Page 112 of Rebel Obsession

The man shoved his hand in his pocket and produced a business card. “I have better. If you’re ever interested, give me a call.”

I looked down at the card. It simply read Luca Guerra, with a number listed below it.

I tucked it in my pocket. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

His gaze rolled over me slowly before lifting to my eyes again. “I hope you call. Gino isn’t bad, but he isn’t great. He can’t get you anything past this dirt lot.”

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And you can?”

He gave a half-smile and pushed off the wall. “Call me and we’ll talk.”

He walked away, and for a second I stood there watching his broad shoulders that tapered down to a slim waist. His pants pulled snugly across his ass.

None of it did anything for me.

Because he wasn’t Vaughn.

Was this what my life was now? Comparing every man I met to the one I’d never get to keep? I thought I’d been over this stupid infatuation. I thought when he’d up and left that I’d broken my own damn heart enough, and yet here I was, trying to kiss the man in an elevator, flirting with him, touching him, grinding on him, and getting off when he begged me to fuck him.

But when it came down to it, he was always just out of reach. No matter how many times he came back into my life, that was always what it narrowed down to.

Vaughn was a tease. A carrot dangled in front of me but one I was never actually allowed to eat.

I caught a bus home, not wanting to spend any of the lousy money I’d earned that night on an Uber. It all needed to go toward getting my truck back on the road so I could get to a worksite when I eventually found a job.

Vaughn texted again, repeating the info Rebel had already told me. They were at Psychos. That Fang wanted someone watching Rebel at all times. That I should go down there.

No thanks. Rebel was about as safe as she could be with Vaughn and an entire club full of people watching her every move.

Because she was that fucking beautiful, every man and woman there would turn their heads in her direction. She was fine. I didn’t need to go down there and see the proof of it.

Rebel’s car was in the drive, as was Vaughn’s bike that he’d barely ridden since he’d arrived, preferring to take his old man’s car instead. The lights were all off in the house, and it was late, so I assumed they’d driven to Psychos together.

I wondered what she was wearing. Lingerie? Topless? Completely freaking naked? I groaned. Fuck, I wanted to know.

The idea of grabbing Vaughn’s keys from the hook by the door and jumping on his Harley was appealing. I could get back to Saint View in minutes.

But I’d only be torturing myself. If Rebel really was riding his dick in the middle of the room, I wasn’t sure what I’d do.

I pushed open the door and blindly groped for the light switch on the entryway wall. When I found it, light flooded the open space, spilling over dark-gray tiles, as well as a blank white card that had been slipped through the mail slot.

“Freaking junk mail,” I cursed, scooping to pick it up. I might not have been working at the house any longer, but it didn’t mean I liked seeing a mess. I couldn’t just walk over something on the floor and not pick it up and put it in its rightful place.

I flipped the card over, expecting to see an advertisement for a local electrician service or maybe a hairdresser.

Instead, I stared at the card, reading the neatly printed type multiple times before the words truly sank in.

You’re next, bitch.

Below was a cut-out newspaper article, detailing Miranda’s and Bart’s murders.

I dropped my gym bag at my feet, my fingers digging into the white card stock. I spun around, like whoever had left the card might still be there, but saw nothing other than the dark night outside. When I paused to listen, the house was as silent as a tomb.

It did nothing to shake the uneasy feeling that swamped me.

I’d called Fang dramatic for wanting us with Rebel twenty-four seven.

Now I realized he probably hadn’t been dramatic enough.

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