Page 88 of Blindside Sinner

Beck holding me on the dance floor with that look in his eyes.

“Are you going to the game tonight?” Cassie asks me when there isn’t a single crumb of pie left.

“Yeah.” I check my watch. “Actually, shoot—I have to go, you guys. Thanks for coming.” I give Cassie’s hand a squeeze, then Monroe’s, then I slide out of the booth. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Give his ass a good squeeze for me!” Monroe calls after me as I go. “That thing could start wars.”

44

SLOAN

Some of the guys are already trickling out as I pull up to the rink. A few minutes later, Beck emerges.

He’s in street clothes. Casual, effortless, but so stupidly gorgeous that it takes all my effort not to drool. His jeans hug his ass and his shirt is the same cornflower blue as his eyes.

Mostly, though, I can’t stop looking at his hands.

I can’t stop thinking about that night after my date, when slid his finger along my skin, raked his nail along the curve of my breast then somehow ended up with the tip of his finger just inside the waistband of my skirt. All I’d wanted was for him to move his hand down, touch me the way I was so crazy desperate to be touched.

As he opens the door, I turn to look at him, almost surprised that he’s standing outside the car rather than in the seat beside me, leaning in to kiss me, to slide his hand down my…

“Sloan? Are you alright?” He lays his hand on my forehead like he’s checking to see if I have a fever. When he pulls his handaway, he shakes his head. “You’re going to have to do better than red cheeks to get out of going to the game tonight.”

“I’m not…” A horn blares behind me and I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“Good.”

By the time we make it home, he’s been hands off for a good ten miles and I’m semi-back to normal. We park and get out, with him trailing just behind me at the very edge of my peripherals in a way that makes me feel like the object of a hunt.

But he doesn’t follow as I float through the living room and toward the back door. I’m almost out when something rustles underfoot.

I look down and see a blank envelope beneath my heel. I freeze like a deer in headlights until the sound of Beck’s footsteps fades away up the stairs.

Only then do I bend down and scoop it up. I don’t even want to touch it, much less open it. But I do anyway.

This message, like the others, is written in indistinguishable block letters. Ordinary paper. Ordinary handwriting.

I KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE

And, as always… black rose petals come tumbling down to my feet.

I tuck the paper under my elbow and hurry across the yard and into the guesthouse. In my apartment, I shove this one in the drawer with the others and then spend a few minutes thinking. There has to be a reason someone has targeted me.

I KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE.Well, that makes one of us, because I have no freaking idea. It can’t be the Bloodhound sending these—he’s got my phone number and no need to be this subtle. Besides, that’s not his style. He doesn’t do vague threats; his threats are hyper-specific and gory.

So what could it be?

Who could it be?

Whycould it be?

Instead of thinking about it anymore, I make myself leave all those worries in the drawer with the letter. I have enough on my plate. I don’t need to add some pissed-off psycho who hides behind creepy letters and veiled threats.

I spend the afternoon getting ready for the game tonight. There isn’t anything out of the ordinary about this one, just a run-of-the-mill midseason showdown with the Phoenix Angels, but I have a whole wardrobe of new clothes thanks to my shopping spree, and I want to dress like I’m invested in this team.

So I put on a turquoise bandeau top, a silver necklace, and black leather pants, then curl my hair to fall in ringlets over my shoulders.

When it’s time to go to the rink, I’m ready, waiting for Beck in the kitchen where I always wait for him. It’s a kind of pregame ritual for just the two of us. Soon enough, his footsteps sound—the first step always creaks—then he emerges around the bend in the staircase. My heart rate picks up.

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