Rock Star Romance: Dan (Contemporary New Adult Rockstar Bad Boy Romance) (Hard Rock Star Series Book 4) (74 page)

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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?”