Page 5 of My Deepest Desire

“Lock up and wait for me at the exit. I’ll get my truck and follow you.” He shuts the door and taps the roof twice.

After starting the engine, I do as he says, waiting only a few minutes before he’s behind me, and I catch his intense gaze in my rearview mirror. Those piercing blue eyes could melt the coldest heart. Even mine.

As mad as I am after everything he’s done, I’m still in love with Trey Smith.

3

TREY

The music streaming from my speakers does nothing to drown out my thoughts while I follow Maggie home from the bar. I’m still processing her situation as my truck’s headlights cast a shadow over her SUV when she pulls into her driveway. I park on the street, close enough to keep an eye on her but far enough to not arouse suspicion from her neighbors.

She sits in her vehicle, tossing items into her purse. I’m annoyed at her lack of basic safety skills as a single woman alone at night. Exiting my truck, I stride toward her driver’s side door, my boots thudding on the pavement beneath me.

“Mouse.” I pound a fist on her window, startling her into awareness. She jumps, eyes wide behind her glasses, as she looks up at me. Even afraid, she’s so damn beautiful it makes my heart stutter.

Maggie yelps, bringing a hand to her chest. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“You need to be more careful,” I chastise, my gaze scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. “Fuck knows who might be lurking around here.”

Her eyes narrow as she studies my face and my icy-blue stare, but she doesn’t argue and unlocks the door. “Thank you... I guess?” She rolls her eyes and maneuvers out of the car.

I step closer, the air thick between us—electrifying and tense. “Let’s get you inside.”

She nods, and we start toward her front door. I keep my pace steady, purposeful, but I feel her energy shifting as we approach. She stops dead in her tracks and gasps.. I follow her line of sight to a long white box resting ominously on her porch.

“Are you expecting a package?” I ask, scanning the area for anything that doesn’t belong.

Her head shakes slowly, and I feel the tension coil tighter in my gut. I reach for her hand. It’s small and warm against my rough palm, grounding me as adrenaline spikes through my veins. Together, we stride toward the door, my instincts screaming at me to protect her from any potential threat. Once we reach the porch, I crouch down to pick up the box, peering through the cellophane window to find a bouquet of flowers.

“Roses,” I announce, keeping my voice low as I glance back at Maggie. Her face drains of color, her eyes wide with panic. “Guessing you didn’t order these.”

She doesn’t respond and keeps her focus glued to the package in my arms.

I open the note attached and read it aloud, my throat tightening around each word:

I’ll be seeing you soon

The weight of one sentence hangs heavy in the air, suffocating any semblance of calm. I glance at Maggie, fear etched deep into her features, and the sight ignites rage insideme. This fucker is getting bold, and I’m going to make him regret it soon.

“I’m staying here tonight. This guy knows where you live, and he’s escalating from notes and emails to leaving gifts. The cops may not be able to help you, but fuck if I’m taking any chances. Gimme your keys.”

Her lips part as if she’s about to protest, but the resolve in my voice cuts her off before she can even form a reply. She relaxes her posture and surrenders with a reluctant nod, placing the cold, dangling metal into my palm. I unlock the door and usher Maggie inside, closing us in and flipping the deadbolt behind us.

My gaze sweeps over the darkened interior before settling back on her. “Stay put while I check the house.”

Maggie watches me with a tilt of her head as I move methodically through each room, ensuring there’s no one lying in wait. While I search, I wrestle with the decision to tell her the truth about what I do, then decide that’s a conversation for another time. Instead, I settle on revealing just enough to quell her curiosity.

“I work in security. I do this kind of thing all the time,” I confess when I’ve rejoined her in the foyer.

“Security?” she repeats, her voice laced with skepticism.

I nod, knowing that my revelation won’t satisfy her entirely, but hoping that it’s enough for now.

“I could’ve sworn your parents told me you were an independent contractor.”

My parents. George and Regina Smith. Pillars of the community here in Cedar Point. Good, upstanding people who couldn’t have their heads buried any deeper in the sand if I dug a six-foot hole and threw them inside. They mean well, but they’d be horrified if they had any idea what I did for a living. If only they knew it was Gene, one of Dad’s old college buddies, who got me into this business.

Dad thought Gene was in computer sales, which is comical because the guy hates technology and barely uses burner phones. He’d drop by the house, all smiles and hearty handshakes, making boring conversation as if he was your average, middle-aged guy. At that time, I was just figuring out that my thoughts and urges weren’t typical of a thirteen-year-old, but my parents brushed it off as influence from TV and video games. I knew better. And so did Gene. He saw something in me, a cold, calculated ability to compartmentalize and disassociate, paired with a deeply-ingrained sense of justice.

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