As much as I hate it, I can’t argue with the man. Not only is he the president of the club, he’s also one hundred percent right. Blair isn’t mine. She’s not my responsibility or my woman. Hell, she’s not even my friend. I don’t know her at all.
So why can’t I let it go?
“We good?” Judge asks, tipping his beer bottle in my direction.
Reaching out, I tap his bottle with my own. “Yeah, man. We’re cool.”
“Good.” Judge puts the bottle to his lips and drains the rest of its contents in one long pull. “Now, get outta here. I see a blonde over there who looks like she could use a little attention.”
I glance behind me, scan the room for the blonde he’s referring to, and spot her in the corner, her hair teased high, her dress practically painted on. “Wear a cock sock, bro,” I warn, pushing up from the table. “That one’s got a lot of experience with male attention.”
Judge grins and plops his empty bottle down on the table, his eyes never leaving the woman across the room. “Always do, GP. Always do.”
And that’s the end of the conversation. I watch with amusement as Judge approaches the blonde, chuckling a little when her arms not-so-subtly push her tits together, making her cleavage more pronounced.
Oh, yeah. Judge is definitely going to need a cock sock.
I sit in silence for a few more minutes, my gaze wandering over the busy bar. All around me, people are laughing, drinking, and having a good time. More than a few of them call my name, inviting me to join them, but I nod and wave them off, not sure I can take on an actual conversation right now.
All I can think about is Blair. Is she home? Is she safe? Did she remember to lock her door? Are the police doing regular patrols?
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. Digging into my pocket, I throw a twenty-dollar bill down on the table before heading through the crowd and out the door.
I get why Judge doesn’t want to involve the club in whatever it is Blair’s gotten mixed up in, but I can’t stay uninvolved. I held this woman in my arms as she lay unconscious on her floor. I paced around the hospital while we waited for word from the doctors she was going to be all right.
Blair Thompson may not be my girl, but every freckle on her face is etched into my memory. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let anything happen to her. Club or no club, I’ll personally make sure that asshole never gets within a hundred yards of her again.
Blair
“Jinx!” I holler at the streak of black fur skidding away after nearly tripping me for the sixth time today. “I can’t feed you if you trip and kill me!”
Jinx halts near the kitchen door, and peers back at me, licking her paw in absolute disinterest.
“Some friend you are,” I mutter under my breath. I’m more like the butler to her furry highness as far as she’s concerned.
Jinx trots off down the hall, disappearing with a meow. I roll my eyes at her insolence before turning back to wash the dirty dishes in the sink.
The minute I’d walked back into the house under the watchful eye of the douchebag detective and his band of not so merry junior detectives two days ago, she was my shadow. I can’t use the restroom, eat, or even sleep—what little sleep I’m getting, anyway—without her pawing at me. At first, it was annoying, but now, it’s oddly comforting to know someone cares enough to check up on me. Well, cares enough to make sure I’m still breathing and able to feed her, that is.
I’d tried to find an affordable hotel to relocate to for a few days so the police would have more time to track down my attacker, but my funds were too tight. Amazon had even failed me with affordable security systems. I can’t afford a gun—though, if you asked just about any Texan, we should all be given one at birth, as common as they are around here. My grandmother was staunchly against them, and if anyone dared to cross her threshold with one holstered to their hip, she shooed them out with her broom until they put it elsewhere.
Staying put is my only option. To stay in the house where every thud, car going by, or noise outside makes my heart pound out of my chest and my skin crawl. The stain of my own blood on the hardwood floor may be gone from the naked eye, but it’s still fresh in my mind. Bleach can’t wipe away the emotional and mental stain, no matter how hard I try to put it out of my head.
He’s still in there, torturing me from the inside. I can only hope that once my advising program professor is back in the office, she’ll be willing to see me one-on-one to help me work through this.
Today has been much easier, though, aside from Jinx’s aggressive attempts at affection. I spent most of the daylight hours asleep on the couch, with only a few instances of waking up in a panic when the loud roar of a motorcycle kept passing by the house in the early morning hours. I don’t know who owns that thing, but they really need to find a different route to ride, and soon. Every rev of that engine put me on pins and needles, causing me to scramble off the couch. It took over an hour to calm myself down before I could finally fall asleep again.
Had my stomach not woken me up a few hours later, I might’ve slept through the entire evening and night.
Jinx rubs up against me while I cook dinner, begging for her own meal. I give in, as it’s the only way I’m going to eat my own meal in peace.
I’m drying my hands at the sink when a sharp knock comes from the front door.
“Shit!” The unexpected intrusion sends my heart galloping at a pace that makes me sway on my feet. The towel falls into the soapy sink, sending bubbles flying up onto my shirt and face.
Breathe, Blair. It’s broad daylight. He’s not going to come back now. Not with the constant parade of patrol cars cruising by several times an hour.
I pad quietly to the edge of kitchen and peer down the hallway. The knocking comes again, but this time, with more force and intent. Moving one foot at a time, I inch closer to the door, breathing heavily with each step. Looking through the peephole, I spy a man in a suit standing on the porch with a microphone in his hand, and a camera crew behind him.
“Miss Thompson,” a male voice calls out. Shit. He must’ve heard me. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“What do you want?” My voice cracks as I move farther away from the front window, hiding behind the door with my back pressed against it.
“I’m Rich Van Nees with Channel Four News. I’d like to talk to you about your attack.”
“No interviews,” I call back, checking the lock. I doubt they would try to barge into my house, but I’m not about to take that chance. This guy’s known for pushing his way into getting the impossible story. I remember watching the news with grandmother where he bum-rushed a physician accused of prescription drug abuse in the middle of an exam. This guy’s the equivalent of an ambulance chasing scumbag lawyer.
“Miss Thompson, please. We want to tell your story.”
“The police are handling my case. Talk to them. I can’t give you anything more than their investigation can tell you.
“We want to talk to you.” This time, I take notice of the annoyance in his voice.
He then mumbles for someone to ready their camera if I open the door. Fat chance of that happening. No good would come from me parading myself on the nightly local news. I don’t need to paint a bigger target on my back, seeing as I’m continuing to remain at the scene of the crime. The beacon’s bright enough on its own. The sooner reporters forget about my story, the better it’ll be for me.