Page 2 of Guarded By a Broody Biker

The voice in my ear makes my spine snap straight. I wheel around, ignoring the angry mutters when I tread on some student’s foot. Normally I’d never be so rude, but it’shim.He’s here.

Peter Hutchins. The man I dated for a month, then broke up with two weeks ago when he finally tried to kiss me and my all insides revolted at the thought. The man who’s been blowing up my phone ever since, and knocking on my door late at night, and ‘accidentally’ bumping into me in the grocery store. That guy.

Staring up at him now, I don’t know what I ever saw in this man. Oh, he’s handsome, in an objective sense—his features are symmetrical, and he’s got the kind of strong jaw and cheekbones that usually grace Hollywood actors. But there’s a coldness behind his blue eyes that makes me shiver, and his perfectly pressed shirt and pants couldn’t be a worse match for my own ripped jeans and scuffed boots.

“You look well,” he says now, so polite and calm. As though he’s not been stalking me day and night, taking some silent, savage pleasure the more unnerved I get. “Is that a new haircut?”

“No.” It’s called insomnia hair. Bad dreams hair. Laying awake all night, tossing and turning, unsure if you really did just hear someone leaving your apartment or if you dreamed it… hair.

I checked out in the stairwell, obviously, wielding an old mop like a weapon. I didn’t just lie there like a helpless melon. But there was nothing obviously out of place in my studio, no signs of a break in or anybody in the stairwell—and yet the little hairs stood up on my arms.

All this to say: I didn’t sleep well last night.

“It’s my lunch hour,” Peter says, checking his expensive watch. That’s another reason we were a terrible match from the beginning: Peter is the sort of man who orders expensive side dishes in restaurants ‘for the table’, while I stick to tap water and studiously count up every cent that I owe on the bill. He could never quite get over the fact that I was poor.

Actually, that’s not true. Knowing what I know now, seeing the way he’s enjoying terrorizing me, it’s finally clicked into place: Peterlikedthat about me. He liked being the powerful, worldly one. He liked situations where I felt helpless.

Yeah, I’m never dating again. One attempt was plenty, thank you.

“What are you doing here?” I raise my chin, and fight to keep my voice strong. If there’s anything I know about bullies, it’s that showing weakness only makes them worse.

Peter smiles his charming smile. “I just told you. It’s my lunch hour, and I’m hungry.”

“Right,” I say flatly, making it clear I don’t believe it for a second. Still, this is a free country, and I can’t exactly stop this man from wandering into a public market.

I turn to go, and his hand catches my arm. It squeezes firm—just enough to assert how much bigger and stronger he is than me, but not so hard that I could claim he was aggressive. “Wait, Jem.”

I jerk my arm out of Peter’s grip and wait, jaw clenched. Whatever he needs to say, he can say, then I’m getting out of here. Screw the candle stall. Screw ordering pizza tonight. There are still some old tins of soup in the cupboard, enough that I won’t starve, and I am so done with this day already.

“I have something of yours,” Peter says, sliding something out of his pocket. “You must have left it in my car sometime.”

Bullshit.

My mouth is dry, and my heart is knocking against my ribs, and it’s bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I’ve been in Peter’s car exactly one time, when he drove us to a date at the marina, and I was so intimidated by all the spotless cream leather that I sat on my hands and barely moved an inch. There is no way I left anything in that car. No way that I left—

A photograph. An old Polaroid of me as a dark-haired toddler, sprawling sideways on my mom’s lap, cradled in her arms, the light of the camera flash flaring on the window behind us.

I snatch the photo from Peter’s hand, too sick to speak. Hewasin my apartment last night. That’s what he’s telling me. What he’sshowingme.

“It’s a nice photo,” he says, low and calm. Only for my ears. “It’s such a shame that you’re all alone now.”

I don’t bother responding. What would I even say? Besides, my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my throat is too tight to swallow. I turn and half-shove my way back through the crowd, pissing everyone off and stepping on loads of feet, but my head is spinning and I can’t think, can’t balance, can’t breathe.

A quiet chuckle reaches my ears, even over the roar of the crowd. A desperate tear leaks from my eye, and I dash it away with the back of my hand. Before I spill out of the market doors into the cold, drizzling street, gulping down lungfuls of fresh air, I’ve already decided.

I’m not helpless.

And I don’thaveto be alone.

Not if I call in a professional.

* * *

An hour later, my phone turns over and over in my hands, a message typed out on the screen but not sent yet.Spartan Shield Corp.I’ve done the research, trawled the forums, and Spartan Shield Corp is the best, run by some guy called Cerberus.My would-be savior has a weird name, but that’s not what’s holding me back from hitting send and hiring my own personal bodyguard for one day and night.

Yeah… twenty four hours. That’s all I can afford, even after raiding my meager savings account and running a surprise candle sale on my Etsy store. The orders are rolling in, but I can only make so much money at short notice.

So I’ll have twenty four hours for this bodyguard to keep Peter away from me, and hopefully spook him so badly that hestaysaway. But what if Peter doesn’t break in again tonight? Or what if this would-be bodyguard doesn’t feel like playing along? What if all that money is wasted?

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