Bad Boy Romance: Nick (Romantic Suspense Alpha Male Romance) (New Adult Rock Star Contemporary Short Stories) (Hard Rock Star Series Book 2) (69 page)

****

Chelsea managed to walk into the
courtroom without limping, although the high heels the attorney had insisted
she should wear for her stint on the witness stand made both her knee and ankle
ache. She was healing—and Johan’s client had generously covered the expenses of
her physical therapy, as well as the continued visits to the doctor—but it was
slow.

She was grateful to have Johan
at her side; Chelsea glanced in the direction of the defense table and saw her
former employer, Aaron Rosen, glaring daggers in her direction. There was no
doubt in her mind that if Rosen somehow did manage to avoid conviction, he
would continue to send people after her—only it would be for the pleasure of
revenge rather than the desire to keep her silent. She had mentioned that
possibility to Johan the night before, as she lay awake in bed, worrying about
her first day of testimony. “If he gets off,” Johan had said, pulling her
around and on top of him, “then I will take you with me to Sweden, and we’ll
live there. He’s small time, Chelsea-baby. He doesn’t have the resources to
follow you outside of the country.” The prosecutor had told her that with her
testimony—and the evidence that she had provided—it was practically no contest.
The trial would end, and Rosen would be convicted and spend the rest of his days
serving out consecutive sentences—to which the district attorney had added
murder and attempted murder.

Whatever happened, Chelsea
thought as she gave Johan’s hand a brief squeeze, glancing at him for support,
she knew that the man who had come into her life so unexpectedly, and who she
had fought against so hard, would stand by her and support her.

THE
END

“Big day?”

Cassie looked at Henry’s wry
smile, trying to glare at him convincingly as he handed over her bag of muscle
relaxing cream. As usual, she failed; the tough girl act never worked on the
old Filipino man in charge of the corner store below her apartment.

“Yeah,” she said, sighing. She
checked to make sure the tiny story was empty, her caramel colored ponytail
whipping from side to side as her head turned. “I was sitting till for twelve
hours yesterday tracking the wife of a politician. She turned out to have
gambling problem. My butt aches like my mother kicked it.”

Henry chuckled. “I hoped you
were paid well for your troubles.”

Cassie winked and shoved her
hands into the pocket of her chocolate calfskin jacket. “You know it, Henry.
What about you? Did you go fishing like you said you would?”

Henry’s eyes light up like
lamps, and he nodded his head vigorously. “Yes! Sheryl and I took the boat out
onto the bay and caught some very nice trout. We should have you over for
dinner sometime.”

Cassie laughed. “I’d love to
tell Sheryl about how we both catch bad guys.”

“Sheryl hasn’t been a
policewoman for fifteen years,” Henry reminded her. “But I think even she would
be surprised at some of the stories you have to tell.”

Ain’t that the truth. “
I’ll
have you see for yourself one day. Catch you later!”

Henry waved her out, turning to
his newspaper as she exited the store. “Have fun! Be safe!”

It was his constant refrain, and
sometimes she came in just to hear it. It was nice to feel fully engaged with
another human being in a casual way—she was so used to being completely
unnoticed that sometimes she needed the gentle reminder that she could still
behave like everyone else.

Cassie dashed up the four
flights of stairs to her loft, happy for the burst of activity after such a
long day of sitting as still as a stone. But she’d been able to bill the
politician for all twelve hours of her stakeout, and had gotten him more than
enough information to justify that check that was nearly enough to cover a
whole month’s rent. After five years, Cassie was so effective at improvisation
and blending in that she got to pick and choose assignments often—and even
worked pro bono regularly enough to call herself “in demand”; her work had even
led to the imprisonment of several high profile child abusers. Despite all
this, Cassie maintained such a ghostly presence in the media that she was
almost never recognized on sight, and dates often demanded to see proof that
she was the
famous
Cassie Vine—at which point she usually feigned
sickness and went home. More than anything, Cassie hated being pressured; it
was part of the reason private investigation called to her so strongly. There
was nothing like being your own boss and only having your own glass ceiling to
break.

By the time Cassie had finished
rubbing the mentholated cream into her lean calves and thighs, it was noon.
She’d slept later than she meant to after being alert for twelve hours
straight, and now she had to get started on her next assignment with virtually
no prep. She slipped into soft jogging pants and a dark gray sweater, pulling
her brown hair into a low bun at the nape of her neck.

Carter Hampton,
she
recited to herself.
Twenty-six, six foot four, two hundred fifty pounds.
Sandy blonde hair, green eyes, faint scar across the right side of his jaw.
She’d memorized his picture and description straight from the file his father
had emailed, right after he’d messengered over a cashier’s check of staggering
proportions.
Find my son by any means necessary, he ordered. He’s a danger
to himself, and his safety is paramount. Please, no police—unless things grow
dire.

Despite the note’s dramatic
tone, Cassie wasn’t worried; this was typical for a tracking case, and she was
positive the young man was going to be fine. The father had supplied enough
information to find him, but when she noticed their medical and credit
histories were oddly blank, she realized the man had given her fake identities,
but a real picture and description—presumably in case she attempted to get the
authorities involved. If it had really been a dangerous situation, he would
have given her traceable information; this was almost certainly a case of a
spoiled, immature brat leaving the nest after throwing a tantrum. The worst
risk posed was maybe a night of binge drinking, or a coke-fueled bender—the
father would likely know the risks to his son far better than she did. Cassie
knew that these ultra-rich types often had close personal advisors working to
make sure they didn’t inadvertently ruin their images over something as silly
as a family member in peril. She didn’t approve, but pushing never got her
anything but a closed door in her face. If something went wrong, she could
leverage information then.

The father had told her that
Carter liked to hang out in strip malls and used book stores. As she slid on
her sunglasses and headed back out the door, she realized she was actually
looking forward to this outing—it wouldn’t be hard to pretend to browse for
books or household supplies, since it was actually something she had been
meaning to do. Cassie drove to her first location, a book shop called Second
Page that was fifteen miles from her apartment. It was listed as a frequented
location, and Cassie could immediately see why: the store itself was enormous,
and the shelves stretched from floor to ceiling. There were long mahogany
ladders along each wall, hooked into the bookcase with a set of wheels so you
could move smoothly from title to title. The shop took up two offices and was
situated between a nail parlor and a car insurance agency, and she could tell
it had been there a long time; its sign was dusty and yellowed, and the
interior coat of paint was hardly any better. The hunched cashier barely
acknowledged Cassie as she strolled in, and a second, younger employee wearing
a faded apron far too baggy for her twiggy torso let out a monotone “
Hi,”
before returning to her leisurely task. The carpet had the sort of retro
pattern you only see on fast food restaurant tables or bus seats—some ambiguous
shade of blue or purple, crisscrossed with unbroken mustard yellow lines and
jagged green slashes that intersected at odd intervals. It was more plush than
it looked, and oddly comforting. Cassie wandered over to a section at random
and pulled a title from the shelf.

Cassie was browsing for ten
whole minutes before the bell above the door tinkled. She waited a full minute and
set her book down, turning in a slow circle as she reached for another spine
and cast her eyes toward the front of the store. She felt her heart sink
briefly as she saw that it was a woman with short blonde curls and bright blue
eyes—striking, but not her guy.
Oh, well.
Cassie gazed down at the book
she’d chosen and chuckled softly:
The Joy of Sex.
That was something she
hadn’t experienced in a while.

The bell above the door tinkled
again, but she only had to wait a few moments for the new customer to wander
into view. Her heart skipped a beat—a tall man, over six feet, with light brown
hair mostly hidden underneath a worn red Angels cap. He looked to be in his
late twenties, but he was a great deal more muscular than the description
suggested, as well having hair a few shades darker than she was looking for—but
one of the drawbacks of Cassie’s job was that she was often surprised, and not
always in a good way. Occasionally, people who were exposed because of her work
tried to seek revenge, and she’d had more than a few close calls. This didn’t
seem like one of those times, however—and, sure enough, the muscular man
breezed past her without a second glance and stopped in front of the sports
section.

The tension had finally drained
from her spine when the bell above the glass door sounded again—and this time,
the hair on her forearms stood on end as though someone had whispered in her
ear. She waited a few seconds, then tucked
The Joy of Sex
under her arm
while turning and gazing at the shelf behind her. Her eyes fell on the new
customer, and sirens went off in her brain as she scanned the man and struck
off every item on her mental checklist.
Bingo: Hello, Carter Hampton.

Cassie opened her new book and
watched him in her peripheral vision. He looked around nervously, as though
looking for an entry way among the stacks her own eyes couldn’t detect. Then
Carter headed for the furthest shelves to her right, disappearing behind the
tall stacks without a sound. She burned his outfit into her brain in case he
slipped out: a crisp, long-sleeved forest green button-up shirt with a pair of
dark denim jeans that were old enough to look soft to the touch—or expensive
enough to come that way fresh out of the factory. He wore black hiking boots,
and they looked like they’d been used a few times, at least.

Cassie couldn’t believe she’d
been so lucky; maybe she’d be done with this case today, and she could take
some time to herself to actually read some of the things she’d end up buying.
She rounded a corner casually, letting her eyes float indiscriminately among
the colorful, varied spines as she followed the back wall to the aisle where
Carter stood.

This was the hardest part of her
job—getting close without being detected. She didn’t raise her eyes as she
emerged into the furthest aisle, though she noted Carter’s position and the
language of his posture as he gazed around at the books. She needed to see if
he really was dangerous in any way—and there was always a chance he could be
dangerous to her, especially if he realized she was following him, and
especially
if he was on any stimulants. Cassie had more experience with ducking heavy
items–like chairs and corded phones—than she wanted to admit, but she wasn’t
confident in her ability to duck a punch from a man who weighed a hundred
pounds more than her. That was what her taser was for—and, if that failed, her
hunting knife. She’d never had to use the knife before, but there was a first
time for everything.

A cursory glance told her that
though the man was on edge, his eyes were clear and steady. They were a
startling sea green, as deep as a rolling ocean; Cassie felt herself pause on
the stubble-covered square of his jaw, his strong nose, and his thick, dark
lashes, wondering how things would play out if she did a little retcon as a
flirty college student.

Focus!
she reminded
herself.
You’re working. Urges later. Money now.

Cassie reached for another book,
and the movement pulled Carter’s eyes to her. She felt a shiver roll down her
spine as his eyes fell on her—and it intensified as they stayed there, as
though they were glued to her skin. She forced her breathing to stay steady and
prayed that her cheeks didn’t look as warm as they felt.
Did he catch me
staring? Tell me he didn’t catch me staring!

Cassie turned a page in the book
she was gripping, counting slowly from one to ten in her head as her heart beat
wildly in her chest. Finally, she felt his eyes move on from her—but he started
to move away from her as well, backing around a corner while he cast his eyes
around him restlessly once more.

Shit!
Cassie thought, her
internal monologue growing more hysterical by the second.
Did he move away
because I was staring, or because he knows I’m following him?

Or maybe he’s just moving
away,
said a second, calmer voice—but this didn’t feel as true, and her
heart started to beat more quickly.
Great, you ruined a case with your
stupid hormones—happy now?

Cassie groaned under her breath
and turned around, sauntering back toward her original position while trying to
look for Carter as nonchalantly as she could. She got back to the other side of
the store before she realized that he wasn’t anywhere she could see, and her
heart started to race again.
What the hell? Why didn’t I hear the door open?

She nearly jumped out of her
skin when two fingers tapped lightly on her shoulder from behind. The books
Cassie was holding all slipped to the purplish carpet, and she was too stunned
to bother to try and catch them. It was Carter—and he was grinning at her
sheepishly, his sandy blonde hair falling over one of his calm green eyes as he
looked down at his scuffed hiking boots. Cassie’s heart was still in her
throat, and she took a step away from him, letting him see the warning in her
eyes when he met her gaze again. She still didn’t know who he really was—only
that someone needed him found.

“Sorry to startle you,” he said,
and his deep voice was palpably apologetic. “I had to give you the slip. I’m
not great at direct confrontations. This is usually a little easier.

Cassie didn’t try to hide the confusion
in her eyes; the way he was speaking didn’t seem to match up with her
expectations of the situation, but that didn’t mean she was totally wrong.
Make
him think you’re just a customer,
she decided. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

The man raised his eyebrows at
her. “Wow, you’re dedicated. Cassie, it’s okay. It’s over. You passed the
test.”

She narrowed her eyes at him,
suspicion flooding her mind. “Test? What the hell are you talking about?”

He looked nervous now; he even
looked over his shoulder, as though checking for backup. “I’m sorry, I should
explain. My name isn’t Carter Hampton—though you’ve likely already figured that
out.” He paused, but Cassie didn’t speak.

“My name is Eric Riverston, and
I’m the same person who sent you that email,” he continued anxiously. “I really
need help, and you were among the top five private investigators available,
according to my research.”

Cassie suddenly understood what
he meant by
test.
“You set this up to see how good I was at feeling you
out and tracking you?”