Zero: A protective hero romantic suspense, page 6
Her word choice isn’t too far from what I’m doing though I truly don’t mean her any harm. She’s hurting and struggling, and I won’t stand by and let that happen. Not if there’s something I can do.
“I’m not trying to scare or stalk you. Only help you.”
Snorting, she rolls her eyes. “Help me? I don’t need your help. You can’t just follow me, show up at the shooting range, my place of work, and who knows where else you’ve been lurking.”
She shivers and instead of taking another step back or leaving, she presses her hips against the table. Her eyes dart down to the cutlery or more specifically, the knife.
Before I can react, realizing her intent, she nicks the steak knife and slips her arm under the table. The knife may be out of sight, but I’m not out of danger.
Fuck.
Her forearm presses into my thigh and though I can’t feel it, I’m certain the blade is an inch or less from my groin.
“Look, mister, I don’t know who you are, but I’m tired of you showing up in my life. Tired of you knowing things about me that you have no right to know. Who are you?”
My fingers wrap around her wrist to hold the knife steady and an electric current channels through me. “My name’s Zero.”
She stiffens, eyes flaring wide for a beat, and what looks like satisfaction on her face quickly mutates into annoyance as my name sinks in. “Zero?” She snorts. “You expect me to believe you? I’ve had enough—”
My fingers squeeze her slender wrist at the slightest movement she makes. The blade is still a little too close to my crotch, and it wouldn’t take much for her to do some serious damage.
While I don’t plan on making any sudden moves, I need her calm and focused, and for her to understand that I’m not playing games or lying.
She snarls and bares her teeth. “You better start talking or I’ll cut off your balls.”
7
MORGAN
“I’m not lying. My name’s Zero.” Ever so slightly a muscle in his jaw twitches, and I can’t tell if it means he’s lying or if it’s just that, a tic and nothing more.
I roll my eyes as every word out of my mouth drips with sarcasm. “Right, and my name is One.”
The edges of his lips quirk up, but he quickly gains control and they slide back into a flat line. He’s holding back a grin, and normally I’d be amused or even satisfied with the idea of this inscrutable man reacting to something I said. But I’m more annoyed than anything else. I’ve got bigger problems aside from the obvious—is he a threat?
My head pounds, body aches, and my eyes burn with no one to blame for my malaise but me and my senseless decision to mix drugs and alcohol last night.
“I have been watching you, but only—”
My too tight lungs cause me to gasp for air, and I pull my hand from under the table, needing to put space between us.
“Oh, no way.” I drop the knife with a clatter onto the tabletop and spin on my heel, giving him my back. I need this guy to leave me alone. “I’m calling the cops.”
On his feet in a flash, he grabs my arm and like before, our connection, his touch, causes a warm tingle to course through my veins. What the hell?
“Wait. It isn’t what you think.” He releases his grip the instant I stiffen but remains close. “I think I can help.”
Still wary, I gauge the distance between this man and Des, the closest one to us. Easily fifty feet. If I slam the heel of my hand into his throat or stomp on his foot with everything I’ve got, I may be able to make it to Des before he catches me.
Confidently, I look him in the eye. “What makes you think I need help?”
“At the gun range, I got the sense you’re dealing with something and then last night while working, you were a mess.”
My stomach roils like a rogue wave. “You were here last night?”
He nods and at the same time, leather and spice permeate the air around us. His scent tweaks something in my foggy brain.
This morning in my apartment when I was getting ready, I smelled shades of tobacco and an earthy spice. Like him. Like now. But how is that possible? Todd took me home.
“Were you in my apartment last night?”
He arches a brow. “You remember that?”
My heart slams against my breastbone at his unabashed response. Why didn’t I take a Xanax this morning? When I woke up, I felt like shit and made a vow to get my act together. But what’s the point?
Anxiety ricochets from one organ to another like a pinball battering my insides. Zero was in my apartment, or whatever the hell his name is, and I can’t remember it.
“Morgan.” He raises his hand as if to touch me but thinks better of it. “Are you okay? I understand this is a shock. I saw Todd carry you into your apartment and leave, and I only went in because I was concerned.”
“So what you’re saying is I didn’t invite you in, correct?” Without waiting for his response, I continue, “You broke into my apartment.”
“I wouldn’t say it like that but yes, I did go into your apartment.”
“Without my permission.”
He echoes my sharp tone with a brusque nod but offers no further explanation or excuse.
Bolstered by his easy admission, I place my hands on my hips. “You do realize you’ve told me enough to get you into a lot of trouble with the police. Maybe even a restraining order.”
He gives me another nod. Something about how unruffled he is—his unreadable gaze, his verdant eyes smooth and serene like the surface of an undisturbed body of water, his whole demeanor—somehow lessens my anxiety. Though it should do the opposite and makes no sense at all. This guy admitted to breaking into my place.
“Do you ever lie?”
“Not really. I don’t see the point, and I’ve been lied to enough to know the truth eventually comes out. Always.”
That one response gives me so much more about this man than anything he’s said to me so far.
“Who’s lied to you?”
Did he have his heart broken by a liar? A girlfriend or boyfriend? His parents? Best friend?
“Who hasn’t lied to me is a better question.”
I want to know more than his vague comeback. I want to know everything and yet I have no right to any of his story in the same way he has no right to mine. Yet here we are.
“So you’ve never lied.”
“I never said that.” His thumb rubs along his right eyebrow as he glances around the bar. “There are times when a lie is necessary even if you know the truth will be out someday.”
“O-kay, and why aren’t you lying to me? You’ve basically admitted to breaking the law.”
“Because I meant what I said. I want to help and lying to you defeats the purpose.”
“And now the creepy vibe is back. I don’t need your help.” I step backward and his gaze sharpens. “And what you did was also stupid. You’re going to get shot breaking into people’s homes. I have a gun, remember.”
“True, and I don’t make a habit of doing things like that.” He slides back into the chair as if settling in for a long conversation. Like we’re friends. “And in your case, last night, I figured the odds were in my favor. You weren’t in any shape to stand on your own two feet, much less shoot me.”
My stomach bottoms out at the mention of my intoxication. Heat rises up my neck and into my face, and along with it comes anger. I’m a wreck, my life’s a disaster, and I don’t need this jackass reminding me of it.
“Zero.” I try his supposed name on for size and it sounds weird, like a lie. “I want you to leave me alone. I don’t want your help and I don’t want you at the Lounge, the shooting range, my apartment, or anywhere else that I am. Got it?”
“Hey, Morgan.” Todd comes from behind and places a hand on my shoulder before glancing to Zero. “Sorry to interrupt.” Then he turns to me, keen eyes examining every inch of my face. “You good? Do you need help with your tables?”
My rosy cheeks redden, burning with embarrassment. Todd saw me at my worst yesterday, and now he’s only trying to be a good friend though it feels a lot like rubbing salt into the gaping wound of last night.
Since talking to Zero, I’d forgotten about my section and other patrons who may have since come in. I groan and step away from both men.
“No, I’ve got it.” As I walk toward a table of four, I glance over my shoulder at Zero. “I’ll be back.”
Todd follows and stands off to one side while I greet the family and take their order. Then he matches me stride for stride toward the kitchen.
“Is everything all right?” He grips my hand and I stop beside him.
My friend stares with his puppy dog eyes, so eager for me to see him as more than a friend.
Guilt journeys through my chest like a herd of buffalo trampling across a beautiful rose garden. He’s a great friend and any woman would be lucky to catch his eye. I’m not that woman.
“I’m fine but a little backed up now.” I peer at another table I have to tend to, both men glowering at me, clearly aware that I’m their server and I’ve neglected them. “I’ve got to get to work.” I pull from his hold. “But Todd, thanks so much for last night.”
It’s several food and drink orders later before I return to Zero’s table. He’s waiting patiently. I felt his gaze on me as I worked the floor, making my way from the tables to the bar and the kitchen. Hot and unrelenting.
The frosted beer mug makes a thud as I plunk it onto the table in front of him. “Here. Now start talking. I’ve only got a few minutes. And tell me your order while you’re at it.”
Pen poised over my note pad, I stare at him expectantly. I’ve had time to mull over an approach to get him talking, and no matter how much he stalls, I want answers.
He pushes the mug of beer to the other side of the table and his upper lip curls. “I didn’t order this.”
“I know, but you looked like you could use it.”
“I rarely drink and don’t want it. Take it back.”
He isn’t kidding, and something about his rigid posture and granite jawline tells me if I were to leave the beer with him, he’d get up and return it to the bar himself.
I shrink a little at the determination rolling off him in waves, wishing I had an ounce of his willpower when it comes to pills or booze.
“Okay.” I relent and draw the cool sweating mug toward me. “What do you want to drink?”
“Water.”
I shrug, not surprised by his response. I’m starting to get a better picture of this guy. Is he one of those people who feel their body is their temple?
“And to eat?”
“The Sonoma salad with chicken. Ranch dressing on the side.”
I scribble down his order then stare at him, waiting for what I want the most. “And?”
He isn’t in the least bit perturbed by my agitation and prodding and remains silent.
Dropping my arm to my side, I sigh, exhausted with this cat and mouse game. “Start talking.”
His intense green eyes never waver from me, giving me nothing to work with.
“Listen, I’m only going to say this once. This is your last chance to tell me everything or I’ll call the cops.” I bend, leaning in so he’s the only one to hear me though the loud music and chatter around us already make that difficult.
“If I have to, I will get a restraining order. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. And I don’t know why you seem to think I need your help. I don’t. So talk now or this is going to end ugly.”
Casually, as if we’re old friends shooting the shit, he relaxes into the chair and stretches his arm out across the back of the one next to him. “I promise to tell you everything if you go on a date with me.”
I draw back at the word “date” like I’ve been punched, and air catches in my lungs. Confusion, anxiety, and a strange arousing sensation, warm and prickling, dance up my spine.
This is wrong.
I haven’t been on a date since…
Since that night.
As if sensing my inner turmoil or maybe it’s his own, his posture turns taut. “No, not da-ate. Poor word choice.”
Does he know what going on a date means to me? The substance and destruction it carries?
He seems flustered though it’s somewhat controlled and fleeting when he clears his throat and gains his composure.
“Morgan, spend the day with me tomorrow and I’ll tell you everything.”
“I have to work.” It’s a lie.
“No, you don’t.” There’s a flash of mischief in his gaze like he’s daring me to challenge him.
He’s confident that I’ve lied. The truth is on his side.
“Fine.” I press my lips together, gathering the strength to continue this battle with him. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you. Why can’t you talk now?”
As if Zero planned the interruption, a guy, not even three feet away at another table, raises his arm in the air to flag me down.
“Hey, Miss.” He holds up his plate with a burger and fries.
He’s at a table in my section. He’s my customer, and he asked for ketchup about five or was it ten minutes ago. Shit.
I hold up a finger and nod. “Yes, I’ll be right there.”
Zero taps the table to punctuate how inappropriate it would be to have our conversation here and now. “We can’t talk. You’re working.”
And I can’t argue with him. Almost all my tables are now full, and I’ll be running, on my feet until after happy hour.
For the most part, the lunch crowd is quiet and manageable, but generally, more people trickle in throughout the afternoon and by happy hour, the Emerald is jumping.
I mumble I’ll be back and take care of a few tables as well as put his order in. It turns out, I don’t return to Zero until his salad is ready, depositing it on the table along with his water.
“I won’t go anywhere with you. We’ll talk here. For all I know, you’ll kidnap me and take me to Randy Poole.” His name singes my tongue and eats at my insides. “Let him finish me off.”
Zero doesn’t miss a beat at the mention of Randy, and that sets the hairs on the back of my neck to standing.
No questions, confusion, or hesitation. He knows who I’m referring to and likely what Randy did.
Who the hell is this guy?
“Morgan, we can’t talk here. We’ll be interrupted by people you know.” He’s right, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that fact.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I echo the words like a mantra and fold my arms over my middle, counting the seconds because I can’t stay standing at his table for long. My other customers are waiting.
He sips his water and lifts his fork. “Tell Lorna or Todd that you’ll be with me.” The tines spear a bite of lettuce, chicken, and tomato on the plate in front of him. “Lorna’s met me. Tell her your plans so she knows where you are.”
It takes a moment to process what he’s saying. I’m stuck on “Lorna has met me.” My memory of the night before is hazy with moments of nothingness though Lorna did mention a customer asking about me. She even pointed to the table but the guy wasn’t there.
“That was you? Last night.” My stomach spirals and dread seeps into my bones causing my muscles and joints to stiffen, cold and heavy.
My uncertainty about this guy multiplies and so do my questions. If he isn’t related to Randy Poole in some way, then who is he and why does he keep popping up wherever I am?
He’s made no secret of his interest in me, of supposedly wanting to help me, and all I want is to run far, far away from him. But oddly, it isn’t fear that causes this impulse.
No, it’s something else, something unnameable but no less compelling.
A different kind of panic, as if this guy knows way more than I’d ever dare tell anyone, and I’m scared to death he sees me, knows my every secret, my every horror.
As if oblivious to the torment he’s stirring, he nods while chewing on his food, and in that split second, I’ve had enough.
“You scare the shit out of me. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Morgan.” His voice is scratchy and rough, and he drops the fork. His piercing glaze flicks to mine. “Do you want answers?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Then give me a few hours. We won’t be alone, and I’ll tell you everything.”
8
MORGAN
I scramble to answer the call and struggle to wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear. “Hey, Grace. How are you?”
“Hi, Morgan. I’m good. And you?”
Like everything else this morning, I’m struggling to catch up and get ready for my date with Zero. I overslept.
No, no, no. This isn’t a date—more like a root canal.
After the back and forth last night, I surrendered to Zero’s terms. He’s supposed to be here in less than ten minutes.
Despite everything to the contrary, his stalker vibe faded the more we talked and most importantly, I wanted answers, driven to find out more about this man and why or how he seems to think he can help me.
No one can help me.
“Morgan? You still there?” Grace’s worried lilt tugs me back to my apartment, our conversation, and the last minute things I still need to do.
“Sorry. I’m here.” I arbitrarily rake a brush through my hair before racing back into the bedroom. “I’m just scattered and trying to get ready.”
“Oh. You’re going out? I thought today was your day off.”
Her simple question causes my feet to stutter. She knows my schedule almost as well as I do, and that my days off are sacred. I do nothing.
Grace was the only one of Cary’s family to fly out from LA on news of his death. That’s how we met, and when I went to LA for his funeral, I ended up staying with her. What was meant to be a two-day stay in a hotel turned into a week.
And when I returned home, we kept texting and talking, and for some time now, we’ve gotten into a routine of talking for hours on my days off and sometimes, we even watch a movie or two together.
