When I was trying to write and someone was interrupting me for no good reason? Yeah, absolutely. “Was there something you wanted?”

Blake stalked toward me. “As silent partner, I’m protective of this place and CCC. I don’t want either of them to get undeserved negative attention. The things I said pissed you off. I get that. But I can’t apologize for being protective of my businesses.”

“Oh. Okay.” And I went right back to my cell phone.

Blake sighed. “It’s dumb to hold a petty grudge against me. You and I might not agree on whether your being here is good for the bar, but it’s not something you need to get in a funk over.”

I frowned. Petty grudge? Get in a funk over? He could not be believed. I leaned forward a little. “Let’s be clear on something. You have absolutely no idea or say in what I can, can’t, or need to do, Mercier. Do I like that you made judgements about me based on the word of one person? No. Who would? But I’m not holding a grudge. I’m not in a funk. I just don’t like you.”

His eyes briefly gleamed with what could have been amusement. “Is that right?”

“Yes, it is.”

His hand flew out and caught my wrist. For a single moment, I thought he was making a grab for my phone—which would have earned him a punch to the face. But then he rubbed his thumb over the inside of my wrist, brow creased, and I understood.

I held up my other arm. “No scar there either. Found a good plastic surgeon.”

“Did you now?” said Blake, voice even. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if a surgeon really could fully remove such scars. They could be highly minimized, sure, but if I’d truly slit my wrists, there probably would still have been something there. A faint line or an indentation of some kind.

“I want my hand back,” I said. He circled my pulse with his thumb one last time, and then he let go, but my skin still tingled from his touch. Why was this even happening? He wasn’t my type at all. Too intense. Too dominant. Too … calm. I went for guys who were fun and playful. This guy was composed in a way that was genuinely intimidating. It was also kind of hot, if I was honest. Not even the blatant danger he exuded dulled his appeal. Which just went to show that my sexual antenna had no common sense.

“Did you try to kill yourself?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

“Libby Williams believes that you did it.”

“Then it must be true.” I unscrewed the cap from my bottle and took a long swig of water. “You shouldn’t be asking me, though. Haven’t you heard? I’m a crackhead. We drug addicts have a habit of stretching the truth.”

“If you didn’t try to commit suicide, why would you let people think differently?”

“Go ask Libby. Apparently, you find her an authority on me and my life.”

Screwing the cap back on the bottle, I stood. But he didn’t move back. He stayed right where he was, staring down at me, and … shit, it was like little sparks bounced from me to him. The heat between us was as palpable as it was unbearable. His scent—dark and mysterious—snaked around me, teased my senses, and drew me in just as powerfully as those hard eyes. I doubted that any female who’d been the focal point of his attention that way had ever done anything but melt into a puddle at his feet.

I didn’t melt for anyone.

“I really don’t think your girlfriend would like how close you’re standing to me,” I said. “Unless this whole looming-over-me business is just you trying to intimidate me. She might get a kick out of that.”

His brow pinched slightly. “Girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend. Fuck-buddy. Booty call. Whatever Libby is to you.”

“Libby’s none of those things to me.”

I hated that part of me was glad of that. I didn’t want to care.

“What’s Cade to you?”

Now it was my turn to frown. “Important. We share everything—even crack.” His cell phone began to ring, but he didn’t move to answer it. Didn’t even break eye contact with me. “You should probably get that.”

“Probably.” But he sipped his coffee instead. His eyes dropped to the pendant on my silver necklace. He fingered it gently. “Pretty.”

It was. The pendant was two thick angel wings folded over so that one slightly overlapped the other. “Thanks.” The hairs on my nape suddenly lifted and it felt like something was burning a hole between my shoulder blades. I slowly turned, running my gaze over every inch of my surroundings. There was plenty of people around—some simply walked along the street; others were moving in and out of stores. But no one stood out. No one appeared to be paying me a blind bit of notice. This shit with the mysterious Smith was fucking with my head, making me paranoid.

“What’s wrong?” asked Blake.

Blanking my expression, I turned back to him. “Thought I heard someone call my name.” I rolled back my shoulders. “My break’s over. See you around.” I brushed past him and walked straight into the bar, relieved he didn’t follow me. Blake Mercier might be walking, talking temptation, but he wasn’t for me.

Collecting empty glasses, Sarah frowned at whatever she saw on my face. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” I said.

“No, it’s not. And you’re going to tell me why.” That fierce expression was one I’d seen plenty of times before—it meant she wasn’t going to back down. So it was really no surprise that she turned up at my apartment later that day. She practically stormed inside as she said, “Something’s going on with you. Don’t say there isn’t, Kensey. I won’t buy it.”

With a resigned sigh, I sank into the sofa and curled my legs under me. Honestly, it would be a relief to tell someone about the Smith situation. The stress of it had weighed on my chest. I hadn’t initially mentioned it to anyone for two reasons—one, I was used to shoveling my own shit. Two, I hadn’t properly absorbed what was going on; it simply felt too surreal.

Surreal or not, it was happening and I couldn’t ignore it. “You have to promise you won’t repeat this to a single soul.”

A little mollified, Sarah nodded and made herself comfortable on the armchair. “Okay, tell me.”

I licked the front of my teeth. “A week ago, I received an email. Well, my penname received one. It was from a reader, John Smith. It contained a link for a website that’s an internet community for writers to share their stories. One of his stories … it was about me, Sarah.”

She tilted her head. “About you?”

“Pretty much. The character’s name was Kelsey Irons, and she wrote horror books under the penname ‘Tina Bowden.’ Kelsey’s father, not her stepfather, was a serial killer. There were so many details from my life—the bullying, the goth phase, even the time I was held at knifepoint by a mugger. No real names were mentioned—not even Michael’s. But it was my life.”

Sarah blew out a stunned breath, her face strained with lines of worry. “There’s more,” she guessed.

“The end of the story was beyond weird.”

Swallowing, Sarah rubbed at her throat. “The situation itself is weird enough.”

“The story ended with my death. In the last chapter, I died when I was held by knifepoint. As you know, that was two years ago. In the story, I didn’t escape with only a slice on my lip. I was stabbed to death multiple times.”