Magnetic Love: A Protector Romance (A Surviving Love Novel Book 3) Read online

  I inhale, exhale, inhale. I’m chilled from the wind hitting my flushed face.

  There’re quite a few people getting into vehicles. A couple of girls get into an SUV a few spaces over. A guy with dreadlocks puts on his motorcycle helmet and catches me watching him. He flashes me a smile. I nod and look away.

  No one in particular looks as though they are paying attention to me. I suppress my uneasy feeling, reach into my purse, and curl my fingers around the kubaton weapon on my keychain. I visualize stabbing an assailant in the eye or the throat.

  Last summer, when I resorted to dancing at Earl’s to keep the lights on, a strange guy had given me the creepy stare all night. After work, he appeared beside my car, asking me if I’d like to meet his joy stick. He seemed surprised when I asked if he’d like to meet mine.

  Although I was pressed against my car at that point, I’d jabbed the kubaton into his crotch. Hard.

  Bailey, the bouncer, took care of the pervert after that. I quit two days later.

  A tap at my window makes me squeak and grab my chest. I lower the window a fraction. “Yes?” The girl at my window looks vaguely familiar and I recognize her from a class last semester.

  “Your tire is flat.” She points toward the back of my car.

  “Oh no.” I moan as I get out. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I noticed it and wondered what I’d do if I ever got a flat, since I don’t know how to change a tire.” She winces and lifts both shoulders. “Wish I could help.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” I’m not a helpless little ninny who can’t change a tire. I was a helpless ninny years ago, but times change. I take off my good sweater. No sense in ruining it while I change a flat.

  The motorcycle guy with dreads hasn’t left yet. In fact, I wonder why he’s still sitting there watching us. I glance at the note from my windshield now sitting in my passenger seat.

  The girl looks at her watch. “Good luck with your tire. You should call Triple A or something. Don’t they change tires for people?”

  I can’t afford roadside service. The money I gave the bondsman this morning has left my account dry. “I’ve got this. Thanks.”

  She strolls away in a hurry as if I might change my mind and ask for her to pump the jack. I pop my trunk and walk to the rear of my car.

  “Hi,” a deep, melodic voice comes from behind me.

  I turn in slow motion, knowing it’s that guy—the one from the bike. “Hey,” I say in an even tone.

  “Let me do this,” he says.

  “Ah, no. I’m fine. I know how to do it.”

  “It’s not a question of knowing how. It’s the fact that I want to do it.” He leans in as I move the stuff in my trunk so I can remove the tire and jack from underneath a carpeted flap.

  “Oh sure. But I’ve got this.” Move along, dude. You’re freaking me out.

  “I can’t leave a girl with a flat to fix it herself. You can either let me do it or I’ll stay until you’re done.”

  I abandon my task and step back from the trunk. There are a few people in the lot, so just let him try something—anything—and I will scream like he’s stabbed me. “Did you leave a note on my car?”

  His eyebrows bunch together and his blond dreadlocks swing as he shakes his head. “Um...no,” he says. “I’m not the note-writing type.” He grins and dimples appear.

  I look down at the patch on his shirt. Folks’ Automotive. I must be blind. Now his attitude of obligation makes sense. He works with cars.

  “What’s it gonna be? I’m not trying to rush you, but I need to call my boss if I’m going to be late.” He gives me another smile, dimple popping out like a ray of sunshine.

  I try to think of alternatives. There are none. It’s broad daylight and there are at least four people within a hundred yards. “Sorry. Sounded a little paranoid there, didn’t I? I had this strange note and...never mind.”

  “I’m Toby.” He holds out his hand to shake.

  “Emerson.”

  “Emerson, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me change your tire. Then I need to get to work.”

  I close my eyes for a second. It’s exhausting to handle every crisis alone. “Okay, sure. Thank you.”

  He flashes me a second smile and those dimples appear like magic. “Good. Get your sweater back on girl, or you’ll freeze.”

  Toby moves around me and rummages in my trunk until he locates the jack. He glances up at me. “Emerson, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you don’t have a spare in here.”

  “No.” I want to scream the word instead of the calm answer I give. “I have a spare.” I step up beside him to peer over his shoulder. Empty. I know I had a spare but I also know I allow Gabby to drive my car when she needs it. “I think my sister may have taken it out.”

  “Looks that way,” he says.

  My head begins to pound. I could call Jenny, but she’d have to drag the baby out. I could ask Gabby’s latest boyfriend for help, but the thought makes me want to eat gravel. “I’ll call somebody. This isn’t your problem.”

  He lowers the trunk door until it latches, then checks his watch. “I can go to work and bring back the company truck to get your flat tire fixed. Let me drop you at your house. I’ll need to work my shift. I promise I’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay. You’re going to take me on the back of your bike?”

  “Well, it’s pretty safe. It’s not like I planned to deliver you home on my handlebars.” His green eyes twinkle.

  “Yeah. Okay, Toby. I’ll accept, but you have to let me pay you for your trouble.”

  “Sure. You can pay for fixing the flat. Folks’ Auto won’t rip you off, so it’ll be reasonable.”

  I lock up my car and follow him to the bike. He hands me his helmet and I put it on.

  “Address?” he asks.

  I hesitate for a moment. “413 Magnolia Bridge Way,” I finally say, giving him Dylan’s address. Dimples or not, I don’t give my address out to strangers.

  Chapter Two

  One Minute More

  Dylan

  Hangovers are great deterrents to social interaction. I don’t plan on talking to anyone for the rest of the day so I can evict my ogre attitude. Coming home early from work may be the smartest move I’ve made in days. Certainly smarter than I’d been last night.

  I look as bad as I feel—as if I’ve been pummeled by a pitching machine. I study my bloodshot eye surrounded by a purple pillow of flesh.

  Outside, the growl of a motorcycle causes me three-alarm chili heartburn. I plan to ignore the door.

  I stalk to the window of my bedroom and look down at the front lawn. In the driveway, there’s a bike with two people on it who must be lost since I don’t recognize them.

  The woman seated on back steps off, removes her helmet, and shakes out her hair. My jaw drops and I shake my head, which feels equivalent to a few well-placed punches against my throbbing temples.

  Emerson.

  She hands the guy her helmet and stands talking to him, her hands moving animatedly. She leans in to give him a hug and a jolt of nervous energy surges through me, like taking a shot of pure grain alcohol. My envy is unfamiliar and unexpected.

  Unmanageable.

  The guy better take his hands off her.

  Suddenly, she glances at the open garage door and then up at my window. I step back.

  This is my house and I’ll be damned if I’m going to hide in the shadows. I edge forward. She’s still staring up and I know she saw me.

  So, this is the boyfriend.

  She crosses her arms over her chest and continues to face me. The boyfriend looks up. I’d been so consumed by looking at her, I hadn’t even noticed the guy—dreadlocks like some stoner from a James Franco flick, army boots, ripped jeans. A lean guy. Maybe twenties, but who can tell with all that wild hair.

  Very upstanding citizen.

  I choke out a laugh. And to think I’d almost asked Emerson out on a date this morning. I thought she�
�d have better taste, but what can a person expect from an ex-stripper?

  What do girls see in guys like him? Maybe she likes the gritty, living-on-the-edge type.

  It’s the middle of the afternoon. What are they doing here in the first place?

  I race down the stairs and out the front door. “Hey, Emerson. Did you forget something?”

  She gives me a haughty look, her chin lifting high. I know I sound like I’m pissed off, but I’m in no mood to be friendly. Especially with them showing up here for no reason.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  “I could ask the same of you.” I look at the guy. Up close, he’s not as scruffy as I thought. The hair is very deceiving.

  He leans forward, not getting off his bike but extending the hand not holding his helmet. “Toby.”

  I shake his hand and my grip is too firm. “Dylan.”

  Toby is looking at me. Since I’m staring back, hostility riding on my shoulders, he finally looks away. He turns to Emerson. “Call me at the shop later.”

  “I will. Thanks.” Emerson heads to the house. The guy starts his bike and leaves with me standing in the driveway, wondering what the hell just happened.

  She waits at the front door, arms folded with a look that says I’ve interrupted something. Was she going to bring this guy inside my house for a hook-up? It’s the only thing that makes sense. They saw I was home, so he left.

  I imagine them doing things together in my house and rage rolls over me.

  “Surprised to find me here? I came home early,” I say, my voice low, menacing. “You know, you had a good thing going with us. I mean, we really overpaid you.”

  “What are you talking about?” She sounds alarmed, her voice increasing in volume and pitch.

  “Great pay. Keys to our house. You act like this place belongs to you.”

  She takes a step toward me. “You asshole. I don’t know what your problem is or what you think you’re accusing me of, but you’d better think before you say—”

  “You’re fired.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.” I nod and then wince. My head might explode like a shaken cola can if I move it again.

  “You can’t fire me. Jordy won’t let you.”

  “He should’ve known better than to hire an ex-stripper.”

  Her right arm swings up. She puts power behind it, and I see her palm coming for me like a slow-action scene in a movie. My head pops back when her hand connects, the swollen parts of my face throbbing.

  She’s shaking with anger. “You...you...I had no idea you were such a jerk.” She swings to slap me again, but this time I’m ready and grab her wrist.

  “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” I haul her forward and stare down at her.

  We’re nose to nose when she says the unexpected. “I thought you were different. I thought you...” Her voice is husky and breaks at the end. She gives a long blink. “Never mind what I thought.”

  For a second, I hesitate. Her voice and her expression send an uneasy burn to my chest.

  She pulls her arm from my hold and backs up on the porch. “I’m calling somebody to come get me. Do you mind?”

  “Good,” I say, but I don’t move. She should’ve thought of this before the boyfriend dropped her off.

  She pulls her cell from her purse and punches in a number. “Jordy? Yeah. Can you do me a favor? Can you pick me up at your house and take me home?” She turns her back on me.

  Still, I don’t leave. I’d love to know how she’s going to explain this to him.

  She lowers her voice. “I had a flat tire at school and this guy dropped me here. I didn’t want him to know my address.”

  What the hell does she mean? That guy is not her boyfriend?

  Not only do I feel like I’ve been run over today, I’ve just fallen down the manhole. I scrub both hands over my face as my pulse jabs blood to my temples. “Emerson. Hang up.”

  She continues talking to Jordy. “And your asshole roommate just fired me.”

  “No. No, Emerson. Hang up the phone.” I stride quickly to her and take the phone out of her hand so I can talk to Jordy. “Misunderstanding. I’ll take her home. She was kidding about the firing thing.” I press END and hand her the phone.

  She glares at me. “I wouldn’t get into a car with you if you were the last man on earth.”

  “I messed up.”

  “No. Messing up is when you forget to take out the trash on the right day. Or when you call your date by the wrong name. It’s not when you insult someone who has never been anything but nice to you.”

  She examines her phone as if she’s going to call someone else. The beginnings of tears cling to her bottom lashes.

  “Stop,” I mutter. Panic and remorse wash over me. My breathing labors as I try to fix my mess. “I’m sorry. I feel like shit but that’s no excuse. Please let me take you home.”

  “You sure you want to let an ex-stripper in your car?” Her gaze condemns me.

  Ouch. I did call her that.

  “I deserve whatever you want to say to me.” I close my eyes and rub my forehead. “I’m begging you to consider me temporarily insane earlier. Please, Emerson. Come on.”

  “Whatever. Yeah. Take me home,” she orders.

  She’s still pissed and isn’t going to back down from her righteous anger. She swings her hips as she walks and I can’t help but watch the way she moves.

  Emerson’s a walking advertisement for sex. Or at least she is in my book. Long luscious legs, full tits. Sexy, tousled hair. But she’s also a contradiction. She doesn’t flirt with me or the other guys in the house. She doesn’t dress provocatively. She doesn’t act like she’s promiscuous.

  Until that one night when I swear she was coming on to me. The way that girl can dance... Good Lord Almighty. One minute we’re dancing and the next minute I lose my mind and I’m kissing her. Drowning in her taste and scent.

  I’ve lived a marathon of trying to forget that night. I’m all for a mind-blowing one-night stand, but where would our relationship go from there? She’s not exactly the kind of girl you bring home to parents like mine. My mother would quiz Emerson about everything she’s ever done and take her straight to Father Alvarez for confession.

  I don’t want her to leave this job because I lost my head when it comes to her.

  “Are we going or did you change your mind?” she asks, challenge in her voice.

  I lock the front door, pull the key fob from my pocket, and meet her at my car. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

  “Not a chance.” She twists a large silver ring on her thumb. “You can suck up to me for a few years and I might eventually forgive you. But I’ll never forget what you said a minute ago.”

  There’s nothing to say at this point. She’s going to fume and I can’t blame her.

  “Address?” I back out of the driveway and hit the button to close the garage door.

  “Amberlin Apartments,” she says.

  She gives me the address and I’m a little surprised. It’s a rough part of town. “You don’t live in student housing?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “I don’t know.” I shift into third gear and the Jag’s engine purrs. There’s a lot I don’t know about her.

  “Yeah. All my stripper friends live in the sorority house, but I thought...hey. I’ll be different and live in a cramped little apartment next door to the local drug dealer. You know?”

  “I get it, Emerson. You officially hate me.”

  She doesn’t say anything for the next ten miles.

  Her Icelandic silence chills me. “Come on. You don’t really hate me.”

  Still no response as she looks out her window.

  Finally, I turn into the parking lot of her apartment. It’s not what I imagined. It’s worse. There’re a couple of guys sitting on the hood of a car near the place she’s pointing to. One holds a paper bag and upturns it to chug while the other laughs so hard he al
most falls off the car.

  “Park there,” she mutters.

  “You live here?” I hate to be so shell-shocked, but I’m uneasy at the thought of her walking from the car to her door, much less living here. “Do you want me to walk you up?”

  “Are you kidding me?” She gives me a glare that would make a prison guard back down. “No. I’m fine.”

  I shrug and put the car in park. “How are you getting your car?”

  She exits the car without a backward glance or another word. I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. There’s a set of stairs she ascends in record time and she disappears inside an apartment.

  My head drops against the leather steering wheel. I’ve never acknowledged her past before and I’m not sure why I did today. Jordy leveraged it when he asked us to hire her. He acted like he was saving her from some horrendous fate.

  It’s not like I haven’t thought about her feelings. Since we never talk, I assumed a lot.

  Before I can change my mind, I hop out of the car and lock it. I glance around at the parking lot and the two guys eyeing my car and me. I’ll be lucky if I still have my rims when I come out.

  The apartments are noisy. I can hear people talking in the downstairs unit. I quickly climb the stairs to the second floor and pause at the door, trying to plan what I’m going to say. I’m not good at groveling. But I’m not leaving until she says we’re good.

  I rap twice on the door and wait. It takes far too long for her to answer the door. She leaves a safety chain connected and peeks through the gap.

  “Why are you still here?” she asks, her brows furrowed together.

  “We need to talk. Really talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Can I come in?”

  She frowns. “Say what you have to say.”

  I glance back and the two guys are still sitting on the car hood. They’re watching me like I’m some show for them. “Please, Emerson.”

  Emerson hesitates and pulls back to unfasten the chain. “I’ve got a few minutes. Then I have to do something.” Her voice is hard.

  The apartment is small, but not cluttered. There’s a sofa and a trunk serving as a coffee table. A floor lamp sits in the corner of the room with a large plant underneath it.