Page 3 of Target Me
“Hello to you too, Dad. Just got your note. You could have just texted, you know?”
“Don’t screw around, Avery. Where are you? Are you at home?”
I sighed, checking the microwave to see how long it had left. “Yes, I’m at home. I got in about five minutes ago. What’s going on?”
My phone beeped with an incoming text.
“Check your phone, and please tell me one of your idiot friends decided to pull a prank.”
“I have noidiot friends,” I groused, putting the cell on speaker so I could check my messages.
The photo looked like it had been taken at a distance, with a long lens or something. A glass door with beige curtains pulled halfway closed. In the center stood a blonde girl in a red tank top, denim shorts, and…
I looked down at my white Volleys as the room spun for a moment. Someone had taken this picture less than a minute ago and sent it to my father.
“When…?” My tongue felt thick. My lips numb. The key and the note, I was ready to shrug off, but the photo? Why had they sent it to my dad?
“I’m taking this threat seriously.” His voice was a deep growl, accompanied by the shuffling sounds of paper.
“What does that mean?” I asked, a stupid, childish hope flaring to life as images of him canceling his campaign to prioritize his family, or even asking me to come on the trail with him, danced through my head.
“It means you’re on lockdown until I can get you a babysitter. Do not leave the house. Clearly, someone has decided to sabotage my campaign by compromising you. Let me make this clear. You will not be the reason I lose this election, so sit your ass down, stay indoors, and behave for whoever I send to look after you. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” I muttered, momentarily distracted by the beeping of the microwave announcing my meal was ready.
“Wait, who are you planning on sending?”
When there was no response, I pulled the cell away from my ear. He’d ended the call.
“Love you too, Dad. Asshole.”
A cheery beep reminded me of my hot meal, but my stomach turned at the thought.
My dad hated me. I was getting a babysitter—I was twenty-five, for Christ’s sake—and apparently, I had a stalker… or something. Things were complicated, to say the least.
Shuffling toward the front entryway, I folded the empty shopping bags I had brought in and paused. Shit. A babysitter was really going to complicate things for me.
There were parts of my life my dad wouldn’t approve of. Things that I did just for me that I had no intention of giving up. Luckily, I was resourceful. Whoever he found to watch over me would just have to come around to my way of thinking.
* * *
The deep tollof our pretentious doorbell pulled me from a deep sleep the next morning. Groaning, I slapped around on my bedside table until I found my cell. Six a.m. What the hell was wrong with whoever was coming to call at that ungodly hour? When the bell tolled a second and third time, it became apparent that whoever it was, they weren’t planning on waiting to visit at a more reasonable time of day.
Ding dong.
I almost screamed as the thing soundeda fourth timeand hauled myself out of bed, ready to bite the head off the early morning visitor.
My bare feet slapped against the tiled floor of the entryway, and I was in a full fury by the time I reached for the door handle.
“What?” I growled, yanking the door open.
A black t-shirt stretched tight over a crazy-wide chest sat at eye level as I spat my admittedly rude, but totally justifiable, non-greeting. Squinting against the glare of the barely risen, early morning sun, I kept the scowl on my face even as I perused the square-cut, clean-shaven jaw and surprisingly plump lips. Aviator sunglasses reflected my unkempt appearance, and it took a conscious effort not to smooth my hair down as I noticed he was wearing a scowl to match my own underneath the peak of a black ball cap.
His head dropped in his own blatant assessment, reminding me I wore nothing but a near see-through white tank and booty shorts. Ugh. Crossing my arms over my chest—because even if he did wake me up, I had more decorum than to let some stranger ogle my nips—I leaned against the doorframe and cocked a brow.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m reporting for babysitting duty. You going to let me in?” His voice was deep and full of gravel, like liquor and campfire smoke, and I mostly kept the shudder of pleasure to myself at hearing the words roll off his tongue.
