All Over You (All Falls Down #3) (6 page)

BOOK: All Over You (All Falls Down #3)
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He studies the screen for a moment and then his gaze drifts back to me, skepticism plain on his face. "You're saying that isn’t your photo?"

"No, that is my picture, but this isn't my account."

"This isn't your account?"

"I've never seen it before today."

He narrows his eyes at me, but he doesn't say anything.

I'm not sure if he believes me or not. And I'm not sure why that bothers me so much. Because he's a cop and I don't want to go to jail? Because I don't want him to think I'm capable of something so horrid? Because I'm attracted to him? I think all three might be equally true.

He watches me so intently I have to take a deep breath to keep myself from fidgeting.

"I know you don't believe me," I whisper when he still hasn't said anything several seconds later, "but I don't know Rory Clark. I've never spoken with him before, let alone had a relationship with him. I'm just trying to find out who is doing this."

"Let me see your laptop," he says after a moment, holding out a hand.

"What?"

"Your laptop," he says again. "Give it to me."

He doesn't believe me. He's confiscating my computer.

My heart sinks as I reluctantly slide it off the tabletop and hand it over. Tears burn in my throat, but I swallow them back, blinking rapidly as he turns the laptop around to face him. Another protestation of my innocence is on the tip of my tongue when he speaks again.

"I'm logging you out," he says, propping a hip against the table and pushing a few buttons.

I blink, open my mouth, close it, and then open it again. "What?"

He doesn't take his eyes off the laptop as he reaches out with one hand and grabs the back of the chair behind me, dragging it across the floor with a loud screech. The few people left in the diner stop talking and turn around to see where the noise is coming from. If Detective Lewis notices, he doesn't pay them any attention. Instead, he spins the chair around until it faces my table, and then he sits, placing the laptop on the table in front of him.

"Here, tell me what you think about this," he says, typing rapidly.

My gaze moves from him to the laptop screen to see him logging in to Facebook and then back to him.

"I'm so confused," I mumble.

"Hmm?" He turns to look at me, one dark brow arched in question.

"I…" I shake my head, giving up trying to explain my confusion. He looks distracted, all of his attention focused on the problem before him. Exactly like when we talked on the phone and again at the precinct, he's in cop-mode. I don't even know him, and already I know there's no standing in his way when he's on a mission. He's implacable, unwavering. It's kind of incredible to see all of that single-minded intensity in action. I don't think my mind has
ever
worked that way, instead flitting all over the place at any given moment.

"This is her profile," he says, nudging the laptop toward me. "Take a look."

I glance at it and then lean forward, trying to ignore the fact that he's sitting so close I can smell his cologne again. Unlike the almost barren page I saw when I looked up Fake Ivy, he has access to everything she's posted. Photos and status updates fill the screen before me.

"You're friends with her?" I read the name in the upper right corner and see he's not logged in as Cameron Lewis, but as someone else entirely. "Who is Sebastian Travers?"

"No one. It's an account my partner and I use when we need information."

"Oh. Can I?" I ask, my hand hovering over the mouse.

He nods.

I start scrolling.

In the updates, Fake Ivy brags about trips out of town, designer handbags, and everything I've never been able to afford, not even when I was modeling. Like the photos Detective Lewis showed me in the messages yesterday, the ones I couldn't see before he logged in aren't publicly accessible. A lot of them are private photos. Group shots of me and my friends are interspersed with snaps of me on stage and goofy selfies. Every single one of them is full of comments and likes from people I don't know, half of them bordering on inappropriate.

"What the hell?" I mumble, still scrolling. My blood boils and my skin crawls as I see flirty responses from Fake Ivy, coquettishly encouraging the attention being lavished on her from random creeps and weirdos. I want to bathe in acid when I read some of their replies to her comments.

I sit back in my seat after several minutes, stunned. Whoever is doing this has an entire fake life, and she's using my identity to live it.

Detective Lewis watches me, not saying anything.

"This isn't me," I say again, shaking my head. Tears fill my eyes, though I'm not sure if I want to cry because I'm angry, because I'm scared, or because I'm sitting in a diner, looking at the evidence of Fake Ivy's glamorous life while the foundations of my own not-so-glamourous life threatens to erode beneath me.

"Do you recognize the photos?" he asks.

I nod, reaching up to wipe away a tear as it trickles down my cheek. "They're all my photographs," I whisper.

"Are any of them available publicly?"

"Just the modeling shots." I swallow hard and point out a couple of those before moving on to one of me, Erin, and Jake hanging out at the bar. Mitch took that photo with my phone three weeks ago. "No one should have access to this photo."

"No one?"

"It's on my Facebook page, but only my―"

"Only your what?"

"Only my friends should have access to my profile," I whisper. Another tear rolls down my cheek as a sickening possibility begins to emerge.

"I was afraid you were going to say that," he says, his expression grim.

"I'm going to throw up." I clamp a hand over my mouth and shove my chair away from the table. I leap up and barely avoid knocking over the cranky waitress as I make a beeline for the bathroom. The door slams against the wall when I push it open and hurtle myself inside, barely making it to the toilet before I throw up everything I've eaten today.

Once finished, I slump against the stall door, gulping in air. Someone in my life could be responsible for all of this. Someone I trust. They stole my identity and used it to hurt a nineteen-year-old kid. My heart rebels at the thought, but my brain isn't as quick to discount the possibility. How else would Fake Ivy have my private photos?

I have to fight back tears at the realization that her using photos I just told Detective Lewis no one should have probably makes me look even more guilty than I already do.

"Miss Kendall?" he says from the other side of the stall door.

I squeeze my eyes closed at the sound of his voice, humiliation coursing through me. On top of believing I'm a horrible person, he now knows what it sounds like when I throw up.

Awesome. Just what I needed to make my day better.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," I lie, hating the way the words tremble on my lips, making it obvious that I'm very clearly
not
fine. Hurriedly wiping my eyes, I drag myself to my feet and then flush the toilet. Drawing a deep breath, I reluctantly emerge from the stall to find him leaning against the wall, watching me.

His gaze is probing, missing nothing.

I stare at him for a long moment, not sure what to say. Would anything I tell him even make a difference? There's no way he's ever going to believe me now. Hell, I'm not even sure
I
would believe me if I didn't know for a fact that I didn't do this. I don't try to tell him that again though. More tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and I don't bother brushing them away this time, either. What's the point?

I'm probably going to jail.

"Come on," Detective Lewis says, his expression softening when I try to stifle a sob. "Let's get you home."

I nod, mutely following him from the restroom.

 

chapter five

on my mind

 

 

Once again, I find myself seated beside Detective Lewis in his SUV, neither of us speaking as he drives me the short distance home. I've managed to fight down the urge to sob, but I don't know what to say to him. I don't know what to think. Who would do this to me?
Why
would they?

"I don't understand why this is happening to me," I mumble, not sure if I'm talking to myself or to him, but unable to deal with the oppressive silence anymore. We're less than half a block from my building, and I don't want to get out of his car, not without knowing what he plans to do with me. "What happens next?"

"You need to hire a good lawyer, Miss Kendall," he says after a moment's hesitation, giving no hint as to whether he believes me or not.

A soft, bitter laugh breaks from my lips. "How am I supposed to hire a lawyer? I can barely afford my rent most months, and I can't teach while I'm under investigation." I glance over at him, wiping away a stray tear. I've already cried in front of this man far too much. "You're telling me that someone I know, someone I
trusted
, is responsible for using my identity to hurt a kid, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it."

He pulls up outside of my building and puts the car in park before turning to look at me. "Why can't you afford your rent?" he asks, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

I laugh again, my disbelief obvious. "Do you know how much it costs to live in San Francisco, Detective? Between rent, utilities, and necessities like food, I barely make enough teaching to scrape by here. And I'm still paying off my dad's medical bills and my student loans, so what extra I bring in singing goes to paying off those debts."

"Then why stay here? You could teach anywhere."

"Because my kids need me," I whisper, unlatching my seatbelt.

"Kids?" One of his brows shoots upward again.

"My students. People move to San Francisco to live the high life, not to teach, especially not at one of the worst performing schools in the state."

"But not you," he says, the words so soft, I have to strain to catch them.

"Most schools weren't lining up to hire a former fashion model straight out of college. I wanted to make a difference, and Bryan Gleeson was willing to take a chance on me." And now I'm on the verge of being charged with manslaughter. Sighing, I push the car door open and climb to my feet.

"Thanks for the ride," I mumble and grab my laptop before turning and hurrying up the sidewalk. Gentle gusts of air blow in from the bay, drying the tears on my cheeks, but more fall to replace them. My hands are shaking so badly, I can't even get my key in the door.

"Here, let me," Detective Lewis says, materializing beside me.

I jump, startled at his presence when I didn't even hear him exit the vehicle. Before I can tell him I'm fine, he wraps his hand around mine, stilling the shaking and sending a powerful jolt through me. I immediately drop my gaze to our hands, noticing the way his engulfs mine, so much bigger, and
so much warmer. Even though he's holding me gently, his fingers are rough to the touch, calloused.

"What―?"

His thumb rubs slowly across my knuckles.

My gaze flies to him to find his eyes locked on our hands. I'm thrown off-balance by his expression―like he can't look away from the sight of his darker skin on mine―by the way he smells, and by the heat unfurling in my belly.

The overwhelming desire to throw myself at him and let him ease the ache currently gnawing at my heart rushes through me. For a split second, I don't even care that he thinks I'm the equivalent of a murderer. I just want him to make me forget.

What am I doing?

I jerk backward, pulling my hand quickly from his.

My heart slams against my ribcage in a frenetic beat as he clears his throat and shakes his head slightly as if to clear it. Without a word, he inserts the key into the lock and pulls the door open, standing aside for me to enter.

"Um, thanks again," I say, my voice shaking. Ducking my head, I hurry toward the stairs.

"Miss Kendall," he calls from behind me.

I don't turn around, instead jogging up the stairs, my laptop bouncing against my hip with each step. I just want to get inside before I do something completely stupid. His opinion matters to me for some reason, and he already thinks the worse. I don't want to give him more incentive to drag me off to jail.

He seems to have other plans.

I hear him following me, his steps steady as he calls my name.

The sound sends panic thrumming through me. I pretend I don't hear him and keep going, quickly racing away, praying he gives up and goes back to his car. I burst out of the stairwell on the fourth floor, breathing heavily. Hurrying toward my door, I reach into my pocket for my keys. Except I don't have them.

He does.

"Why me?" I groan, dropping my head to the door as defeat courses through me.

 

 

I'm still standing there when he steps up behind me less than a minute later, so close the heat of his body scorches me. A shiver rolls through my body at the feel of his warm breath blowing just inches from my neck. Fine strands of my hair shift with each exhalation from his lips.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to run from a cop?" he asks, his voice pitched low. He doesn't sound angry though. He sounds…turned on. Before I can react, he cages me in with his arms, one resting on the doorframe beside my head while he unlocks the door for me with the other. He leans in, so close I can feel his lips shaping his next words against my ear. "Do that again and you won't be able to sit down for a week, kitten."

A whimper rolls from my lips, heat blasting through me at his threat. My core clenches, my stomach contracting.

I spin around to face him, banging the back of my head against the doorframe in the process.

His eyes are on fire, lust and frustration turning them a stormy gray.

"I―"

"Inside," he commands, leaving no room for argument in that single word.

I swallow convulsively as he pushes the door open and backs me inside, stalking me.

I have no idea what he's going to do when the door closes behind him. Spank me? Fuck me?

A case of nerves―or overpowering desire―makes me tremble.

He notices. Something flares in his gaze, that same wicked something that drew me in at
Mitch's
and again at the
Red Room
. That naughty, bossy bastard who knows exactly how to bring a girl to her knees. The one who knows precisely how far to push to make her beg for it, and how much pleasure she can handle before she breaks. That look should be illegal. He hasn't even touched me and I think I'm going to come.

Sweet Jesus.

I back away another step and then another, eyeing him warily as I try to decide if I should make a run for it and pray like I hell I get a door locked between us before he catches me, or if I should stay right where I am and let him show me all those filthy things that glint in his eye tells me he's so, so willing to deliver.

"Stop," he says, kicking the door to my apartment closed.

I immediately stop walking backward and drop my gaze to the floor. The laptop bag in my hand goes with it, falling with a dull thud to the carpeting beside my feet.

Detective Lewis strides toward me, barely making a sound, or maybe he's stomping and I just can't hear him over the pounding of my heart. He stops in front of me and wraps his hand around the side of my neck, tilting my chin up until my gaze meets his.

"You're a submissive little thing, aren't you?" he asks.

Submissive?

What?

"I'm not…"

He must see the shock on my face because his eyes widen and then that wicked smirk tips the corners of his lips up. The dark, smooth sound of his laugh rips through me, exactly like it did on the phone the other day. His finger sweeps across my bottom lip.

"Oh, kitten, you are definitely submissive," he says, flashing me that dimple.

"I'm―"

He cocks a brow and I instantly stop talking.

Okay, so maybe I am a little submissive. Just a tiny bit.

"Your mouth drives me crazy," he mumbles, running his thumb over my lip again. I think he's talking to himself more than me this time, his gaze distracted, following the path his finger takes. "I can't stop thinking about getting in there. Bet those lips would feel like velvet around my cock, wouldn't they?"

Those murmured, filthy words pull a low moan from somewhere deep inside. I can't look away from him. The heat in his gaze, the way his lips move as they shape each syllable, and the sight of his pulse thrumming in his throat…it's almost hypnotic, ensnaring me. I can't drag myself away from him. I don't
want
to pull away.

"Didn't expect you to be able to sing like a fucking goddess. Christ, that voice, kitten. And then you stood up there and called me out in front of everyone for staring at you? Like I could look away. Like anyone could. Not gonna fuck you though," he mutters. "Not yet. Just need a taste before I help you…"

Before I can fully process the desire to cry out in disappointment over his decision not to fuck me, or ask what he means by 'help me', his mouth is on mine. After one moment of relief for the mouthwash and breath mints he had tucked away in his car, my brain ceases to function.

He kisses me like he can't get enough, his lips sweeping across mine in gentle brushes before an animalistic groan vibrates in his throat and he goes deeper. His tongue plunges into my mouth to dance across mine as he pulls me closer, one hand tangled in my hair to angle my head, the other on my ass, lifting me into him.

I cry out when he pulls my bottom lip between his teeth and bites down. The slight sting left behind has me thrusting my hands into his hair as I try to climb his muscular body. His scent is all around me, and it's good. God, he smells delicious, like heat and liquid sex.

"Knew it," he mumbles against my lips. "Fucking knew you'd go wild as soon as I had my hands on you."

He shifts against me and his erection presses into my stomach. He's massive, thick and hard as a rock. My entire body feels like it is on fire as he goes deeper again. Our tongues dance together before breaking apart and then coming together again. He holds me close to his body, keeping me in place with that hand in my hair as he palms my ass, kneading and massaging.

He's hard everywhere, his body firm and unyielding as muscles bunch and ripple with each movement he makes. The silk of his tie is cool against my overheated skin, the fabric of his suit as soft as Egyptian cotton.

"Can't wait to get in here too," he mutters and cups my pussy in the palm of his hand.

My nails dig into his scalp as a keening cry breaks from my lips, an orgasm bursting to life out of nowhere, overtaking me. Heat spirals out from my center, flooding through me in a soft wash. I moan and tremble my way through it, so far gone, I can't stop myself from grinding against his palm, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure I can.

"Fuck, kitten," he groans loudly against my mouth before once again sweeping his lips across mine in gentle passes. He's breathing hard, his heart pounding against mine. Those sweet, sensual little pecks go on for what feels like an eternity as he brings me slowly back down to earth, holding me securely in his arms.

When I'm able to breathe again, I don't want to open my eyes and face reality, so I don't. Instead, I nuzzle my face into his throat and hum, sated for the first time since he smirked at me from that dark corner at
Mitch's
. He holds me tightly as his heart rate slows and steadies.

"Fucking perfect," he mutters into my hair, and then he's sweeping me off my feet.

I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me across the living room like I weigh nothing at all. He doesn't even break a sweat. He lays me out on the sofa, and I expect him to follow me down and continue where he left off, but he doesn't. He presses his lips to my crown, and then his heat is gone.

I manage to pull my eyes open in time to see him striding across the room toward the front door. Confusion funnels through me.

BOOK: All Over You (All Falls Down #3)
7.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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