings. My hands shake, and sweat slicks the grip as I readjust my fingers. The heavy driver weights the end pretty well, and if I aim carefully enough, I can probably do some damage. I’m concerned that the thought of killing this asshole excites me, but I’m sure plenty of women in my shoes have felt the same way. I’ll tell myself it’s normal for now and deal with the fallout in therapy.
With a deep breath, I leave my bedroom and head for the front door. My closest neighbor is nearly a half mile down the beach, but that’s where my Scottish bodyguard friend suggested I run when we formulated a plan in case shit ever went south. I’d say we’re heading toward the Equator at this point.
I’m accustomed to running in the sand, so if it comes down to a foot chase, I have home-field advantage. And I’ve seen Desmond. Well, his outline. He’s always in shadow when he comes on cam, but he doesn’t strike me as the type to do well in sand. He’s bulky as fuck, and all that muscle will drive him down.
I reconsider the plan to run down the beach. My neighbors are elderly, and I’m not sure they’ll even open the door for me, but I’ve glimpsed the little German man’s weapon room through his bedroom window. Something tells me he’ll come in clutch in a fight. That or he has a secret anime obsession, because who else buys that many swords?
But what if no one is home? What if I get to the door and end up looking like fucking Laurie on Halloween night?I’m not final-girl material. I’m just not.
“Fuck it, Quinn,” I whisper to myself. “You won’t be anything if you let that asshole get his hands on you.”
I consider calling the police, but that’s not really an option. When my friend agreed to help me, it was with the promise that he would handle all of my personal security needs. I promised never to involve cops, and he promised to keep me safe. So far, he’s held up his end of the bargain, but things aren’t looking so good right now.
Trust him. He won’t let anything happen to you.
God, I read far too many romance novels. They’ve rewired my brain. As I stand here at my front door, gripping a golf club and fighting the urge to scream, that realization has never been clearer. A stalker is now at my house, and I haven’t even started a paper trail on this asshole because I’ve been too enamored by the dark-haired stranger with a funny accent. I’ve put my faith in him, all because he makes me think dirty thoughts.
But this isn’t a romance novel and he isn’t coming to save me, so it’s time to save myself.
I unlock the door and wrench it open with a scream. I’m the vision of a mental breakdown as I burst off the porch and tear down the shore with the golf club swinging like a death threat at my side. Fear blinders narrow my vision to a pinpoint, and I focus on the porch light in the distance.