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Behind Closed Doors
An Inside Out Novella
By Lisa Renee Jones
Copyright 2013 Lisa Renee Jones

Part One: Stop and Stare

“Bid. Bid on this one, Skye.”

“They haven’t even opened the doors for us to see inside,” I say, glowering at my new friend Ella and wondering why I let her obsession with Storage Wars lead me to a real auction. Or maybe I do know. She isn’t easy to say no to, but when it comes to my limited pocketbook, I have no choice but to be cautious with my bidding.

She balls a fist at her belly. “My gut says this one is for you.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re too dramatic and I don’t bid on gut feelings. I’m a calculated buyer, not a spontaneous one.”

“You haven’t bid on anything, and I bought a unit that looks great by being spontaneous. This is the unit of the day, Skye, and there’s not another auction in San Francisco until next month.”

“That’s not a good reason to bid,” I remind her, swiping a long strand of dark brown hair out of my eyes.

“You went through the same training I did.” My skin prickles and I glance up to find the thirty-something man in a cowboy hat, who has been ogling me like I’m the one up for auction for hours now, standing behind Ella and staring right at me. Not a difficult task considering she’s several inches shorter than my five feet five inches, and the smirk under his dark mustache says he’s enjoying our inexperience a little too much.

Grabbing Ella’s hand, I pull her down the hallway of the climate-controlled indoor facility and away from
the crowd of at least thirty bidders that have now dwindled to about twenty. “If I don’t get a unit I don’t get a unit,” I whisper.

She plants her hands on her hips and she does not whisper. “You’re just scared. You have to have courage.

You want to save money and get out of that secretary’s chair and into law school.”

“I’m waiting tables on the weekends. I’m fine.”

“You’ll be ancient when you get into law school at the rate you’re going.”

“Four years,” I say in rebuttal. “I’ll be twenty-eight.”

“You can be there in a year if you take risks. This is your chance to save three years of your life.”

No. This is what I get for making friends in yoga class. Which I took to curb the stress of working for an attorney who excels at being an asshole as much as he does winning in the courtroom, not to create more. “Well, you know,” I say, lacing my words with sarcasm I learned from my boss, “I guess us brunettes aren’t born with balls like you redheads. I’m playing it safe. If I don’t like how the unit looks when they open the doors, I’m not bidding.”

The doors to the unit are lifted and a look of scary determination flits across Ella’s face. “Don’t worry, Skye honey. My set is big enough for both of us. I have a feeling about this unit. I’ll buy it and give it to you.” She turns and disappears into the crowd, pushing and shoving her way to the front of the group, despite loud protests. I gape. She’s on a school teacher’s pay. She can’t spend more money than she’s already spent. There’s no way I’m letting her spend it on me. And I know her well enough already to guess how this will go down. She’ll hand me the key to the unit and tell me I’ll be wasting her money if I don’t turn it around.

I try to cut through the crowd, and I get shoved and cursed. Suddenly, my crazy cowboy makes eye contact and turns and becomes my linebacker. I’m at the front of the group and trying to see what is inside the unit, and in a flash Cowboy is talking it up with the auctioneer to give me more time to decide if I want to buy it. I hate this. I hate the way we just get to glance inside a door to make our decision to spend money, and I try to remember my training. The boxes are neat and organized, which means things are not likely broken, and the person who owned the items seemed to care about them. It’s not a bad unit.

The bidding starts and it quickly goes up to $300. Ella raises her hand for $350. I am not letting her bid for me. My heart is racing but I raise my hand and do $400. The bid moves to my ceiling of $500 so fast I have whiplash. Ella raises her hand and bids again. I grab her arm. “No,” I warn. “No higher.”

“Six hundred dollars!” she shouts out, and before I can stop her, she’s gone to $700. The deal is done. She’s bought the unit and I’m going to have to pay. I won’t let her spend the small savings she’d expressed nerves over letting go just yesterday. She’s gotten lost in the “high” of bidding, much like a gambler does in Vegas, and forgotten tomorrow.

The crowd begins to dissolve and I let my face drop to my hand, dreading my return to college-day Ramen noodles I’d left behind last year. Ella grabs my arm and pulls it down. “Stop fretting. It’s going to be an amazing buy.” She glances at her watch. “It’s only four o’clock. We have plenty of daylight left to dig through our units once we pay.” She smiles at me. “Don’t worry. David is investing in my new auction business. I can afford to front you the cash for your unit.”

“Your new doctor boyfriend wants to get into the auction hunting business?”

“He’s the one who got me addicted to Storage Wars.” She motions me forward. “Let’s go pay and get our keys.”

Pay. Yes. We have to pay and I’m not letting David pay for my unit, which means I’m going to be here all night digging through boxes to find a way to make back the money. My rent is due in two weeks and I need that extra $200 she just spent for me to write the check.
***
Two hours later I’m on my hands and knees, digging through boxes, finding nothing worth $700. Frustrated, I surmise that I am good garage sale territory only, and by good garage sale I’m thinking $300. Frustrated, I stand up and brush dust off my jeans. This unit is only a few months old. I can’t imagine the filth that would be built up in a unit that’s years old.

“You have got to hear this,” Ella says, walking into the unit with a red leather book of some sort. She holds it up. “It’s a journal. And let me tell you, what a journal it is.” She sits down on an ice chest.

“That’s someone’s private thoughts.”

She glances down at an open box. “And you have someone’s underwear.”
I sigh and sit down on a crate. “That’s about all I have.”

“You have tons of boxes you haven’t opened. Once you get them to your house you’ll be better. David said he could bring them to you tomorrow.” This means renting a U-Haul I no longer have the money for.

“Actually, thank you, but I did that one-dollar one-month rental deal, so I have time. I want to go through everything I can here.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s easier to sell from your place. You can list things on eBay and Craigslist, or even have a garage sale since you have an apartment that has one. I wish I did.”

“I’m good for now, but thanks.”

“If you’re sure.” Her eyes twinkle and she holds up the leather-bound book again. “Back to the journal.” She opens the book and starts to read. “’I will remember tonight forever. Only my hands were bound and I stood in the middle of the room. He was naked and commanding, and it is in those moments that I would do anything to please that man.’”

“Stop!” I say, and push to my feet. “Stop reading. You can’t read that. It’s her private life.”

Laughter bubbles from Ella’s lips and she stands as well. “It’s the new edition to date night with David.” She glances at her watch. “I need to go clean up before he picks me up. You leaving?”

I shake my head. “I’m staying.”

“It’s getting dark.”

“It’s a lighted indoor facility and I’m sure it has cameras. I’m fine.”

Her brows pucker. “I don’t like leaving you.”

“I’m fine. Go enjoy your hot doctor. I’m going to enjoy”—I smile and motion to the box beside her—“underwear.”

She laughs. “I’m sure there’s more than underwear in here to find. Don’t forget to look inside all the books. You know people hide things in books.” She holds up the journal. “That’s how I found this little jewel.”

That is worth no money, I think, but don’t say. “Go have a good night.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow and see what great things you discovered.”

“That sounds good.” We hug and I watched her depart before turning and heading toward a box of paperwork I’d seen. I need to return it to the front but I have to go through it first and make sure I’m not getting rid of anything important.

Two hours later, I’ve gone through every book, file, and stack of papers I can find, and decided this is a waste of time. I stuff some loose pages into a box when a plastic sleeve the size of a bookmark falls from between papers I swear I’ve already checked. I reach down and grab it and frown at the tiny key and the folded piece of paper stuffed inside.

I snatch a pencil from the box and work the paper out and unfold it to find a purchase order for a locker at the bus station. Why would you keep something at a bus station that could be here, in this unit? It makes no sense.

A few minutes later, I step into the vacant hallway of the building, and the overhead light flickers, clearly ready to burn out, eerie silence surrounding me. I set the box of paperwork I intend to drop by the office on the floor, and hang on to the plastic sleeve with the key I can’t seem to stop obsessing over.
Slamming the door shut, I quickly try to shove the lock closed. The steel bar won’t pop into place and as I struggle I drop the plastic sleeve.

I bend down to grab the key, when a deep male voice says, “Need help?”

Boots and jean-clad legs appear at eye level and I swallow hard at the idea that someone got this close to me without me hearing them. My gaze lifts to find a man towering over me, his shoulder-length light brown hair draping forward. Actually, he’s more jean-clad rock star hotness, the kind of man that possesses that unexplainable edgy bad-boy quality so few do, and every woman wants. The same quality smart girls like me know is trouble, usually by finding out the hard way. Exactly why I stick to suit and ties and—
He extends his hand and I am suddenly wondering why I am still on the ground.

I ignore Trouble’s offer of help and pop to my feet. And good gosh, I have shrunk or he’s tall. My chin lifts and I decide he’s at least six feet three, and the already small hallway suddenly feels like a mouse hole. “Dropped something,” I explain. “But I’m fine. Thanks for the, ah, thanks. Though.” I cringe inwardly. I want to be a lawyer? I can’t even form sentences.

“You seemed to be struggling with your lock.”

“Oh, right.” How long was he watching me? “It won’t shut.”

“I’ll take a look,” he says, and then bends down and picks up the plastic sleeve before standing up again.

He glances at the contents and then offers it to me. “The ‘something’ you dropped, I think.”

“Thanks, yes.” I accept the key and try not to speak for fear I’ll chew my tongue off. This makes me more awkward. And warm. I am really warm. Trouble’s lips quirk as if he knows what I’m feeling and why—which, of course, he does. He’s in his late twenties to early thirties. He’s had plenty of years to figure out how women respond to him.

“You want me to take a look at that lock?” he asks, and the light flickers again. He glances up and back at me. “Preferably before we go dark.”

“Oh yes,” I say, stepping aside. “I do appreciate it. If you can’t get it I’ll have to get help from the office.”

“They’re closed.” He reaches for the lock and cuts me a sideways look. “So let’s hope I can work some magic or you’ll have to buy a new lock at the corner store.”

“Closed? That’s not good.” I stuff the plastic sleeve in my front pocket. “I hate the idea of leaving the unit unlocked while I go to the store.” I wouldn’t want someone to steal my box of panties, I silently add. It’s a depressing thought and I watch Trouble struggle with the lock, hoping for his “magic”, only to find myself unsuccessfully trying to figure out what the tattoo on the palm of his hand is. I’ve always found the idea of being passionate enough about something to ink your body with it fascinating, and I wonder if I will ever feel that strongly about anything.

Trouble finds his magic, pops the lock into place, and turns to me. “All set, but you might want to get some WD-40 in case it sticks again. Actually, a new lock is probably a safe bet.”

“Yes. Good ideas. Thanks.”

We stare at each other. Why are we standing here staring at each other? And why is he here? Does he have a unit of his own? Do I care? I mean, he helped me, but then, wasn’t Ted Bundy a good-looking guy who played hero to unsuspecting women like me? Of course, I doubt a man like this one needs to stalk women in storage units to kill them. They’d fall willingly at his feet.

The light flickers again and jolts some sense into me. Move. I need to move and be smart. Being alone in this hallway with a stranger is not safe. I bend down and pick up my box. “Where’s that going?” he asks, motioning to it on the ground. “I can take it—”

“No!” I reply a bit too excitedly. “I’m good. Thanks for the help.” I rush down the hallway and, dang it, the stupid box is heavy and I have to stop and shift the weight. Finally though, I’m across the vacant parking lot, standing beside my ten-year-old white Camry that is new to me, and thankfully under a streetlight.

I shove my box into the backseat and quickly open my door. Unable to fight the urge, I turn and look at the building, and suck in a breath when I find Trouble standing there, staring at me. And, once again, I too just stand there and do nothing but stare at him. I’m not frightened, though maybe I should be but I think…I think he’s making sure I got to my car okay. I think I want to go back to the building, thank him for his help, and find out his real name. But that would be inviting real trouble. I almost laugh at the silly play on words but they hold too much truth to dismiss them, and I force myself to turn away from my locksmith hero. Trouble is exactly what that man makes me want to invite.

I slide into my car and lock the door but do not drive away. I sit in the darkness with this sense of being afraid, and not of the man I’ve left behind. Of always running and never being daring enough for a man like Trouble. Of always being so cautious that I am never more than I am right now. Ella was right. I have to take risks. I have to make things happen or life will slip away. I pull the plastic pouch out of my pocket and work the paper free again, searching for an address to punch into my GPS.
I’m going to the bus station. I’m going to find out what’s in that locker.
***
Thirty minutes later, I stand at the locker and I’m nervous. So very nervous that my hand shakes as I stick the key in the lock. I need this to be something good, something worth more than $700. Something that encourages me to keep auction hunting my way to law school. I open the steel door and stare down at an envelope.

I reach for it and open the seal, retrieving a note card from inside that is typed with only a short note.
Jacob, It didn’t have to end like this. A chill races down my spine, a sense of foreboding with it. Inhaling, I reach inside the envelope and find only a plastic baggy, which I hold up to inspect. It holds nothing but a poker chip.

Part 2: When the chips are down

I stare at the chip and wonder why it’s in a plastic baggy. Frowning, I grab the note I’ve found with it and read it again. Jacob, It didn’t have to end like this. Something about this feels really wrong. Like blackmail? Nervous laugher bubbles form my throat. “You, Skye,” I murmur, scolding myself, “have been watching too much Law & Order.”

I shove the baggy and the note back inside the envelope and shut the door on the empty locker. I can officially say my auction hunting has been a bust. I have a poker chip you can buy for about fifty cents and a bunch of someone else’s underwear. Perhaps I should have listened more to the Storage Treasures training and gone with no money my first time. Then Ella would not have been able to push me into bidding on what didn’t feel right for me.

Ready to get out of this place, I head toward the end of the row of lockers only to have my purse catch on the steel edge. I reach for it and the key to the locker I’m holding goes flying from my hand. I cringe. Not again. Good grief. It bounces on the fake tile floors and goes under a row of lockers. I squat down, thankful I’m still in the jeans and tennis shoes I’d worn to dig through the storage unit I’d won at auction, but I am not about to touch the filthy floor. Somehow it feels different than digging through dusty boxes. I’m also not getting the key unless I do. And why do I need the key anyway? The locker is empty.

Decision made, I stand up and walk through the deserted rows of fake leather seats and past a man with ripped, dirty clothes who’s using several chairs as a bed. After leaving everything familiar back in San Diego to come here alone, I’ve learned a single girl has to be cautious. Going to the bus station after dark clearly does not qualify—but then, I’ve never been to a bus station, I remind myself. I thought it was more like an airport with lots of security and a food court.

When I reach the exit, a man in a leather jacket is heading inside. He opens the door for me and is tall and broad. While not unattractive, his features are intimidatingly hard, his dark hair spiky. Unease splinters down my spine. He makes me immensely uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. Maybe I am simply jittery after reading the note, but I do not like this feeling.

“Thank you,” I say as I walk past him and I use the strategy I employ to fend off the meat market effect of my gym. I cut my gaze to the ground, making it clear communication is unwelcome.
Thankfully, he takes the hint and doesn’t speak and I hurry forward, relieved at the bright streetlights illuminating the parking lot considering there are no other cars. No other cars. I guess that means the spiky-haired guy took a bus here, though that doesn’t seem to fit him. Which is silly, since this is a bus station and he is here. But then, so am I.

I’m just getting into the car and I hesitate. Maybe I should get the key. I don’t know why I would want it, but something deep in my gut compels me to go back. This is ridiculous. I’ve just decided being here isn’t smart. Why would I go back for that stupid key? I open my trunk and lock the envelope and poke chip inside. I shove my purse in the front seat but remove my phone and punch in 911 but don’t hit the button. I’m ready. Heading for the station again, I jog for the door.

I rush inside and frown at the absence of the sleeping man, wondering where the heck he might pop up. My heart races, more unease pulsing through me. I cut through the rows of chairs and approach the locker, stopping dead in my tracks. The man with the spiky hair is standing in front of it, and it’s open. Air freezes in my lungs. He found the key. The implication that he somehow knew I had dropped it is clear, and I am now standing right out in the open. If he turns his head, he will see me. My heart leaps into my throat and I take off running. I am out of the building and hiking it to my car in a flash and I am not foolish enough to look back. My car keys are still in my hand and I scramble inside the vehicle, lock the doors, and shake so hard I can barely get the darn thing started. Finally, I back up in a screech of tires, and as I do, I look at the entry of the bus station and acid burns my throat. Spiky guy is standing there staring at me. I hit the accelerator.

***

Fifteen minutes later, I pull to the curb in front of my townhouse, and while I usually love my quaint little street, and my red brick building hugged by two identical structures, you’d think it was midnight rather than nine o’clock. No one is around and I really wish I had the garage I’d bypassed for that word “quaint” right now. The idea that I have to rush to my door and be exposed is not a good one. Neither is leaving my car in plain sight, when I’m worried the spiky-haired monster snagged my license plate number. Not that I’m sure he’d know how to find me with it, but he was watching me. He wanted that key. That means the poker chip and the note I’d found means something to someone. What if it’s really worth $250k? Surely not, but come to think of it, I believe there was a hotel name on it. I know nothing about poker and chips.
My neighbor’s door opens, and relief rushes over me.

Quickly, I open my door and climb out. “Hi Molly,” I call to the sixty-something widow I’ve known for a little over a year as she claims the rocking chair on our shared porch. How pathetic am I that I feel safer with her standing guard? She is quite the mother hen, though—or what I assume a mother would be like with a daughter. I wouldn’t know.

“Hi, honey,” she calls out.
I open my trunk and grab the envelope. The box of paperwork I’d brought with me from the unit is in the backseat and I shove everything, my purse included, inside it. Once I’m on the porch I set down the box and make small talk, nervously aware of the envelope as well as the chip.

Finally, I’m inside my doorway and I lug the box up my stairwell, bypassing the first-level living area to the next floor where my bedroom is located. I’m heaving when I get to the top and I now know why Mrs. Edwards uses her living room for her bedroom. I don’t know how she handles the first level of steps.
Settling everything on the bed, I grab my phone, and oh what I wouldn’t do for a father or a brother right now—or even a few friends back in San Diego. I dial Ella. I get her voicemail and leave an urgent message. I mentally tick off my other friends, but I have no one close here in San Francisco. Even if I did, if I’m in danger, I couldn’t put them in danger. I set the phone down, kick off my shoes and grab my MacBook to power it up. Opening the envelope, I remove the baggy with the chip. It reads “MGM Grand” on the outline. I google the chips and I don’t know enough to know if it’s real. But if someone is after it, surely it is? This is not exciting news to me. People kill for far less, and while I’m no gambler, if it’s in a locker, it seems a safe bet that it’s most likely stolen. I need to go to the police in the morning.

I spend the next hour digging through the paperwork and pull out documents that tell me the unit’s owner was Kelly Smith. I need this information for the police. Actually, they can have the box. They can decide what gets returned to the storage unit. I’m about to cave to the need for sleep, and decide to try one more thing. I type in “Jacob” and “poker” together in my search engine, and holy smokes. There is a professional poker player named Jacob Wise. I click on the image files and just about fall over. It’s Trouble, my sexy blue-jean-clad stranger at the storage unit.

What the heck have I gotten myself into?

***

Morning comes way too early considering I tossed and turned, but I can’t get to the police soon enough. I dress in black slacks and a pale green silk blouse that matches my eyes, then slip on heels. Working in a law office, and looking younger than my age, has taught me that looking professional helps me have credibility.

I’m about to gather up the box and my purse and head for the door when someone rings the bell. More of the unease I’d felt at the bus station flickers through me. With trepidation I head down the stairs to the bottom level. “Who is it?”

“It’s Molly.”

Relief washes over me and I open the door. That’s when my mouth drops open. Molly isn’t alone. Trouble, otherwise know as Jacob Wise, the poker player, is standing with her.

Part 3: Red Bulls Have More Fun

Not only is Trouble standing at my door, looking like sex in denim, his long, light brown hair tied at his nape, but Trouble isn’t looking at me with the warm interest he had back at the storage unit. His hostile look says he thinks I just wrecked one of the many sports cars that the millions he’s won as a star poker player says he can afford. Or like I stole his poker chip.

Molly grins and leans into Trouble. “Do you know who he is?”

“Trouble,” I say, and I consider telling her I mean it, but I don’t want to risk putting her in danger. And what if there is no real danger? I’ll look foolish.

Trouble arches a brow at me.

Molly frowns and looks at Trouble. “I thought your nickname was ‘Red Bull’? I just love watching you play.”

“Red Bull?” I ask, unable to help myself. I’d read a reference to this last night and couldn’t find out where the name came from. What else am I going to ask with my sweet, elderly neighbor standing here? Hi Mr. Rich and Sexy in Denim. Are you here to kill me and take the poker chip?

His too-firm and too-sensual mouth quirks. A mouth I’m willing to bet can be brutally hot. Or maybe I shouldn’t bet. He’s good at winning. I’m not. “Because,” he informs me, “I have a thing for drinking Red Bull when I play, and”—he pauses for obvious and dramatic effect—“when I see something I want, I’m a bull charging for my prize.”

I swallow hard. This is the kind of man a woman wants to have say something like that to her, but in the context of stripping her naked, not stripping her of a $250,000 poker chip.

Molly glances at me. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Jacob? I didn’t even know you liked poker. I would have invited you to bingo night.”

Jacob actually laughs, and it’s a deep, sexy, lighthearted sound that seems to have taken him as off guard as it does me. Do monsters laugh like that? Apparently sexy ones do. He glances at Molly. “Bingo night? What does bingo have to do with poker?”

“We aren’t some old lady bingo group. We bet for real money. You can come, too. You’d be a good distraction to help me win. But if you want to play, I have to warn you”—she wiggles a gray eyebrow—“I like Red Bull, too.”

I cringe. Tell me she didn’t just say that. I bury my face in my hand.

Trouble chuckles. “I bet you do, and thank you for the escort to the door. Right now”—he glances at me—“I need some up close and personal time with Skye.”

Heat rushes over my body. “With me?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. With you.” He advances on me and doesn’t look at Molly again. Before I can blink he’s crowded his way in my door and kicked it shut, locking it. I won’t put Molly in danger, but I’m kicking myself for not having my cell phone in hand. I rush up the stairs, on the hunt for my cell phone, so I can be ready to call 911. I make it up to the living area and hesitate for a flash of a moment. My phone is one level up in the bedroom and that room would send a bad message to Mr. Red Bull. It’s also the location of the chip I fully intend to give to the police, not him.

The hesitation is a mistake. He grabs my arm and turns me to face him, and his hand on my arm is a gentle vice, my awareness of the small space and his big body too intense. My heart is beating so fast I can’t breathe.

“How are you here?” I demand. “I gave you no personal information.”

“I have friends in high places.”

“At a storage facility? Are there even high places at a storage facility?” I have no idea what made me smart off. I don’t do that. This is not the time to do that.

“Aren’t you funny?” he mocks.

“No. No, really, I’m not funny. I’m planning to go to law school. I’m quite serious, actually.”

He grimaces. “An ambulance chaser. Wonderful. Just what I need right now.”

I am offended and I snap back, “That’s the most discriminating thing you could possibly say. That’s like saying all woman are stupid.”

“Attorneys aren’t protected by discrimination laws, and I do not think all women are stupid. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You called all attorneys ambulance chasers.”

“I did not call all attorneys ambulance chasers.”

“Maybe you don’t like attorneys because you’re afraid you might need one.”

It is the wrong thing to say. Before I know what is happening, he’s walked me against the couch and pinned me between his big body and the hard surface. His legs are pressed to mine, hips molded against me. His hands plant on either side of me on the couch and I am trapped. “I’d hoped you weren’t involved, but that statement you just made tells me you are. Blackmail, sweetheart, will get you nowhere with me and neither will avoidance or playing it coy, so don’t even try.”

 

Part Four: Captive Audience

I must be dreaming. How else do I explain having a famous poker player, one who looks like a cover model, in my house, pressed up against me, and accusing me of blackmail? That’s just the kind of messed-up, far from perfect, dream I would have.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I assure him, in disbelief at both the accusation and the circumstances delivered.

“Don’t play coy,” he warns, shifting his hips so that I’m snug against him, and a whole lot more intimate.
“I’ll leave coy to professional poker-playing jerks,” I retort, and dang it if my hands do not settle on his chest. Which is broad. And hard. And really too nice to belong to a man I do not like.

“Where’s Jessica?”

“Jessica?” I ask. “Who the heck is Jessica?”

“I said don’t play coy.”

“Even if I knew Jessica, which I do not, why would I tell the crazy man who’s charged into my house and shoved me against the couch? I don’t know a Jessica.” My brows dip. “Wait. Is she the lady who owned the storage unit?”

“Yes, the woman who owned the storage unit. Where the fuck is she?”

“Don’t you watch Storage Wars? Buyers don’t meet the owners of the units they purchase.” He’s making me claustrophobic. And warm. Way too warm. I shove ineffectually at his chest. “Get off me.”
He’s unmoving, a stone wall, and he stares me down with enough turbulence in his eyes to be a stormy disaster waiting to happen. I find the look oddly sexy when I’m pretty sure I should see it as a sign he’s a psychopath. Surprisingly, he lets go of me, giving me his back and scrubbing his jaw before he turns back around to face me. “You don’t know Jessica?”

“No,” I assure him. “I do not know Jessica.”

“Prove it.”

“You have to be kidding me. Why do I have to prove anything to you at all? You’re the one who somehow stole my personal information and showed up at my house.”

He runs his hand over his light brown hair and manages to tear several long strands free. For the first time since I’ve met him he looks frazzled, not the cool, calm dude he has to be to win millions at poker. “I hoped that finding you meant finding Jessica.”

“If you used your friends in high places to find me, why can’t they help you find Jessica?”

“Her apartment is in your storage unit. She vanished.”

“Did you hire a private detective? You have to have the money—”

“It’s not that simple. In fact, it’s pretty damn complicated.” His brow furrows again and he looks accusingly at me. “How do I know you didn’t buy it for her, so she didn’t have to risk me finding her when she paid her bill?”

“Okay, you’re starting to make me think stalker”

“You’re damn straight I’m stalking her—”

“I was thinking me, but go on.”

He grimaces. “She’s blackmailing me. I need inside her unit. I need to look around.”

I remember the note in the locker. Jacob. It didn’t have to end up this way. It could mean blackmail. “Did you go to the police?”

“No police.”

“If she’s blackmailing you—”

“She’s smart. She took precautions to make sure I didn’t go to the police.”

I don’t know what that means, and I’m not a dummy. I shouldn’t trust this man based on his actions, but I saw the note from the locker and he’s a celebrity, and Molly knows he’s here. If he meant to kill me, he’d have to be dumb to not be more discreet. And I don’t think a guy who wins at poker is dumb, any more than he makes a habit of being frazzled. “Why would she blackmail you? What does she want?”

He walks to my couch and sits down, forcing me to turn and stare at the back of his head or go sit beside him. “I guess we’re sitting,” I conclude, joining him. This really is crazy. He’s taken over my house. And me, kind of.

With a heavy sigh, he says, “She says she wants money, but in reality it’s about payback. I fucked her and she now wants to fuck me. That sizes up our relationship.”

That’s direct. And graphic. My normal suit guys save the F word for someone else. “Oh. Ah. Well.”

“Oh ah well’ is right. I was straight up with her that I am not a relationship guy. It’s sex and nothing more. But she got obsessed with me. She’s the damn stalker. I told her I was done with her craziness and she kept following me around everywhere. Next thing I knew I was naked with another woman and she was in my house screaming at us. Lesson learned. Lock the damn doors.”

“Yes,” I agree. “I think I should learn the same lesson.”

“You did lock your door. You invited me in.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

He changes the subject. “I need to search the storage unit.”

Unease rumbles through me. “If the police—”

“I told you, no police.”

“Did she threaten someone you love?”

“She threatened me. That’s why they call it blackmail.”

“I need a reason to believe she really blackmailed you.”

He gives me another one of those long, intense stares, then runs his hand down his jean-clad leg and pushes to his feet. The next thing I know, he’s pulling me to my feet and tugging me toward the stairwell and the exit.

I try to dig in my heels but he keeps charging, proving he truly owns his nickname “Red Bull”. “Where are we going?”

“To get you the proof you need. I don’t trust you not to dart or warn Jessica how close I am to her.”

Panic overcomes me. “I need my purse. It has my ID and money, and I just need it.”

“Where’s your purse?”

“Upstairs.”

“Fine. Go get it.” He releases me and I rush toward the stairs, contemplating a call for help, when his boots sound behind me. I start to turn to have his hands settle on my waist. I don’t turn. He won’t let me turn.

“I can get it on my own.”

“Forget it. No calling for help. No grabbing a gun to shoot me.”

“Shoot you? Are you crazy?”

“Usually.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“Walk.”

Walk. I have to move forward. Upstairs. I’m brilliant. I’ve now invited this man to my bedroom where the chip and a box of Jessica’s thing are stored. And where I sleep. In a bed. Under different circumstances, with this particular man, that might be a good thing. Under these, it’s not.Part Five: Bedroom Confessions 

 

The instant I’m in the bedroom, I dart for the phone. Red Bull, or Trouble, or Jacob, or whoever he is, gets to it at the same moment, as if he’s anticipated my action. Suddenly, he’s turned me to face him, and lord help me, once again that big, long, leanly muscled body is pressed to mine. Heat rushes over me and settles heavily, low between my thighs, and I silently curse the reaction. What kind of idiot gets turned on by their potential murderer? It must be some kind of brain barrier against fear, I reason. My mind intends me to go to my end with a sigh, not a scream. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

 

“Stop manhandling me,” I hiss, shoving at his chest, immensely disturbed by how much my hands want to linger there. 

 

“Stop trying to call for help.”

 

“That’s what people who need help do.” When they are in so deep they are in Trouble. “They call for help.” 

 

“You don’t need help.”

 

The very fact that I’m noticing the pale green of his eyes and the wicked curve of his mouth says he’s wrong. “I disagree. You could murder me right now and I’d have no way to stop you.”

 

“And do you make the habit of arguing with people you fear are about to do you bodily harm?”

 

This hits a nerve. A really deep, raw nerve I try to retract, but it’s there, bleeding into my mind, and I roughly shove it aside. “No,” I whisper. “No. I don’t.”

 

His eyes narrow and I see the awareness in them. I’ve shown my hand I show no one. “Sex and money are my vices, sweetheart,” he admits freely, almost proudly. “Not violence.” His fingers tangle in my hair, and he lowers his mouth close to mine. Too close, yet not close enough. “I’d kiss you long before I’d hurt you.”

 

My stomach does a somersault and I tell myself it’s panic, not excitement. “No.” I try to sound authoritative. “You will not kiss me.”

 

“No,” he agrees. “Not unless you ask me to.”

 

I blanch. Is he serious? “Ask you? I’m not one of your groupies, like Molly.” I shove at his chest, and this time it’s forceful. 

 

He dares to laugh, a rich, deeply amused, masculine rumble. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.” He sets me away from him and I tumble backwards onto the mattress, grabbing the blanket to keep from landing flat on my back, which I am certain is not a position a woman can win in—not with this man. 

 

Grabbing the phone, he tosses it behind him. It hits the ground and shatters. 

 

I growl low in my throat. “You broke my phone. I’m on a budget, and am a hardworking girl, not some rich, spoiled playboy poker player.”

 

He looks as amused as his laughter had sounded moments before. “Rich and spoiled,” he repeats. “Hmmm. Considering I grew up in the slums of New York, I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. I worked damn hard to get where I am today.”

 

I all but flinch. Somehow, some way, this stranger has hit another nerve. Or maybe he’s hit a craving, my desire to pull myself out of the eternal struggle to survive. “I’m sorry,” I blurt and judging by his expression I’ve surprised both of us with my spontaneous apology. 

 

 

“You’re sorry?”

 

“Yes, and I don’t know why I’m apologizing when you bulldozed your way into my home, but I am. Because you’re rich doesn’t mean you didn’t work hard to get there. And if you got rich after being poor, from your own work, then, well, that’s admirable.”

 

He looks baffled. I feel baffled. I’m attracted to, and now feeling admiration for, a complete stranger who’s accosted me in my own house. But the truth is I don’t feel like I’m in danger from Trouble. He didn’t touch me inappropriately when he’s had opportunity to do so, nor has he hurt me. And Molly knows he’s here. Surely, she’s been chatting to half the world about him being here and after seeing how fan-struck she was, Trouble knows she could be trouble. 

 

Jacob scrubs a hand over his jaw, giving the ceiling the kind of inspection that has me looking to see what he sees that I don’t, and then he is squatting down in front of me, hands on the mattress at my hips. 

 

“Tell me you aren’t involved,” he demands.

 

“Why would you believe me if I did?”

 

“I read people, sweetheart. How do you think I win at poker?”

 

Like a good attorney does in a courtroom, I think. And I am going to be a good attorney. “I’m not involved,” I assure him.

 

Seconds tick by, and his stare is intense, eternal it seems, before he finally says, “Jessica, the woman who owned the unit,” he hesitates, then adds, “She’s going to make it look like I cheated in a series of tournaments, which is career ending. And if that is not bad enough, it’s a felony offense.”

 

I’m shocked that he’s shared the intimate details of the blackmail. “If you don’t do what?”

 

“I don’t know. She just tells me to be ready to give her what she wants. It’s been going on for months. I’m losing my mind every time I go into a game. And she’s enjoying the game she’s playing with me.”

 

“It could be talk.”

 

“It’s not.”

 

“You have to go to the police.”

 

“I told you, she will move forward with her threats if I do.”

 

“You think she can?”

 

“I know she can.”

 

“How?”

 

“I just do. I need to look through her unit.”

 

The cautious person in me, who has lived with lies and deceit, is in full-blown alert mode. “You say you’re good at reading people, but your winning record also says you have a good poker face. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

 

He stares at me for another few eternal seconds, and then suddenly he is standing, pulling me with him. He grabs my purse from the bed and puts it on my shoulder, then commands, “Come with me.”

 

There’s no chance for me to respond. He’s already tugging me along and down the stairs. “Where are we going?” I demand. “Stop. Wait.” 

 

He surprises me by doing both, and launching into explanation, “I told you I have proof of the blackmail. You said you needed your purse. You have it. Now you’re coming with me.” 

 

“Yes but–” I blink and we are moving again, and this time he keeps going. Jacob is Trouble as truly as he is a bull charging forward, and in seconds we are out my front door. 

 

He’s in full charge again, headed toward the porch steps when 

 

I shout, “Trouble, I mean, Red Bull or Jacob. Damn it, whoever you are, just stop!”

 

He turns and faces me. “The press and the fans call me Red Bull. You can call me Jacob.” His lips quirk. “Or Trouble will do just fine.” 

 

And then he’s moving again, charging forward, and I have two options. Scream for help or go along for the ride.