Page 22 of Broken Hearts

She rests her forehead against the steering wheel, and I almost feel bad… almost. We would not be here if she’d been willing to listen.

She gets out of her car and looks at her watch with apparent desperation.

“Okay, she’s ready for me,” I say out loud as I reach for the handle. I freeze as a vintage black car drives into the parking lot, and I see the look of both relief and joy on her face.

The fuck… I open the door as the Mustang stops beside her, and I’m about to cross the street to remind whoever is bringing that look to her face that she’s already spoken for when a giant of a man steps out of the car.

“Fuck me…” I mutter as I take in a James Dean on steroids dressed in ripped jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket.

I’m not a small man by any criteria, but this one… fuck me! He must be at least six-six with muscles that… I have to admit I’m no match for him, and a fight will obviously end with my death.

A guttural growl slips out as she jumps in his arms. Something inside of me snaps, and it’s so painful I find myself rubbing my chest.

He puts her back on the ground and cradles her cheek, towering over her. She rests her tiny hand on top of his, and I pray to whoever is willing to listen that he won’t kiss her because if he does, I’ll go to war, and if I die at her feet, well, so be it.

But he doesn’t, and she points at her car. He asks her something, and she pops open the hood. Of course he would know how to fix the car.

I scowl as I see his full face now; he’s older… too old for her. He’s probably thirty. What is a thirty-year-old doing with a nineteen-year-old girl? My scowl deepens… Predator.

The irony is not lost on me as I snap a photo of him to get more info on the pest.

He shakes his head and closes the hood, and I grin. Ah, you’re not that good now, are you?

He gestures to her to get in his car, and she does.

Retreating to mine, I watch them drive away. Frustration and something akin to jealousy gnaw at me. Starting the engine, I follow at a distance, comforted by the knowledge that the tracking app I installed on her phone will keep her within reach—the best five grand I have ever spent. I’d set a trap: an email sent from a university account offering VIP concert tickets. Once she clicked the link, I was in. It was a questionable move, but my desperation to understand, to untangle the web between us, left me with little choice.

Eva Sinclair, you might be too good for me, but I can’t let you go. Not yet. Not until I find out the truth.

Following them to Titan, a garage on the south side, causes me to deviate from my plan of taking her to my garage, which is under my control. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I watch from a distance, a mix of irritation and curiosity brewing inside me.

The stranger, with his light-brown hair and striking blue eyes, is the kind of guy that makes me uneasy. He’s got this effortless charm about him, the kind that draws people in. And Eva, with her laughter that could light up the darkest room, always did have a type. It’s irritating to admit, even to myself, but she’s drawn to guys like him.

Watching them exit the garage, their brief hug stirs a pang of jealousy, especially seeing her lean into him. She then heads off toward the bus stop, leaving him to return to his car.

As she disappears toward the bus stop, a plan forms in my mind. I need to know more about this guy, this unexpected variable in my already complicated equation with Eva. I start my car, the engine’s low hum a steady backdrop to my racing thoughts. I follow his car at a safe distance, my eyes never leaving the rear lights.

He drives to a bar that looks like it’s seen better years, its exterior rough and uninviting.

After waiting a few minutes, I step out of my car, my footsteps slow and measured. Peering through the window of his car, I find nothing but an unsettling neatness.

“Can I help you with something, boy?” His voice is unexpectedly close, rough with a hint of amusement.

Straightening up, my stare fixes on him. He towers over me, his posture relaxed yet imposing. I stand my ground, unwilling to show any weakness.

“Just admiring your car,” I say, forcing a nonchalant tone. “Thinking of buying it, actually.”

He chuckles, a sound that grates on my nerves. “Is that why you’ve been tailing me?”

I rest my hand on the roof. “I love it. Are you selling?”

He gives me a half smile that’s more mocking than anything else. “Is that why you’ve been following me since Hoover Street? For my car?”

Maintaining a smooth expression is challenging; the surprise at being discovered is not easy to mask. I thought I’d been so stealthy, and yet…

“Yes, I want to buy it.”

“Is that right?”

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