If I’m unsafe.
There is a saying that it’s always the ones you least expect, right?
What if Sam is the one I should be worried about?
What if I made a mistake in choosing him to protect me?
Chapter Ten
Jaxon
After booking my room and calling in a favor with Vincent, his tech guy gets into the hotel’s system with ease to adjust the rooms. Amelia and I will be on the same floor, side-by-side, adjoining if possible—all the little conveniences that make stalking less messy and more… efficient. And yes, let’s call a spade a spade. What I’m doing is stalking. I know this. I’m well aware. And I am entirely okay with it.
I’m risking a lot by doing this—being caught in public is the worst possible scenario. If Sailor sees me, she could freak. Cause a scene. Call the cops. Ruin the progress I’ve made with her.
But it’s worth it.
I packed light, knowing I wouldn’t need much. Sweatpants and a T-shirt for the room, jeans and a hoodie for nighttime roaming if necessary, and slacks and a button-up for venturing through the hotel. Nothing to attract attention, just enough to fit in. It’s what I’m best at—fitting in, sneaking by, being ignored.
I take my laptop, my headphones, and the contact microphone Vincent got his hands on and overnighted to me. I already have it hooked up against the wall, ready for use.
The hotel is newer than most places around here. Glass and chrome, bad lighting in all the right places—it’s the kind of place that smells like citrus, drunken nights, and affairs.
I got here midmorning and checked in under a name that isn’t mine, even though it was when I signed up. Vincent said it was better to be safe than sorry and had his guy change it.
He could have done something better than Ben Foster, if you ask me. The clerk was friendly, as they usually are, and handed me two keys, even though I stated I wouldn’t have any guests. Men made of money came and went as I walked to the elevator, plenty of them with woman who aren’t their wives, hanging from their arms. That’s the kind of place this is—the kind of place my little dove shouldn’t be, especially not alone with her flirtatious friend.
The room has been quiet, not a single thing out of place. Not a stain on the carpet or a scuff on the wall. There’s even a folded towel-whale on the bed that I haven’t removed yet.
My cell dings with a text.
Vincent: Good to go.
I go to the desk where my laptop is set up, and open the email that just came through. I install the program, open it up, and watch the little squares bloom across the screen: entrances, the valet, the corridor near the pool, the staircase the girls might use. I don’t need to see the inside of their room. I just need to know when they show so I can listen and make sure they get to their room without issue.
There’s a knock on the door, quick and sharp, followed by, “Room service!”
I’d ordered only a short time ago, but if there’s anything these hotels are good at, it’s spoiling people with money.
I open the door and let the staff wheel in the cart. He sets down the plates on the small table in the corner by the couch, each covered by silver cloches that he leaves on. I give him a hefty tip and lock the door when he leaves.
A burrata salad, a steak cooked medium with a side of roasted potatoes, a bottle of water and a bottle of bourbon because this is going to be a good night in. I hardly cook for myself. I don’t go out to eat. Usually, I’m ordering fast food or whatever is open late. I’m looking forward to this meal.
For an hour I stare at the screen, counting the seconds between arrivals at the valet and check-ins at the front desk. The girls will likely stop for coffee. Maybe take some photos in the lobby—but they won’t be posted online. Sailor hasn’t posted anything to give away her location. She truly thinks I don’t know where she is. They should be arriving any moment though, because I saw Sailor leave the house on the cameras. Before she left, she told Sam that Amelia was waiting outside for her.
I replay the last call between Amelia and her in my head—the edge in Sailor’s voice when she talked about leaving, the way she said Sam’s name like it was a thorn she was trying to remove but couldn’t. It grates on my nerves. She knows he isn’t what she needs. Hell, not even a small part of her wants him. So what the fuck is she still doing there?
My hands know how to bring pain and how to stop it. I want both in measured doses, and for now I choose protection the way other men choose flowers. It’s all I know. It’s what I’m comfortable with. Protection for me is proximity. It’s watching and waiting and preparing.. It’s being close enough to intercept threats and close enough to . . . claim small victories.
Still, there’s a pulsing part of me I don’t like admitting, because it could mean something about me that I don’t want to accept—it’s the part that enjoys the structure of it: sliding through corridors, placing myself into her day without her permission, pushing the limits and boundaries. The problem is… she likes it too. She feeds this need in me, making it grow, like some poisonous plant.
At two in the afternoon they finally pull into the valet and get out of the car—I’d recognize Sailor’s hair anywhere. The car doors shut. They laugh, linking their arms as they walk inside, the staff pulling their bags from the car to bring in after them.
I close the laptop and slip my keycard into my pocket. When I’m in the elevator heading down, I pull my hood closer over my eyes. Bold of me to go down, I know, but I need to see her, be close to her. I’m tired of the videos and recordings. I need the real thing again, and after the other night… it’s impossible to ignore my cravings.
Who knew I would become so obsessed just from reading someone’s diary?
But of course it’s more than that. So much more than that. I know that.
