“Who’s the loser now, bitch?” he rasps.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Noah
I pull into Bobbi’s driveway. The lights are on in her living room behind closed curtains. The engagement ring feels like a box of lead in my pocket, rather than a beautiful dream and hope. Bobbi said she wanted to talk, not take me back.
Besides, I want to propose to Bobbi in an unforgettable way. A gorgeous villa on a stunning beach with a thousand white calla lilies, a thousand candles and the beautiful strains of a violin. Plus a bucket of champagne and her favorite nama-cream cake.
That’s the least she deserves.
But I exit the car with the box in my pocket anyway, like it’smymanifestation ring. My hand closes over it like a talisman. Bobbi has a ring to help manifest her future, so why not me?
The late evening air feels cooler than usual. I stretch my neck left and right, trying to ease the tension.
When a woman says she wants to talk, it usually doesn’t have a happy ending. But Bobbi is different.We’redifferent. We have to be.
I start toward the house. Something white streaks across my path, and I jump back, adrenaline pumping.
“Jesus…” I squint. “Señor Mittens?”
The cat hisses.
“Whoa, what’s the matter? You forgetting I’m the one who brings you caviar and cream?”
Señor Mittens’s eyes narrow. If he could speak, he’d call me a dumbass.
“What’s the deal?”
The hair on his back rises, and he lets out another sharp hiss. The sound skitters like a viper, and all my senses bristle with warning.
My eyes dart toward the house. At the lights in the living room. Señor Mittens shouldn’t be out and about, reacting to me like this.
Bobbi’s cat doesn’t normally go out of the house, not like this. Every time I snuck in to lavish luxurious meals on him, he’d stay put. And in the evenings he prefers to sit by the window and groom himself or curl up next to Bobbi, even while acting like it’s a torture to be close to a human.
Something is definitely off.
I glance at the house next to hers—Trey Underhill’s home. Empty driveway, and the lights are out, except for one in the back. I return to my car and grab some of my go-to tools. I’ve never been in the Boy Scouts, but I live by their motto:Be prepared.
This might be nothing. I could be making things worse. Señor Mittens might’ve decided he hates me because Bobbi’s done with me. But every instinct screams danger.
I screw the suppressor on to my gun, then check to make sure it’s fully loaded and ready. Satisfied, I put on four-tube night vision goggles and slip into Bobbi’s laundry room through the secondary entrance in the back. Thankfully, the hinges remain quiet. My steps are silent and sure. Grunts and the sounds of fleshy impacts come from the living room. A chill ripples over me.
“Who’s the loser now, bitch?”
No, Bobbi!
I flip the main breaker and darkness swallows the house. A swift curse follows. I step out of the laundry room into the hallway.
Time slows as my heart thunders in my ears. A few more paces and I’m at the door to the living room. Trey and Bobbi are on the floor, blood on both their faces and clothes. He has a pistol with a silencer in his hand, wavering between Bobbi and the doorway I’m standing in.
“Give it up, Trey,” I say.
“Too late, hero!”
He swings the gun in her direction as a half-smile, half-grimace stretches his mouth. It’s the face of a man who knows he’s fucked and refuses to go down alone.
Boom, boom, boom, my heart beats like a war drum. “No!”Bobbi!
