I hated that I couldn’t get his face out of my mind. It jolted through me over and over, persistently. How Blair looked when he thought no one was watching, no one could see him.
I could feel the moment I’d pried Travis’s hands off of Blair—the shock of it, the satisfaction I’d felt as he’d stumbled backward. The flash on Blair’s face he’d probably assumed I wouldn’t notice.
I didn’t swing on Travis. Didn’t need to. I had other, much more calculated plans for him.
This wasn’t about protecting a guy, an anger management therapist I barely knew. It hadn’t been about justice, about what was right or wrong. It had been personal.
Too personal, crossing a line.
I rubbed at my chest and tried to dig the feeling out, scrape it off me like I’d scrape rust from metal.
I picked up my phone and drafted a text to Blair.
Open your door. Or tell me not to.
A car screeched behind me and pulled out onto the street.
Glaring down at my phone, my heart pounded. I had a simple choice to make. And I knew I’d already made it the second I walked away from the restaurant without an apology for Lindsey.
I deleted the draft, started the engine, and backed out of my spot. The headlights sliced through dew and gloom, but I wasn’t going home. I was going to see Blair.
Even if Blair didn’t know it.
Even if I wasn’t sure what the hell was happening to me. Even if all I did was park outside of his house like a goddamn stalker. Even if I stared at the windows, convinced they held a secret I hadn’t yet solved. I needed to see Blair, if only for a second. Maybe I could think clearly.
Or at least breathe.
I didn’t punch the gas, and I didn’t speed. The growl of the truck’s engine filled the cab; a low, relentless rumble that matched the chaos beating in my chest. I needed something to rattle me apart so I could find the pieces as I drove along.
Every turn of the wheel, every streetlight I passed felt slow, deliberate, painful.
I wasn’t driving anymore.
I was hunting.
7
COLT
Streets blurredaround me as I covered mile after mile. I didn’t listen to music, didn’t check my phone, didn’t let myself think past the next left… next right.
Next heartbeat.
My hands remembered the way—I didn’t need the address.
I couldn’t think. I could only drive.
On the way over, I passed Tribune Tower, looming against the black of night sky. Its spires and gargoyle corners glared down at the streetlights. Chicago didn’t bury its history. It left it out on display, sharp as jagged teeth.
Minutes later, I was there.
Blair’s house carried a similar weight. An old Victorian leftover that didn’t belong to this century. The house was crouched between two narrow lots, a relic waiting for a wrecking ball to put it out of its misery. Peeled paint, crooked shutters. A roof patched with a varied array of mismatched shingles. Not quite dilapidated but not cared for either.
Blair hadn’t chosen for this to be his home. I knew that much. I had more knowledge about Blair than he realized. The Leaguepaid me well, and I didn’t mind spending some of it to obtain information.
Blair inherited this place. An anchor tied around his neck. According to real estate websites, he’d attempted twice to sell it with massive price cuts. Both attempts failed. No one wanted to buy a house that demanded so much, and Blair’s salary wouldn’t cover a renovation on a place this old.
I pulled into the shadow of a side street and killed the engine. The headlights went dark. Blair’s porch light burned dim, barely clinging to the electrical grid.
