He wouldn’t implicate himself in another murder so easily.
So why taunt me with that item in particular?
The more I think about it, the more confusing it all becomes until I’m rubbing at my throbbing temples, trying to make sense of the tangled web.
“Drink,” Rafe commands, drawing my attention.
I blink to find the rim of the beer bottle beneath my nose.
“I don’t drink,” I insist, shaking my head.
“The fuck you don’t.” Rafe fixes me with another searching look, but one devoid of sympathy. An eyebrow raised, he tilts the bottle toward me again. “Trust me, bunny. You need a fucking drink. You look like shit.”
It’s the way he says it that makes me inch forward and warily press my lips to the bottle. Shit, some level of despair beyond any flowery prose or descriptor.
Satisfied, he manipulates the drink with one hand, allowing me to take the smallest, most cautious sip. It’s gross, and I choke down the liquid as he pulls the bottle away.
“Did you sleep?” he asks next.
I shake my head, and he scoffs as though I’ve insulted him.
“Come on.” Grabbing his sandwich, he pivots on his heel, approaching the door.
“Wait…” I contemplate coming clean now. Telling him everything. I have to. “I need to tell you—”
“Whatever you want to say, hold it,” Rafe snaps with surprising intensity. “I don’t want to hear shit until I’ve eaten.” He heads for the stairs, leaving me no choice but to follow.
The second I cross over the threshold after him, paranoia plays a chilling game on my psyche. Branden could be lurking below right now.
Waiting for me.
“It’s okay.”
I look up to find Rafe halfway down the staircase. “No one’s going to fuck with you here,” he says.
“You don’t know that.” My fear isn’t faked for the sake of drama. Branden always has a way of controlling me—no matter where I go. Nausea crawls up my throat as I recall the latest example. “He… He’s been tracking me through my phone—”
“No one will ever fuck with you here,” Rafe insists. “Trust me.” He juggles the items in his arms to free up one hand that he extends to me. The fingers are bruised and riddled with scrapes, and yet it’s still the most appealing sight I’ve been presented with all morning.
Finally, I entwine my fingers with his. Rather than head for the front of his shop, he takes me past the back room. There, the short hallway ends at the door leading into a narrow alley. Cool air raises goosebumps over my flesh as we step out into the morning, drawing attention to the fact that all I’m wearing is his shirt, nothing else.
“In here.” He opens a nearby door that conceals another staircase. A doorway at the top of it exits onto a wide space beneath the open sky—the building’s roof.
With a confidence that betrays just how often he must come here, Rafe guides me forward to a waist-high length of plywood spanning the edge of the rooftop. Below, traffic picks up, and I can’t resist scanning every car, hunting for a familiar model.
“Don’t,” Rafe warns as if reading my mind. “No one can see us up here.”
He sits with his back to the railing and arranges his food and drink beside him. “Sit.”
Once I do, he grabs his sandwich and takes another ravenous bite. “Eat,” he commands with his mouth still full.
I gingerly sample a bite of mine, registering the flavors of sausage, egg, and cheese. “It’s good.”
But he didn’t bring me up here to eat. Blazing in the growing sunlight, his gaze contains a million unanswered questions. Much like a book with a blank cover, it’s impossible to discern what he’s thinking at a glance. I have to touch him—running my fingers along his forearm the same way I would flip through pages—and tension turns his muscles to stone.
“Damn right, it is,” he agrees with my assessment, leaning his head back. His jaw tightens with a hint of seriousness he’s concealed until now. “So, tell me… Those cameras I found in your place. Were they your idea or his?”
My cheeks catch fire. The cameras. One in my living room above my TV placed in plain sight. The other, presumably hidden in my bedroom without my knowledge or consent. God only knows what the footage might reveal—me dressing. Undressing. Sleeping…
With Rafe.
“It caught us, didn’t it,” he suspects in between swigs of his beer. “Is that what set him off?” He nods to indicate my bruised frame. “The fucker watched us.”
The thought hurts to explore in full. I have to squeeze my eyes shut and digest it in pieces—Branden, watching me with Rafe. Watching. Watching. Watching.
It doesn’t sink in until now as a mangled sound rips from my throat. A laugh? A scream? I’m not sure whether I’m cackling or crying as I bolt onto my knees and vomit.
“Damn.” I hear Rafe sigh amid the clink of this bottle being set aside. A heartbeat later, he shocks me—his fingers are in my hair, smoothing stray strands away from my face. “The fucker must have gotten quite the show, huh? Come here.”
In his arms, I find a surprisingly warm refuge. Heedless of the mess still dribbling down my chin, he sits back, guiding my head onto his lap.
“Don’t let him inside your head,” he warns. “That’s what he wants. To disgust you. To shame you. He wants you to second-guess the person you are without him. Fuck that.”
“You don’t sound embarrassed,” I croak, finally pegging the sole emotion coloring his voice. Pity for me, but surprisingly no unease for himself. No anger, either. A glance at his face reveals he’s sporting his trademark stoic expression. “Or violated.”
“I don’t have shit to be embarrassed about—” he pauses in his petting of my hair and meets my gaze directly. “You don’t either. We didn’t do anything wrong.”
Conviction resonates
