Page 15 of Wicked S.O.B.

I hang up, take a deep breath, and think about Quinn and what I’m keeping from him. I haven’t stopped holding out hope that this is nothing but my overactive imagination at work. He’ll go absolutely berserk when…ifhe finds out. But what the hell am I supposed to do?

How the hell do I tell my borderline psychopathic lover and the man who already finds it difficult to let me out of his sight that somewhere along the line I’ve picked up a stalker?

Chapter Four

Elyse

Perspective

Ifirst noticed it three weeks ago. It began as a sensation I wasn’t able to shake off as I left the apartment to head to my first class. However, with butterflies the size of eagles creating havoc in my stomach at the thought of being in a classroom for the first time in forever, I dismissed it.

My association with Quinn and Q last year flung me into the merciless glare of the paparazzi’s spotlight. Since then, my presence in Quinn’s intensely high-profile life means I’ve become a constant source of interest to the media. At first I thought it was a reporter following me in the hopes of getting the exclusive they all crave. But the same self-preservation instinct that kept me on high alert when I was on the run from Clay warned me that this was different. And in a city of millions, it’s almost impossible to spot a sinister shadow unless it was right on top of you.

Initially, I toyed with asking Fionnella Smith for help. In our short time together, I found out that the constantly smiling woman who called herself Quinn’s assistant was embroiled in her own righteous path of retribution, same as Quinn. She also turned out to be far more resourceful than the simple assistant she claimed to be. All that aside, though, I didn’t ask for her help because her loyalty is first to Quinn. So until I’m sure what I’m dealing with, I’m choosing to keep them both out of the loop.

Detective Schultz came across my radar last year during the investigation. Calm and briskly efficient, she made an impression on me, enough for me to decide to trust her with this. With no concrete evidence as to who my stalker is or even if he’s real, I expected her to dismiss my concerns when I plucked up the courage to call her.

I don’t doubt that being Quinn Blackwood’s girlfriend played a part in her agreeing to meet me for coffee last week. She took copious notes, and we agreed to a follow-up meeting today.

I put my phone away and wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans as the doorman holds the foyer door open and doffs his cap. Lionel and the sleek Mercedes town car are directly in my line of sight when I exit. I’m torn between the need for head-clearing fresh air and the need to be safe. I know he’ll follow me anyway should I decide to walk. Quinn might have given in to my request not to come to class with me, but he sure as hell isn’t going to risk me being even a minute late in getting to him once I’m done.

Which means I need to plan my meeting with Detective Schultz very carefully. I’ve already accepted that I’ll miss an hour of my three-hour class today, but I’ll make it up later. I pause on the sidewalk and glance around me.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary. People hurry past, their glances flitting past me, their electric connection to the city pulling them along like iron filings to the tune of a powerful magnet. But evil lurks everywhere. I’m wise enough to know that now. All the same, the need tonotbe a victim pulls at me. Years of suffering under Clay’s thumb has triggered a strong incentive to never experience that kind of fear and helplessness again.

“Good morning, Miss Gilbert,” Lionel greets me with his distinctive Aussie accent, and holds open the back door to the town car.

I make up my mind quickly. “Good morning. I’m going to walk for a while, Lionel. Do you mind?”

His face remains neutral as he shuts the door. “Of course not, Miss Gilbert.” He glances at his watch. “You should make good time if you’re in the mood to power walk.”

“I’m in the mood for strong coffee and a bagel first,” I respond with a smile.

He nods toward my favorite coffee shop at the corner of the next block. “Would you like me to get your usual for you from Mickey’s?”

I shake my head. I feel a little bad for refusing him twice in a row, but with my life now a well-oiled machine that functions with very little input from me thanks to Quinn, I take what little independence I can where I get it. “That’s okay, thanks. I need to walk off the calories.”

He smiles and nods and walks around to slide behind the wheel.

The weather is cool enough to require a scarf. I wrap the light blue cashmere scarf twice around my neck and secure my purse more firmly across my body.

Five minutes later, when I exit with my large, extra-creamy Americano and bagel clutched in my hand, I stop for a moment and glance at the breathtaking silver chrome building that is Blackwood 99. It’s the tallest apartment building on the island of Manhattan, an iconic masterpiece that won Quinn a clutch of awards when it was officially unveiled just before Christmas last year.

Somewhere high up there in the cloud-high apartment, Quinn is probably drinking his own coffee, hopefully less disgruntled with me after I let him work off his frustrations on me. The need to call him tugs hard at me. I resist the urge, take a hit of caffeine, and resolutely head in the opposite direction.

I arrive at the Hesse Real Estate Academy with three minutes to spare and grab my usual seat near the front. As on most days, the class is full with an eclectic mix of young career-starting hopefuls and middle-aged lane-changers who’re looking for something different. The instructor is a seasoned but sharp teacher who loves the sound of his own voice.

I drift off a little during the segment on zoning laws, my mind returning to its favorite subject—Quinn—and the surprise he’d had Lionel present me with just before I got to my class. The moment the instructor stops for the fifteen-minute break, I take out my phone and smile at the five text messages from Quinn waiting in my message box, each with an increasingly impatient tone. I ignore them and type a message of my own.

Me: Thank you for my gift. That was so sweet.

The lambskin laptop pouch for my MacBook Air was a replacement for the one I lost two weeks ago. Only this one was from an exclusive designer, monogrammed with my name, and probably cost the same as a small car.

Quinn: I’m far from sweet, as you well know. 100% of my motives are impure. You done yet?

I grin at his shamelessly demanding attitude.

Me: Not yet. Almost. I’m on a break.

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