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

  I’m glad when she walks away and I can put my focus on getting the locksmith. It takes five minutes to arrange for a twenty-four hour service to come out. The guy charges extra since it’s after hours, but Emerson doesn’t have to know since I asked that they send the bill to me. I grab a broom from the closet and head for the front room.

  Emerson’s bent over a picture frame, picking up the pieces of glass. “Assholes.”

  I move close with the broom. “I’ll get the glass. You’re going to—”

  “Ouch.” She drops the sliver and blood appears on her fingertip.

  I lay the broom on the floor and move to take her hand. “Let me see.”

  Instead of doing as I ask, she dodges me and places her finger in her mouth, sucking on it. Holy hell.

  “I want to know how bad it’s cut.” My voice sounds strained and there’s no way she doesn’t know why.

  She holds out her hand to me. “It’s fine. See?” She offers her finger as evidence. It isn’t bleeding anymore.

  I take it and examine the finger. “Small cut.” I bring her finger to my lips and kiss it. “Be careful.”

  Her face flushes and she jerks her hand back. “Friends don’t kiss boo-boos.”

  I give her a raised brow and smirk. “Sorry.” Friends don’t give friends hard-ons.

  “You don’t know how to do the friend thing, do you?” She grabs the broom and stands. “That’s a rhetorical question. No need to answer.”

  She sweeps the glass into a pile. When I don’t answer, she looks up. “What are you smiling about?”

  “The fact that kissing your finger got to you.”

  “Jerk,” she says with a smile, shaking her head. “You are so full of yourself.”

  She stops sweeping and begins scanning the floor. Her face pales and she walks the area, her gaze sweeping back and forth.

  “What’s wrong?” I step in front of her.

  “My picture. The asshole stole my picture.”

  I glance at the cardboard backing of the 8x10 frame. “Maybe it fell underneath something.”

  We both drop to our knees, looking underneath the sofa and chair. Emerson sits on her heels, practically rocking with a level of agitation I’ve never seen from her.

  I place a hand on her shoulder. “There’s something going on, isn’t there? Something you need to tell me?”

  Emerson sits back from my touch and draws her knees up to her chin. “It’s just a photo.”

  “A photo of what?”

  “Me and my dad. The last one I had of us together. Before he went away.”

  “Went away?” I hope this isn’t a euphemism for died. I’ve really asked a shit question if it is.

  “To a federal corrections complex.” She studies her hands.

  “For doing what?”

  “Selling data.” She says the words as low and resigned as a person surrendering.

  “Data like...credit card numbers?” I think about all the news I’ve seen lately dealing with stolen credit data.

  “Nope.” She looks up and her gaze meets mine. “US military information.”

  Chapter Seven

  Chasing the Sun

  Emerson

  “Smart people can be dangerous. Dad could hack into anything. Now he can’t even touch a computer.” I give Dylan a casual smile, but my insides quake.

  My dad’s indiscretion—selling military data like some people hock fake purses in New York—changed who I am. My high school friends, my community—virtually the entire world—shunned my family and me. So, I’ve hidden behind my wall of cold looks and chin-up attitude. Why did I blurt out the truth about something that makes me feel raw and exposed? I know the answer. Because the tenderness in Dylan’s gaze makes me want to confide, confide, confide.

  He’s looking at me—brows knitted together and his eyes soft and sympathetic, one syllable away from saying he’s sorry about my dad. I hate it when people do that. Apologize for something they had no control over. It’s like telling me you’re sorry for the rain.

  And maybe that’s not really it. The real problem is that I don’t like pity. My high school classmates drowned me in it.

  “Stop with the face. Okay? Just stop.” I get to my feet and grab the ripped up pieces of sofa, smashing chunks of foam into a trash bag.

  “You caught me off guard.” Dylan stands, still watching me and not helping.

  “So, Jordy didn’t tell you about Dad?” I glance at him to gauge his reaction. “He told you I was a stripper, but that’s it?”

  “Well, yeah.” He looks away.

  I grab the broom and shove it into his hands. “Perfect. At least I know what Jordy thinks is important. Would you try and get the dirt into the pot?” I turn to go and find a dustpan.

  At this point, I’d start a private striptease if it’d divert his attention from talking about my family.

  Dylan grabs my arm with his free hand. “Slow down. And Jordy told us because he wanted you out of the job at that club. Forever. No other reason.” His gaze searches my face. “I want to know about your dad.”

  “You know what? My dad got greedy. Middle-class America wasn’t good enough for him. End of story.” I break from his grasp. “I’m making you leave if you don’t find something else to talk about.”

  He stares at the dirt on the floor for a second and looks up. “Why do you think someone broke in here tonight?”

  “To steal some money or drugs. Some high-as-a-freakin’-kite delinquent broke in for cookies. Who knows? I’m not a thief.”

  “As if you would have drugs.” Dylan shakes his head. “Really. You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  “Well, I do know this guy who drives a Jag and parks the flashy thing in front of my building. People in this building probably think you’re my drug dealer or pimp.”

  He gives me a dark look. “Good. They’ll leave you alone.”

  “That’s not even funny. And if I weren’t kidding—which I actually was—your presence as Flashy Pimp Overlord didn’t stop someone from breaking in.”

  “Quit joking. I’m serious.”

  I leave the room to get the dustpan. This time, Dylan doesn’t stop me. “I’m not joking,” I yell from the kitchen. “I’m telling you there are some bad people who live around here and one of the baddies broke in. Do you have any idea how many times the cops get called here?”

  When I reenter the room, Dylan is carefully placing my plant inside the glazed pot. He’s busy with scooping dirt back into the container by using a magazine. His back is to me, broad shoulders stretching the material of his black T-shirt against his back muscles. Triceps tighten. The tanned skin of the back of his neck begs to be nuzzled.

  My pulse hammers in my throat, my ears, my mouth. I lick my lips. I could take five steps and kiss the back of his neck. He’d stop questioning and cleaning and judging. He’d only feel.

  Inappropriate thoughts. Inappropriate timing. Inappropriate target for my affections.

  He stands in one graceful move and turns to catch me staring. It’s like he reads my unguarded emotions because a corner of his mouth slides up.

  My breath hitches and I turn my back to him so I can put my shields back up.

  I pick up an overturned jar candle and set it on the end table. “Go ahead, Sherlock. What’s your theory?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I turn and meet his gaze. He’s got a satisfied smile on his face.

  “Somebody was looking for something. Why else would they rip into cushions and pillows? This guy was looking for a particular thing,” he says.

  “Like drugs.”

  “No. Tell me. Is anything missing?”

  I moan and close my eyes. “There’s nothing valuable here. What do you think they’d take?”

  “I don’t know, but I want you to be careful. Something doesn’t feel—”

  There’s screaming louder than the last seconds of a boxing match, and it steals Dylan’s attention. Jordy is yelling something and I can’t make
out his words until the last ones. “Back off!”

  “Make me, motherfucker,” a gruff, familiar voice yells back. I recognize the neighbor guy’s voice. There’s a crash against the wall and the sound of Gabby squealing. I can tell by the sound that she’s not really scared.

  But Dylan doesn’t know the melodrama and testosterone frenzy of this place. He moves toward the door. I reach for his arm, but I’m not quick enough and he’s out to join whatever is going on. I glance around for my phone and see it on top of my purse.

  I squeeze my eyes shut—for once could things go smoothly? I know I live in a bad part of town, but I’ve had my limit. The last thing I need is my friends in a brawl.

  Tension tightens my neck and an angry heat rises into my cheeks. I drag my arm across my forehead to push hair out of my eyes.

  With my phone in hand, I run to the open doorway. “I have the cops on speed dial,” I say in a loud, no-nonsense voice as I walk outside. I hold up my phone.

  It’s Bryce from three doors down and he stands rocking from foot-to-foot like he’s on a high. He’s not. This is typical Bryce with his need to move constantly.

  His face is inches from Jordy’s. Gabby stands a few feet away clutching a huge take-out bag to her chest like a shield. Give me a break. She’s wearing a guilty expression, not making eye contact with me. Now is not the time to push my buttons with melodrama, and Gabby knows it.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask Bryce.

  He gives me a bullish look that turns sheepish. “I was complimenting this fine woman and—”

  Gabby’s mouth drops. “He said—”

  Jordy drops the bag he holds and steps forward in one swift step. “You wanna apologize before I ram my fist in your mouth?”

  Dylan grabs Jordy’s shoulder and pulls him back a couple of steps. “Calm down.”

  Jordy doesn’t take his gaze off Bryce. “You know this punk?” he asks.

  Bryce tilts his hat bill to the left of his ear. “I ain’t no punk, wuss.” He rubs the tip of his tongue between his lips. The new piercing must be bothering him.

  “Bryce. Go home. Can we all go inside before someone else calls the cops?” I know Bryce is going to stand there and watch us.

  Bryce looks straight at me and ignores the guys. “You a nark?”

  “What are you talking about?” I step closer so every neighbor within a mile radius can’t hear.

  “The guys who are watching you.” Bryce moves to meet me and we stand close. “Why were the cops here earlier?”

  “Somebody broke in.” I rub my hand over my neck and notice the neighbor lady outside staring up at us. The red tip of her lit cigarette moves back and forth.

  “Yeah. I know. It was only one of them.” Bryce says the words low while he glances around casually.

  My nerves tingle and my skin tightens. What. The. Hell.

  Dylan moves to stand near me. “Let’s go inside.”

  I catch his gaze and nod. “Sure.”

  We all march into the apartment, silent with foreboding. All except for Bryce, who mumbles something unintelligible while examining the mess.

  Jordy clears his throat. “We can eat before this stuff gets cold.” He glares at Bryce like he expects him to leave.

  I motion toward the kitchen. “Bryce, eat with us.”

  Bryce does a double take at my request. I’ve never asked him to come inside in the past, but there’s never been a need. He pokes the tip of his tongue out, unconsciously working the tongue piercing across his lips.

  Gabby moans dramatically. “I was starving hours ago. I’m probably going to pass out any minute... Low blood sugar, you know?” Gabby puts the bags on the table and begins unpacking them. The drama queen then pulls a chair close to hers and pats the seat. “Dylan? Sit by me. I feel a little nervous from all that’s happened. Please?”

  Dylan’s gaze meets hers and I get the feeling he is about to say no when he shrugs. “I can. Or maybe you should lie down.”

  She pouts, her bottom lip poking out. I draw in a shaky breath. I don’t think I’ve ever been so annoyed with her as I am at this moment. Not as a kid when she had to have a present at my birthday parties. Not even when she dated my ex-boyfriend from junior year of high school—a guy too old for her.

  Those memories overlay the present as Dylan sits beside her.

  “Bryce,” I say, focusing on him and ignoring the way Gabby smiles at Dylan. “Eat, but tell me what you’re talking about. What do you know?”

  Bryce sits on the other side of Gabby. Close. Well, this is interesting.

  Not shy in the least, Bryce helps himself to a box of Thai food from the takeout bags. “I noticed the SUV about two weeks ago. It sits on the opposite side of the lot, so it may have been longer. Dark tinted windows. Once I saw two guys in separate vehicles. But the SUV shows up regularly. About three times a day. Not the same time every day. Driver doesn’t get out.”

  I sit in the chair on the opposite side of the table and nod. “So?”

  Bryce grabs a package of chopsticks. “The guy backs into the spot so it’s pointed this way. At first, I thought he might be watching that dickhead on the third floor. But then today, I see him out of the vehicle for the first time.”

  “That still doesn’t mean he has anything to do with us.” I reach for the largest container in the white bag and open it. Fried rice. Gabby grins at me, knowing it’s my favorite. My irritation at her lessens—a little.

  Bryce nods. “It does.” He pauses for a moment. “I saw the guy leaving your apartment.”

  I’m stunned. “You could’ve started with that part. Bryce, you have to tell the police what you saw. You—”

  He’s shaking his head before I can finish. “You think I’m stupid?” He stands, the pad Thai before him untouched.

  “Why not?” Dylan leans in. “Did he see you?”

  “No. He didn’t see me. But it wouldn’t take long for him to find out who the witness is. People like that guy got connections.” Bryce turns his gaze to me. “I’m telling you because you been nice to me. You respect me. But you tell the cops and we’re done.”

  “No one is telling the cops,” I say.

  Bryce glances from me to Jordy and Dylan, then back to me. “Not you, but what about these guys?”

  “No. They’ll do what I ask.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Now, sit and finish telling me the rest. You saw the guy leaving here.”

  “Yeah.” Bryce returns to his seat and picks up the wooden chopsticks and stuffs a large wad of noodles into his mouth. “Looked around to see if anyone noticed,” Bryce says around the food.

  “Can you describe him?” Dylan leans in.

  Bryce gives a disgusted look. “I’ve been watching him for as many days as he’s been watching Emerson.”

  “And?” Dylan asks. “Did either guy have dreadlocks?”

  I shoot Dylan an incredulous glare. “You are not even funny.”

  “Not trying to be,” he replies.

  Bryce shakes his head, totally serious. “Nah, man. No dreads.”

  “It wasn’t Toby. I was with him when this happened.” I squint at him like he’s crazy. He doesn’t like Toby; that much is clear to me. It’s as if Dylan implies I’m being stupid by hanging out with Toby.

  “I realize that.” Dylan says. “But there were two guys watching your apartment. Who else knew you wouldn’t be here?”

  Gabby waves her hand in the air. “Hello.” She waits until everyone is looking at her. “Maybe the guy was hoping I would be home. And he was going to rape me.”

  We’re all silent as Gabby picks through the bag and retrieves the takeout soup carton. I draw in some air because I don’t want to lose my temper.

  I am a reasonable, logical adult. I am kind even if someone—namely Gabby—acts like she’s got pure fluff filling her brain. I am all the things our mother could never be.

  Would-be rapists do not break in and demolish an apartment because the victim isn’t home.

  I
look like I’m considering it for another five seconds. “It’s good you weren’t home. I’m so thankful.” The statement is heartfelt and I can hear the strain in my own voice.

  Bryce’s eyebrows twitch as if he might laugh. One corner of his mouth lifts sardonically. “They aren’t watching you, Gabby.”

  “You don’t know that.” She glares at him.

  Bryce turns to me. “Yeah. I do. The guy knows your schedule. They watch for you.”

  Jordy stops eating, chopsticks poised with a bite of noodles. He’s been silent throughout the exchange. Almost thoughtful. “Can you get a license plate if they come back?”

  “Got it now.” Bryce juts out his chin. He pulls a crumpled envelope from the front pocket of his jeans. “Here you go.”

  Jordy reaches across the table and takes the paper. “I have a friend who might do me a favor.”

  “Don’t say where you got that.” Bryce closes the lid on the take-out. “Gabby,” he says, and waits a beat. “You going to be around tomorrow?”

  “No. Are you kidding? Why would I hang around this dump?” Gabby barely makes eye contact with Bryce since she can’t seem to take her gaze from Dylan.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, giving Gabby an exasperated look.

  We all eat in silence. It’s difficult to swallow past the lump of unease sitting in my throat.

  Bryce attempts to slide the takeout container back toward the others.

  I lean across and push it back. “Take the food. Thanks for watching out for us.”

  “No prob.” Bryce grabs the little white box and stands. His jeans slide low, and he hitches them up with one hand. “Black SUV, black clothes, dark shades when there ain’t no sunshine. Looks like a rich prick.”

  He tosses an odd look at Gabby before walking to the door and letting himself out.

  “Jordy, thanks for the food. Dylan...thanks for helping clean up.” I glance at the clock and it’s nearly midnight. “I need to get some rest before tomorrow.”

  There’s a knock at the door and Dylan gets to his feet and answers it. The locksmith that Dylan called earlier takes one look at the door and sets a tool chest inside. Not wasting any time, the guy begins removing some of the existing hardware.