Page 130 of Midnights
My phone stays in my hand longer than it should, waiting for her reply. I assume she’s made it to her meeting, and my fingers itch to dig into her background. Part of me resists, wanting things to unfold naturally. But let’s be honest, that’s not how I operate.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up her social media. Nothing invasive. Just enough to get a better sense of who she is. But then I hit a wall, realizing I only know her first name.
This might take longer than expected.
Thank fuck she’s staying at one of my properties. I type her name into the booking system, and there it is:Raven Taylor, staying with Rachel Allison Teller.
Raven Taylor.
Her profile’s public, which makes this too easy. The entire page looks like something out of a magazine. Polished but raw. And all her.
One picture catches me. Her arms are full—there's a box in one, a damn cat in the other— but it's her face that I can't look away from. She’s smiling, but her eyes tell the truth. She looks hollow and guarded. She looks like she's already halfway gone from whoever was behind that camera.
The caption reads:Never be so polite you forget your power.
Something in me tightens. She looks reckless with her wild hair, her white dress, and bare feet in the dirt. Her dress clings to her curves, glowing against the dark like she was made to be hunted.
I can't look away.
I find myself leaning closer, studying the picture, wondering what put that look on her face?…Or who.
I keep scrolling, letting the pictures fill in the blanks. The cat’s name is Fat Louie.
Of course it is.
She travels a lot, almost always with Rachel. Her bio mentions marketing, which explains the professional polish on everything she posts.
What doesn't surprise me is there's not a single food photo. Just imagining her rolling her eyes at the thought of posting a picture of brunch drags a laugh out of me. She'd hate that shit.
I lean back in my chair, tapping idly against the desk. I told myself I wouldn't look and thirteen photos later, here I am. Call it strategy. Call it weakness. Doesn't matter. She's a variable I can't ignore. My system boots, and I type in her name. Let’s see what I've been missing.
A quick glance tells me she’s listed as a marketing manager, straightforward enough.
She started her own company. Looks like she built it from the ground up, then sold it for alotof money.Impressive.And yet… she stayed on as an employee, for a business she built.Interesting.
I sit forward, scanning for an explanation. Nothing. No board pressure, no legal clauses, no personal investments tying her there. So why stay?
She doesn’t linger. Women like her never do. Every step she takes is calculated, every glance of hers is like a sharp weapon. So what the fuck is this? Why is she still there?
Then I find something even more interesting. Her original birth certificate's been sealed. I dig a little deeper and find several interesting things here, but nothing that I can see that would be cause for a sealed record.
There’s a bigger story here, but that’s not what makes my blood heat.
The police report that was filed six months ago does. A restraining order was dismissed not long after. Then, a couple months later, she petitioned for a protective order, that’s still active.
I sit back, clenching my jaw, needing more answers.
Whoever put her in a position to need those orders better pray I never find them.
I roll my shoulders, taking a deep breath, pushing down the sudden rage I feel. She mentioned someone hurting her when we were doing dishes in the kitchen. Is that who these are about?
I need to stay focused. Who the hell isMeathead Mike, and why does he have her on edge?
A quick dive into her company doesn’t connect her to any marketing firms here. If this trip was work-related, there’s no record of it. Which only makes me more suspicious.
I flex my fingers against the desk, trying to figure out my next move. I know just the person who can find what I need a hell of a lot faster.
Me: Need you to run a check.
