Page 29 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Emerson Banner is my new addiction of choice, and the truth doesn’t cause a blip of concern on my radar.
I want her. And I’ll do anything for a hit.
* * *
The black Lexusis deadly quiet, the engine just a whisper of sound.
I pull along the gravel part of the sidewalk instead of her driveway and turn the car off. The sidewalk, a white picket fence, and a charming yard overflowing with hibiscus, roses, and confederate jasmine are all that separate me from her.
A covered porch runs the width of the cottage, a full-sized swing occupying one corner, half-hidden by a curtain of jasmine climbing up an arbor situated at the corner of the house. Everything is whitewashed, glowing softly in the moonlight. Lamps in multiple windows facing the street give the house a cozy, warm vibe. It’s inviting as if the entire cottage might give you a huge hug.
Closing the car door softly, I lean against it for a moment. What will I say? Should I just walk up and knock on the front door? I’m in uncharted territory. I haven’t pursued a girl in a long time. Goddamn if my hands aren’t actually sweating.
“I could have you arrested, you know.”
Coming from the darkened porch, Emerson’s voice startles me. She’s sitting on the swing, partially concealed behind the jasmine arbor. I finally see her when I move toward the middle of the sidewalk. A small lamp on a side table next to the swing illuminates the space just enough that she’s bathed in its warm glow.
“For stalking,” she clarifies.
“That would be a change of pace for me.” I rest my hands on the pretty, decorative gate. Attached to it is an ornate metal sign stamped with the words,The Sandpiper’s Nest.
“Have you ever been on that side of things?” she asks, almost flippantly. “A woman filing charges against you for stalking?”
This is just idle conversation. Emerson knows who I am. She knows there’s no shortage of women throwing themselves at me, and that fact is something I’ve taken for granted. Her disregard for my notorious fame sends a quick jolt of appreciation rocking through me. It makes me want her more.
What if she knew how easily she could get rid of me? Would I tell her to piss off if she began pursuing me? Because that’s what I do when a woman begins to bore me.
I can’t imagine Emerson boring me in any way. Hell, I think it’s possible she could fascinate me for a lifetime.
What an unusual concept.
“Of course not,” I drawl. “Hazards of the job.”
“Hmmm.” She’s silent for a long moment then says quietly, “I unlocked the gate for you.”
That shocks the hell out of me. “I can come in?” Why do I feel like a vampire being invited into my victim’s home?
“Better hurry before I change my mind.”
Lifting the latch, I breathe in the scent of roses and jasmine. It’s sweet and wild and smells of summer. It smells like her, and when I step onto the wide, darkened porch, I’m almost overcome with nerves. Perched in the middle of the whitewashed wood swing, Emerson is a beautiful present just waiting for me to unwrap her.
She’s not rocking or swinging. No movement whatsoever. Just watching me with those wide, deep blue eyes, her legs tucked under her. A floaty, black sundress with tiny yellow flowers strewn across it clings gently to her curves; a pair of black, strappy sandals discarded on the sky-blue painted wood floor as if she just kicked them off. A book bound in a mossy green leather sits in her lap. Tracing the gold letters with her forefinger, her gaze locks on me.
For some reason, I linger by the steps.
“Why are you doing all this?” she asks. “Following me, sitting outside my store…”
“I can’t explain it. Not even to myself.” I shrug, a pathetic attempt meant to prove it doesn’t confound me as much as it does. “I just feel… hell, this sounds so damned corny, but I’m drawn to you. There’s an attraction. A connection. I don’t know. It’s weird. Damned if I know why, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I’m not even your—” Emerson’s tone is strangely agitated before she continues calmly. “Your type. I’m not your type.”
I rake a hand through my hair. “How can you know my type? Besides, I don’t have one.”
“Blonde. Tall. Model thin. You’re Greyson Finch of Seven Seconds. Everyone knows you have a type.” Her voice drops a register. “And what you do when you’re done with a girl.”
I don’t say anything because when she says it like that, it reminds me when I went against my own rule. I was many things more than a year ago. Vicious. Raw. Agonized. Vindictive. I wanted everyone to hurt as much as I did.
A few hazy details make that night in Hollywood memorable. The unknown girl’s dark hair. My surprise when she slapped me. The fact I took her from Dylan and we fought over her. I was high and drunk. It was a miracle I could stand up straight. I vaguely remember waking beside her the next morning, thinking it felt right. Like she belonged there with me.
