Page 5 of Junkyard Dog

“No problem,” I say in a hurry. Whoever this woman is, she has really freaked Rhiannon out. “She had no idea that you snuck out the back. She stayed till closing, then hung out in the parking lot for another hour watching your car before taking off. She’s parked outside a motel in Dickerson. I figure now is a good time to move your car out of sight.”

She nods. “I appreciate it. Let me grab my purse.”

This is for the best. Good deed done and we part ways, never to meet again. It’s ridiculous that I’ve already formed some sort of attachment. It’ll probably fade as soon as I find a suitable replacement for my nighttime—and daytime—fantasies about her.

Fuck, I’m going to be stuck on Rhiannon forever.

She hops in beside me and bounces to get comfortable while she fastens her seatbelt. The scent of her flowery perfume fills the cab. “I’m ready.”

The drive around the lake is peaceful. It seems neither of us are talkers this early in the morning. Another thing we have in common. I slow to turn into the parking lot of the Lonesome Bar and Grill. Then I see a white van parked around the corner of the building. I reach across the seat, wrap my hand aroundRhiannon’s slender neck, and pull her face down into my lap. “Don’t move,” I order.

“What the fuck, JD?”

“Your stalker is watching your car.”

I can feel the heat from her cheek burning through the denim on my thigh. It is way too dangerous to have her this close to my dick. But I also don’t want her to move. I drive through town and don’t lift my hand until we hit the salvage yard turn-off.

Rhiannon shakes out her hair when she sits up. “Well, fuck. This is officially out of control.”

I drop my ball cap onto my sensitive lap. What a disaster. I push my fingers through my hair roughly. Lonesome has already experienced the trouble that its new residents have brought to town. This is the first time it has involved illegal activity right out of the gate. Rhiannon’s right; things are beyond serious. This is no superfan. This is a stalker. The danger level just skyrocketed.

“Well, fuck.” I agree.

I tell her to go into the house while I make a call. I’m going to need backup to ensure that nothing happens to her on my watch. I text the boys—Tolk, Picnic, and Duck. Tolk lets me know he’s out of town, but Duck and Picnic say they’ll be right over. I stomp back into my house, trying to burn some of my frustration so I don’t take it out on Rhi. “You want a coffee?”

“Do I need one?”

“You will.”

“That’s not encouraging.”

“It’s not supposed to be. But don’t worry, I’ve—we’ve got you covered.”

“You’ve got me covered? What have you done, JD? I mean, if you can block her van in and give me a head start, that’s all I need. I’ll drive back to Washington and sic my lawyers on her.”

I walk over and grab her hand. “Rhiannon, you aren’t going anywhere.”

Chapter Five

JD has an actual house out here farther down the road, behind the salvage yard and office. Who knew. Violet made it sound like he lived in some rundown trailer in the boonies, serial killer style. It’s a nice little post-WWII bungalow: eat-in kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. JD has fixed it up nicely. New windows. New tin roof. The bathroom is tiled to perfection and has a deep, soaker tub. The kitchen has open cabinets, a butcher block countertop, and a glass-tiled backsplash that makes the whole room look brighter. The bedrooms are clean but plain with tiny little closets which makes sense since people in the 1940s didn’t have the same huge wardrobes that we have today.

I know the details because I snooped when JD stepped onto the front steps to take a phone call. He said I could use the bathroom. I just took the scenic route. Now we’re waiting for some of his friends to arrive to help us figure out what my next move is. I already know what it should be, but JD has a bug up his ass about me leaving. I don’t want to go, but it’s safest for everybody involved.

It doesn’t take long for a pair of motorcycles to rumble up the driveway. The two men look virtually identical from the backuntil they take off their helmets. The one called Duck has a head full of steely gray hair. Picnic’s hair is darker, but his eyes are such a bright blue that I can’t concentrate on anything else. They’re almost as pretty as JD’s brown ones. Both of them are solid guys. Like JD, they haven’t lost any of their military fitness according to their muscular frames.

And all three of them are staring at me.

JD introduces them as his motorcycle club brothers. They fill his small living room. He guides me to the sofa and sits beside me, still holding my hand. I see Duck and Picnic share a look, but JD doesn’t notice. He squeezes my hand again. “What can you tell us about Abby Trask?” he asks.

“Abby Trask? That’s her name?” It sounds normal.

“We got the name and address attached to her plate. When did this start?”

“I’m sorry that I dragged you into this. Really, it’s not necessary. This is what lawyers are for.”

“I think it’s gone beyond that,” Duck says. “Tell us what’s happening.”

I sigh. “I don’t know what JD has shared. I’m a romance writer. I’m a big enough fish in my romance pond to have a fan base. I didn’t know the woman’s name. I just have an email and social media handle. ILuvThisGuy69 appeared as a normal fan on my social media pages with the release of my third book, raving about the cover model. I used the same guy on a book in my next related series and said it was the other hero’s twin brother. That’s when the trouble started. She started emailing and messaging me asking for the model’s contact information. My initial responses about using stock photos were met with rebukes and dismissals that I was trying to keep her man to myself. I activated full social media blockage, but she kept coming. A bookstore in Washington where I did a signing let me know that she had come in asking for me. I decided to see ifshe’d cool it if I wasn’t around. Hence my vacation to Lonesome. Apparently, it didn’t work.”

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