Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

AMANDA HAS A GLOCK IN HER GUCCI

CAL

All I want to do is take her upstairs, press her against the nearest wall, and finally, finally give her what she's been begging me for.

But that's not what I need to focus on.

Not right now.

Because tonight, I'm telling her.

About Caleb.

About all of it.

This lie—or whatever the hell you want to call it—has to end. Our relationship is getting too intense for me to keep pretending.

I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling, and scan the floor. Izzy handles the VIP clients with grace, despite their entitled bullshit.

"Callahan!"

One of my guys calls for me through the comms.

"Commotion at the front. Some guy losing his shit at one of the sales clerks."

Fuck.

I grit my teeth. I don't have time for this, but I'm the one who handles this shit. So, with a final glance at Izzy—perfect, composed, beautiful in her element—I head to the front. By the time I round the corner, I can already hear it. A man's voice—loud, belligerent, cutting through the store.

The second I see him, I know exactly the type of asshole I'm dealing with. Middle-aged, a too-tight suit, like he refuses to acknowledge he's gained weight in the last decade, and a red face, spittle flying with every accusation he hurls at the poor girl behind the counter.

She's young. Maybe early twenties, shoulders hunched, face pale as she struggles to keep up with his demands. I move in fast, stepping between them, positioning myself as a physical barrier between her and him.

"Sir," I say, voice even, steady, controlled. "What seems to be the issue?"

He snaps his attention to me, nostrils flaring.

"My order is missing!" he barks, waving a crumpled receipt in my face like a goddamn warrant. "This incompetent little⁠—"

Nope. Not happening.

"Sir," I say again, calmer, but firmer. "Let's take a breath, yeah? I'm sure we can get this sorted out."

His eyes blaze, like he's looking for a fight, but I don't take the bait. People like him want a reaction. They feed off chaos. But I don't give him what he wants.

Instead, I tilt my head slightly. Neutral. Non-confrontational. But my stance remains unmovable.

"This is unacceptable," he snaps, voice lowering slightly, his anger still there, but less directed at the girl behind me now. "I ordered these items a week ago. I received a confirmation email, and now, suddenly, my order doesn't exist?"

"We'll fix it," I tell him, nodding to the clerk at the register. "Run his name, see what's going on."

The clerk rushes to comply, tapping rapidly on the computer. The man grumbles, shifting on his feet, still itching for a reason to keep going.

"You guys need to learn how to run a business," he mutters, arms crossing. "Back in my day⁠—"

I stop listening.

Because the situation feels wrong.

I've dealt with hundreds of these confrontations. I know how they go. This doesn't fit the pattern.

He's hostile, but not escalating. Pacing, but not storming out.

The girl behind the register looks up. "Sir," she says hesitantly, her brows furrowing. "I—I'm sorry, but there's no record under this name."

I tense.

The man freezes. I'm ready for him to explode again, but then suddenly he looks at his watch.

And then, his whole demeanor changes. Unnaturally fast.

"Oh," he says, casually—far too casually, like he wasn't just about to burst a blood vessel. "Well. Guess I'll look for my receipt at home. No harm done," he says, voice eerily light before he all but runs out of the store.

I feel my stomach drop.

This wasn't a real complaint. This wasn't about a missing order.

This was a distraction. For me.

Something else just happened. Something I wasn't supposed to see.

I whip out my phone.

The cameras.

I need the fucking cameras.

I pull up the VIP floor feed.

Izzy was just there. She was right there.

But now?

Now—

She's gone.

No.

No, no, no, no.

I take off at a dead sprint.

By the time I reach the VIP floor, I'm already barking orders through my headset for my guys to fan out.

"Where's Izzy?" I demand.

Daniel turns, startled.

"She—uh—she went to check the stock room for a size."

The stock room.

The closest stock room—the one the two guys we caught had been so fucking interested in.

No.

I shove past Daniel, running toward the back, my heartbeat pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. My mind keeps repeating a desperate mantra: Not her. Please, not her.

I burst into the stock room⁠—

And it's empty.

No.

I yank my phone back out, rewind the footage, eyes scanning frantically.

I see it.

Izzy, walking into the stock room.

A few seconds later⁠—

Two men follow her in.

She turns, confused. She says something I can't make out.

A bag over her head.

Her body jerks.

She fights. Kicking, thrashing⁠—

One of them brings an elbow down hard into her ribs, and she crumples.

I watch them drag her limp body toward the rear of the store, where I already fucking know there's an exit. A service door to the loading dock.

I run.

Every fiber of my being is screaming.

I hit the service door so hard it slams open, and just as I step out⁠—

I see it.

A white van, peeling out.

My hands shake.

Too late.

I was too fucking late.

They have her.

I sprint up the stairs to the security suite, heart pounding, hands already forming fists at my sides. I don't bother acknowledging the other guys as I storm in, heading straight for the locked armory.

Guns.

I need guns.

A lot of them.

I've got a fix on Izzy's GPS. The idiots who took her didn't check for a phone, which means they're amateurs. Stupid ones. And thank fucking God for that, because if they had even half a brain between them, I'd be in the dark right now.

I throw open the cabinet, grab a tactical rifle, two pistols, and extra magazines, shoving them into my bag with fast, practiced movements.

I'm halfway out the door when⁠—

"Callahan!"

I nearly barrel into Amanda, who skids to a stop in front of me, her face tight with confusion and concern.

"What the hell is going on?" she demands. "I heard there was an issue with the VIP shoppers, but I can't find Izzy⁠—"

I don't have time for this.

"She's been kidnapped."

Amanda's entire body goes still.

"What."

I push past her, sprinting toward the garage, but she grabs my arm, yanking me back with surprising strength.

"Cal, what the fuck do you mean she's been kidnapped?"

I glare at her, yanking my arm free. "I mean exactly that. And I'm going after her."

Amanda blinks at me, her expression shifting rapidly from shock to fury. "Then I'm coming with you."

"No, you are absolutely fucking not." I keep walking. "I don't have time to babysit."

She barks out a laugh, and before I can process what's happening, she reaches into her tiny designer purse and pulls out a pink fucking handgun.

I stop.

Blink.

"What the fuck?"

Her lips curve in that way that says, Oh, you have no idea.

"I've been taking care of myself for a very long time," she says, twirling the gun in her hand like it's an accessory. "I've got a past no one knows about. And if you don't take me willingly, I'll just follow you anyway."

I stare at her.

Of all the people in this goddamn store, Amanda was not who I'd expect to be pulling a weapon out of her fucking purse.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Fine. But Izzy comes first."

Amanda nods. "Obviously."

I shove an extra magazine into her hand. "Don't miss."

She winks. "I never do."

I don't have time to process that.

Instead, I grab my bag, haul ass to the parking garage, and throw everything into Izzy's car—because it's the closest. Amanda jumps into the passenger seat without hesitation.

I don't even glance at her as I start the engine, pull up the GPS coordinates, and floor it.

We're coming, Izzy.

Hold on.

I DON’T CRY OVER MONSTERS ANYMORE

IZZY

I wake up in a haze, my brain struggling to piece together where I am and how I got here. It's like swimming through thick fog, each thought fragmented and slippery. My head pounds with a dull, insistent ache that makes it hard to concentrate—like the worst hangover I've ever had, except I don't remember drinking.

My body feels impossibly heavy, limbs weighted down as if gravity has doubled overnight. Everything is... wrong. Not just unfamiliar, but deeply, fundamentally wrong, like I've stepped into someone else's nightmare. The air filling my lungs is stale and thick with dust. I taste it on my tongue—metallic and foreign.

Beneath me isn't the soft give of a mattress but cold, unyielding metal that leaches warmth from my body. My wrists throb where tight plastic zip ties cut into skin already raw and angry. The sound of my own breathing is too loud, echoing in my ears—shallow, rapid pants that betray the panic I'm trying desperately to suppress.

Where the hell am I?

I try to shift position, to find some relief from the hard floor, but my body protests with a sluggishness that sends fresh alarm coursing through me. My thoughts immediately dart to the worst possibility—did they drug me? I'm disoriented, yes, but not disconnected. I can feel every painful ache and sensation.

Then I hear them—men's voices cutting through the silence.

Not just talking. Arguing.

I strain to make out the words through the cotton-wool stuffing my head, but they're overlapping, voices rising and falling as they fight about something. About me.

"She's a liability⁠—"

"We should just⁠—"

"Are you insane? That was not the deal⁠—"

I swallow hard, my throat so dry it feels like sandpaper, and force my eyes open only to see... nothing. For a terrifying second, I think I'm blind, until reality catches up—there's something covering my head. A bag. Rough fabric rubbing against my face with every breath, smelling of burlap and something else I can't identify.

Panic hits hard, but I push it down.

If I fall apart now, it’s over. I have to listen. Think. Strip this moment for anything I can use. I don’t get to feel things right now—I just have to win.

I shift slightly, testing my surroundings, feeling for anything I might use. The movement, small as it is, catches their attention.

"She's waking up," one of them mutters.

Footsteps approach—slow, deliberate, measured. The sound of expensive shoes on concrete, the unhurried pace of someone who feels completely in control.

"Leave me alone with her."

I freeze.

That voice.

I know that voice better than I want to, better than I should. It's the voice that whispered false promises, that cut me down with casual cruelty disguised as concern, that somehow convinced me I wasn't enough while simultaneously telling me I'd never find better.

The bag is yanked off without warning, and I flinch at the sudden movement, blinking rapidly as my eyes struggle to adjust to the lighting. The space around me slowly takes shape—high ceilings, concrete floors, metal beams disappearing into shadows.

Warehouse.

I'm in a warehouse.

Not abandoned, though. The space is filled with merchandise—designer bags stacked in neat piles, boxes of electronics sealed and labeled, racks of clothing still bearing tags. It looks like the backroom of a high-end department store, except everything is clearly stolen.

And then I see him.

Evan.

He stands a few feet away, his stance casual, almost bored. He's loosened his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt to reveal forearms I once thought were sexy. His golden hair is slightly mussed, as if he's been running his hands through it in frustration. He's looking at me like I'm something he forgot to throw out—an inconvenience, a task he needs to deal with before moving on to more important things.

And just like that, any confusion, any disorientation I felt vanishes, burned away by the white-hot clarity of rage. My mind focuses on the man in front of me.

Because I should have known.

Of course it's him.

Evan steps closer, his Italian leather loafers—the ones he once bragged cost more than my monthly rent—pad against the concrete. His face is partially shadowed under the flickering warehouse lights, but I can still see the amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.

So fucking smug.

Like he's already won, like this was inevitable, like I should have seen it coming.

Maybe I should have.

I don't move. I don't cower or twist away or beg. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me panic, of confirming what he's always believed—that I'm weak, that I need him, that I'm nothing without him.

The thugs he’s with exit the space and he crouches down in front of me, reaching out to grip my chin between his fingers. His touch is familiar in the worst possible way. His fingers dig into my skin as he tilts my face up to his, forcing eye contact, asserting control just like he always did. Even now, he touches me like I belong to him.

"You really fucked things up for me, Izzy," he murmurs, his voice almost conversational, with an undercurrent of amusement that makes my skin crawl.

I glare at him, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away.

He tsks—that condescending sound he started making after everything changed—and shakes his head like I'm a child who doesn't understand the consequences of her actions. "I was going to dump your ass, you know that? Had it all planned out." He releases my chin with a jerk that nearly snaps my neck, standing back up to his full height and beginning a slow, methodical circle around me.

“But then I lost my job. Six months without work. No calls back. My savings bleeding out," he continues, a bitter edge to his voice. "Then I got offered a ‘consulting’ job.” He makes air quotes, his smile turning cruel. "Turns out what they needed was someone who understood high-end retail supply chains. Someone who could help them identify which merchandise to target, how to move it without getting caught."

He gestures broadly at the warehouse full of stolen goods. "Designer items, electronics, luxury watches—low volume, high value. We divert shipments, falsify inventory records, then sell everything overseas at a massive profit. It's beautiful, really."

His eyes narrow as he looks down at me. "I was ready to start fresh. New job, new girl—one who wouldn't remind me of my failure." He sneers. "Then you got that assistant manager promotion at Monarch, and suddenly you were useful. 'Keep her close,' they said. 'She's our way in.' And I had to pretend I still wanted you.

“Two more years," he spits, disgust evident in every syllable. “Two years of playing the supportive boyfriend while you climbed the corporate ladder. Listening to you whine about your day. Pretending to care about your pathetic little dreams. And then you let yourself go. Gained all that weight. Started taking up space. God, it was repulsive." He runs a hand through his hair in the gesture I once found endearing. Now it just looks rehearsed. "Do you know what it's like? Having to touch someone you're revolted by? Pretending you still find them attractive?”

He crouches again, getting closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—the one I bought him last Christmas, thinking it would make him happy, make him love me more. The scent now makes me wretch.

“And then finally you got the manager position,” he sneers. "Access to the inventory system, security codes, order forms. A perfect little puppet who could start ordering extra merchandise—thousands, maybe millions of dollars worth—without raising any red flags."

I think about every night I cried myself to sleep because I thought I wasn't good enough for him, every time I apologized for things that weren't my fault, every pound I tried to lose because he made me feel too big, too much, too everything.

"But then you had to go and develop a fucking spine." His lips curl into a sneer, his hand wrapping around my throat—not tight enough to cut off air, just enough to remind me that he could. "You just had to play hero. And now? All that work? For nothing."

He leans in, so close I can feel his breath against my ear, lowering his voice like we're sharing a secret. "But not for nothing."

His free hand slides into his jacket with practiced ease, and cold steel presses against my cheek. The shock of it sends ice through my veins, freezing me in place more effectively than any restraint.

I stiffen as he drags the barrel of the gun down the curve of my face with almost tender precision, pausing at my jaw, tilting my chin up with it. The metal is cool and unyielding, a deadly promise against my skin.

"You're going to fix this, Izzy." His voice is almost gentle, the way it used to be when he'd apologize after making me cry, when he'd promise things would be different, better. They never were.

"You're going to give me every piece of information I ask for. You're going to be a good girl and open every door I tell you to open. And if I decide to let you live after that, you're going to keep your pretty little mouth shut."

Fury burns through my veins like wildfire, consuming any fear that might have been there. I see him now—really see him, stripped of the illusions I built around him. I see the coldness in his eyes, the emptiness behind his perfect smile, and the complete lack of humanity beneath his polished exterior.

He grins, teeth white and perfect like everything else about him—a façade meticulously maintained to hide the monster underneath. "Because if you breathe a word of this to anyone?" His grip tightens around my throat, just enough to make breathing difficult, to remind me of my vulnerability. "I will kill your family."

I don't think.

I don't hesitate.

I don't weigh the consequences or calculate the risks or imagine the retaliation.

I spit in his fucking face.

The glob of saliva lands on his perfectly sculpted cheekbone and slides slowly down toward his lips—a small, petty victory that feels monumental in this moment.

"I'll never help you, you piece of shit," I hiss, each word dripping with the venom I've been swallowing for years.

His entire body goes still.

He’s quiet and I wonder if he wasn't expecting resistance, that in all his careful planning he never accounted for me finding my voice, my anger, my self-worth.

He growls, a sound more animal than human, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand as if my touch has contaminated him. His fingers tighten around the gun until his knuckles go white.

"Oh, I think you will."

The gun presses against my temple, hard enough to leave an impression.

But even with death against my skin, something inside me has finally broken free—and I'm not going back to being the woman who thought she deserved nothing better than Evan.

AMANDA HAS A BODY COUNT. PROBABLY.

CAL

I take a hard turn, tires screeching as I cut through the last intersection before the warehouse. My knuckles are white on the wheel, my heart hammering against my ribs, my mind laser-focused on one thing—getting to Izzy.

Amanda grips the handle of the door, looking entirely too composed for what’s about to go down.

“How do you know where she is?” she asks, tone laced with suspicion.

I don’t hesitate. I don’t even try to lie.

“I hacked her phone a while ago,” I say, voice flat. “I’ve known where she is at all times since I met her.”

Amanda hums. “Huh.”

That’s it.

Just huh.

I glance at her. “That’s all you have to say?”

She shrugs, casual as hell. “I mean, yeah, it’s a little insane and wildly possessive, but let’s be real—I’ve been wondering if you were some kind of stalker since day one. You’re just proving me right. I love being right.”

I roll my eyes.

Under her breath, she mutters, “It’s also kinda hot.”

I ignore that.

We pull up to the warehouse, an old industrial building at the far edge of the docks. The area is deserted; it’s the perfect kind of place for criminals to conduct business without interruptions.

Amanda reaches for the door handle.

I slap a hand on her arm. “Wait.”

She freezes. “What?”

“We can’t just rush in. We don’t know where she is. Running in blind is a great way to get ourselves killed.”

Amanda’s clearly itching to move, but she nods.

I take a breath, reach for my phone, and open the one function I told myself I wouldn’t ever use.

The live audio and video feed from Izzy’s phone.

Amanda’s eyes widen as she watches me tap into the stream. “Oh, you didn’t just hack her phone.” She whistles. “You like, hacked her phone.”

I don’t respond.

I press play.

At first, it’s nothing but muffled sounds. The rustling of fabric. Distant voices.

But one voice cuts through.

Male.

Familiar.

I frown, turning up the volume.

Amanda’s face twists into a sneer.

“That’s Evan,” she hisses.

I whip my head toward her. “You sure?”

She scoffs. “I’ve heard that asshole talk enough times to know, yes, that is definitely him.”

Fucking hell.

I listen harder, but I still can’t pinpoint her exact location. Some kind of office, maybe? Somewhere enclosed.

It’s enough to guide our search.

I slide my gun from my holster, checking the magazine. Amanda does the same.

I glance at her. “You ever cleared a building before?”

Amanda shoots me a seriously? look while chambering a round. “Yes.”

I raise a brow. “You know, you’re full of surprises.”

“Trust me, Callahan,” she says, voice smug. “I’ve got layers.”

I nod once. “I take point. You cover me. We clear as we go. Shoot for the legs. Easier to handle clean up legally and that way they can't follow.”

She nods.

I look back at the warehouse.

Time to get my girl.

“Let’s go.”

***

The warehouse is eerily empty.

No lookouts. No guards. Just rows of crates, shelves stacked high with stolen goods—luxury handbags, high-end electronics, jewelry. They’ve been running this operation for a while.

Amanda moves ahead of me, covering the left side as I take the right.

She’s quiet. Efficient. Smooth.

And, fuck me, she knows exactly what she’s doing.

I don’t know what kind of past she has, but I’m starting to think I seriously underestimated her. She moves like someone trained. Someone used to clearing spaces and handling weapons.

Sleeper agent.

Fucking noted.

We advance, sweeping each section of the warehouse. Every turn, every blind corner, I expect to run into someone, but there’s nothing. Just silence.

Until we hear it.

Voices.

Amanda signals to me, pointing toward a door at the far end of the warehouse. I nod, pressing forward.

As we get closer, the voices become clearer.

Not just Evan.

Izzy.

She’s yelling at him, voice full of fire. That’s not good. Fuck, Izzy. She shouldn’t be doing that. Shouldn’t be goading him. But of course she is. She’s fearless. She’s reckless. She’s the strongest woman I know. And right now?

She’s in so much fucking danger.

We reach the door, flattening against the wall beside it.

Now we can hear everything.

“I am not helping you, Evan,” Izzy spits, her voice firm. “I don’t care what you do to me. I would rather die than let you use me for this.”

A long pause.

Then Evan’s voice, darker, nastier than I’ve ever heard it.

“You will do this,” he growls, “or you will die right now.”

Amanda meets my eyes, nods once.

We don’t wait.

We don’t hesitate.

We move.

I raise my boot and kick the fucking door in.

The second the door slams open, chaos erupts.

Izzy’s bound to a chair in the middle of the room, hands tied behind her back.

Evan’s in front of her, a gun in one hand, the other curled into a fist like he was about to hit her.

Not a fucking chance.

But before I can move⁠—

Amanda does.

She launches herself at Evan like a goddamn panther, grabbing his arm, twisting his wrist so fast and hard that the gun clatters to the floor. And then, in a move straight out of a fucking kung fu movie, she takes him down.

A spin. A kick. A pivot.

And then she’s got him pinned, her thighs locked around his neck and shoulders, his arms trapped in a way that no matter how much he struggles, he’s not getting free.

And just to add insult to injury?

Her bright pink gun is pressed squarely against his temple.

I would be impressed if I wasn’t so fucking focused on Izzy.

I grab my knife, cutting through the zipties at her wrists.

She sucks in a breath, flexing her fingers as soon as she’s free. I grab her hands, gently, turning them over, inspecting them.

Cuts.

Bruises.

Marks that don’t belong on her.

Marks that I wasn’t here to stop.

Rage surges inside me, but I push it down. Because right now, she is all that matters.

“Izzy.” My voice is careful. “Are you okay?”

She meets my eyes, and fuck.

She’s not just okay.

She’s furious.

A deep-seated, visceral rage burns in her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she says, but there’s murder in her tone.

I believe her.

I believe her completely.

But still, I tuck a hand under her chin, tilt her face up, searching. Just to be sure. Just to see if there’s any fear.

There isn’t.

I squeeze her hand, then turn to Evan, still struggling beneath Amanda.

I grab the rope he used to tie Izzy up and yank it forward.

“Let him go,” I tell Amanda. “I’ve got him.”

She nods, pressing the barrel of her gun into Evan’s skull before finally releasing him.

I twist the rope around his wrists tight, securing him to one of the rusted metal poles in the center of the room. He groans as I wrench it a little harder than necessary.

“Sit tight,” I growl.

I turn back to Amanda, who is now face-to-face with Izzy.

And that’s when it hits Izzy.

Her eyes widen as she takes in Amanda.

Her slightly smudged mascara. The dead serious look on her face. And most importantly⁠—

The fucking pink gun still in her hand.

“Wait—WHAT?” Izzy sputters, looking between me and Amanda. “Why are you here? And why the fuck do you have a pink gun?”

Amanda cocks a hip. “Why wouldn’t I have a pink gun?”

Izzy stares at her. Blinks. Then rubs her temples.

“You know what? Actually? This strangely makes sense to me.”

Amanda grins, shoving the gun back in her purse.

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “Amanda, take Izzy to the car. Call 911. I need a minute alone with our friend here.”

But this time?

It’s not Amanda who argues.

It’s Izzy.

She stands, stepping closer, her breath still coming fast, her body still radiating pure, unfiltered fury.

“Wait,” she says, her voice calm but deadly. “I need to do something first.”

Amanda and I exchange a glance.

I nod, stepping aside, watching.

Izzy turns to Evan. Her whole body is loose, but I know better.

She’s not relaxed.

She’s dangerous.

Evan sneers. “What the fuck are you⁠—”

Izzy punches him.

Hard.

His head snaps to the side. Blood spurts from his nose.

He grunts, groaning in pain, but Izzy is not done.

Not even close.

She leans in. “You thought you could ruin me?” she whispers, her tone pure venom. “That you could control me? That you could manipulate me into being some tool for your pathetic fucking crime ring?”

Evan’s breathing hard now, struggling against the ropes, but she keeps going.

“You spent years grooming me, trying to break me, trying to mold me into your perfect little pawn.” She lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “And you thought you were so fucking smart.”

She leans in closer. “But look at you now.”

Evan growls, jerking against the ropes.

Izzy?

She just steps back.

Turns to me.

And lifts her chin.

“I’m ready to go now.”

If I didn’t already love this woman, I would now.

Amanda grabs at Izzy’s wrist. “Let’s go, rage queen.”

I watch them leave, my chest aching with pride.

And then?

Then it’s just me and Evan.

And he is about to experience a very different side of me.