Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (11 page)

A girl runs by, laughing suddenly. And then a guy runs after her, grabbing her.

They meet, and twirl in the empty street, her arms around his neck.

Oh.

I'm an idiot.

I slowly stand up, cramped from crouching behind a garbage can. They hear me and look over, surprised. Then they run up the stairs of the building across the way. They're too caught up in each other to worry about me.

I shake my head and start walking home. I turn onto my street, and that's when I hear them again: footsteps. Slow, steady, the slight slip of a shoe on street grit. I stop, and the footsteps stop. I get out my phone, my hand shaking. I know it's nothing—it's probably nothing—but it's like
Game of Thrones
in my mind. Suddenly the night is dark and full of terrors.

I force myself to walk slowly and steadily. I'm in the shadows, but there's one lone streetlamp up ahead. I'll have to walk through its pool of yellow light, and then my apartment is on the left. I'll be home. I'll be safe.

I call Kat as I walk. It goes straight to voicemail. "Kat, sweetie, call me when you get this," I say quietly. I call Gray next, but it just rings and rings. His voicemail is full.

Fuck.

The footsteps are louder now, more confident. I turn slightly, but I can't pretend I'm doing anything other than what I'm doing: checking to see who's behind me.

I don't see
anyone
, and the footsteps stop suddenly, and that freaks me out more than anything.

I turn around and fucking bolt towards my building.

I have my keys in my hand, ready to unlock the outer security door just as fast as I can. I veer left, run toward the door and…stop short.

It's open.

That's not entirely unusual, since our building is falling apart and our landlord doesn't care. I can't hear the footsteps behind me, but I'm too scared to turn around. Like a child's boogeyman, maybe if I don't see him, he doesn't exist.

I reach my hand out and slowly push the door open. It creaks. The lock's been broken, the wood damaged.

I don't think. Well, I
do
think. I tell myself,
Don't call him, don't call him, don't call him
. The same thing I've been telling myself all week.

But I'm terrified, and Chase's last words echo through my mind:
I'll always have your back, if you need a friend.

Chase picks up on the second ring.

"Princess," he drawls. He sounds like he's lounging on a porch in bayou country, sipping moonshine or some shit.

"Chase," I whisper. I glance back at the street—no one's following me inside. Yet.

His tone changes immediately. "What's wrong, Elle?"

"I'm sorry to call you, but I think someone's following me." My voice comes out in a panicked, breathless rush.

He doesn't question me, doesn't make me feel stupid.

"Where are you?" His voice is tense, low. I can hear him moving, walking. Now it sounds like he's outside, on the city streets.

"I'm in my apartment. Well, my building." I glance behind me again. I'm feeling foolish now that I'm inside and, obviously, no one is attacking me. Maybe I made all this up, let my imagination get away from me, just so I would have an excuse to call him.

How pathetic.

"I'm sorry. I know it sounds crazy. I've just had this weird feeling all week, like someone's been watching me."

I wait for Chase to say it was him—that he was the one watching.

He's silent, just his strong, steady breathing and the sounds of a busy city street filtering through the cell.

"I wondered if it was you." My voice is quiet and pathetic as I admit the truth. I glance back at the door—still no one coming to get me.
I'm such a fool.

In so many ways.

"Nevermind," I say, slowly climbing up the first flight of stairs toward my apartment. "I'm sorry I bothered you—"

"I'll be there in ten minutes, Elle. I'm driving as fast as I can to get to you."

"Oh," I say. "Oh. I—you really don't have to. It was just my imagination. I'm in my building right now, and I mean, the outer door was open and—"

"What?" Chase curses on the other end of the line. "Which door?"

I round the stairwell and start climbing up the second flight of stairs. "The front door—the outer security door."

"Was it open like someone left it open, or did someone break in?" I hear him lay on the horn, curse at another driver.

"It looks like someone took a crowbar or something, and broke the door frame," I say.

"Elle, are your neighbors home? Don't go to your apartment. Go directly to one of your neighbors. Now. While I'm on the phone with you."

"Chase." I shake my head. I can't ignore the thrill I feel, that he's coming here, coming for me. But I obviously overreacted. "It's fine, I'm sorry. You can turn around. It was probably someone breaking in during the day, when almost all the tenants are at work. They've done it before. They try the interior doors just to see if someone left theirs unlocked…"

I stop talking as I reach my apartment's front door.

"Chase," I whisper. That awful, familiar, cold feeling is back, creeping up my spine. "Chase,
my
apartment door is open."

"Elle, get the fuck out of there right now. I'm on your street."

I open my mouth to agree when I feel a hand grab my shoulder. I whirl around and scream.

I
stop
the car in the middle of the street, then hear Elle scream as I'm racing toward her front door.

Fuck, fuck, fuck
it takes me forever to run up the stairs. I'm listening for anything—a gunshot, the scuffled footsteps of a silent struggle,
her breathing
—any sign she's alive.

There's nothing, except my frantic heartbeat, my breathing I can't control for once.

I round the second flight of stairs, my gun drawn and—

—aimed directly at little old lady's white head of hair.

Not even her face, since she's four-foot-nothing.

Just her giant, bouffant white curls.

"Heavens to Betsy!" the grandmother screams, throwing her hands up in the air. "We're being robbed, Elle!"

Elle's crouched down on the hallway floor, her back against the dingy wall, her legs sprawled in front of her. She's wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt that clings to all her curves. Her long blonde hair is wild and irresistible.

But all I see are her sky-blue eyes as she looks up at me.

"Chase!" she cries. She doesn't even notice the gun. She just runs straight at me and jumps into my arms.

I don't have a choice. I open wide and catch her.

"
W
hoever broke open
the front door broke into your apartment, too," I say, running my hand down the busted doorframe. Both doors are flimsy; the locks are shit and could've been picked easily. But the perpetrators didn't try to hide what they did—they took a crowbar to old wood. Elle's apartment door is ruined, with splinters everywhere. They could've picked the lock in thirty seconds and no one would've known they were here.

Instead, they ransacked the place.

A random robbery by novice kids off the street?

A show of force from more sinister forces?

No one else's apartment was broken into, which makes me suspect the latter.

I kick my old cowboy boots against the cheap coffee table and survey the room. It's been tossed, but sloppily. Mattress knifed, bookshelf and desk emptied all over the floor. They even left the fridge open.

What the fuck message were they trying to send?

And to whom?

Elle and the old woman—Mrs. Kaplan, 2B—are sitting at Elle's kitchen table, which is the size of a bike tire and takes up one tiny corner of the tiny room.

"Should we call the police?" Mrs. Kaplan asks, pulling her housecoat close around her neck.

Elle cuts her eyes to me.

"No." I turn around and take in Elle's home. I'd only seen it at night. With the lights on, I see it's small, packed with girly shit, and pink. Really, really fucking pink.

And I take up more space than the damn kitchen table.

"Young man," Mrs. Kaplan begins, standing and putting her hand on Elle's shoulder. She looks to be half my height, but I respect that she fearlessly looks me in the eyes. "Are you even listening?"

I can't help but smile. "Yes, ma'am," I say, laying my drawl on thick. "I'm listening."

Mrs. Kaplan looks flustered for a moment, then regains her composure, though her cheeks are tinged pink. Old women love me, what can I say?

Actually, all women love me.

Except the beautiful blonde currently stewing on the other side of the room. Now that she's over her fright, she looks pissed as hell.

"We need to call the police, make a report," Mrs. Kaplan continues. "They can fingerprint, and we'll make a statement, and—"

I open my mouth to spout some bullshit to ease her fears, but Elle beats me to it. "He's the police," she says.

My mouth drops open. For one second.

I raise an eyebrow at Elle, but she raises one right back.

"
Riiight
," I say. I turn to Mrs. Kaplan, take her hand, massage it slightly. Elle rolls her eyes. "Ma'am, I'm a police officer, and I'm going to need your full cooperation in this matter. I'm going to take care of everything—"

"The front door!" Mrs. Kaplan squeezes my hand right back. She's fucking
loving
the drama, now that she feels safe. "Our landlord is an awful man, awful. He won't fix it. Can your department help with that? And while we're at it, we should make a complaint about the landlord."

"I'll take care of everything." I pat her hand, and find I'm having difficulty extracting myself from her anxious grip. "You're in good hands.
Ma'am
."

A sudden pounding sound from the stairs makes both Elle and Mrs. Kaplan jump. Shit. I'd called Declan while I was frantically driving here. Told him I'd need backup.

But I certainly didn't tell 'em they should act like cops.

"Just let me speak with my colleagues," I say, heading for the front door, but not before I catch Elle staring at me. I wink at her. Her face turns a furious shade of red as I slam the door shut.

"Jesus, guys, I texted and told you it's all good." I meet the guys on the landing. It's Declan and four of the younger guys—Dacko, Frankie, and those two brothers I can never tell apart—crowded into the tiny hallway. They look huge, out of place, and not in any way like the fucking police.

"Saw the door," Declan says. "Do people know she's with you?" I know he's referring to whoever wants me dead, but doesn't want to say that in front of the young guys.

"She's not with me," I say.
Yet
, I think.

No, I'm not going there. I can't kick the feeling that someone broke in here to send
me
a message. And I haven't even slept with the girl. Fuck, this is why I don't do more than one night, with anyone—

"Before you go in, we've got a witness. Little old lady next door. Elle told her we were the police."

"The police?" Declan repeats.

The door opens, and Mrs. Kaplan peers out, her mouth dropping at the six giant men standing in the hall.

"Goodness, are you boys S.W.A.T.?"

"Ma'am, we're going to have to cordon off the crime scene," I bullshit. "Dacko—er, Lieutenant Dacko, here—will take your statement in your apartment, if you don't mind."

Dacko shoots me a slightly panicked look. He's one of younger guys, probably twenty-three, twenty-four. He's big and burly, and the skin on his cheeks looks like it was put through a meat grinder. Someone in his past fucked him up, big time—but while his face is scarred and people cross the street to avoid walking next to him, he's maybe one of the only guys on the crew I'd describe as "sweet."

Well, maybe not when he's asked to beat the shit out of people. Kid could be a professional boxer. But, you know, when he
doesn't
have blood on his hands.

He's quiet, dependable, but also intimidating enough to hopefully speed Mrs. Kaplan along as she gives her "statement."

I step aside and let Dacko lead the older woman down the hall, then I go back inside Elle's apartment. She's standing by the open window, her head in her hands. When she hears me, she whirls around and puts on a brave face.

"Princess." I shouldn't go to her, but I close the distance between us in three short strides and wipe the tears off her cheek. She leans against my hand—for one second. Half a second. Then she straightens up and jerks away from me.

"I'm really sorry you had to come over here." Elle raises her chin. "And sorry about whoever else you dragged here."

"Stop it, Elle." I take a step back and look over her wrecked place.

"No, you said goodbye, and I take that seriously. Just so you know, I called Kat first, and then Gray. And then I just panicked and—what are you doing?"

I stop throwing random clothes in a pillowcase and stare at her. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I have no earthly clue. You don't have to help me clean up this place. You made it very clear you don't want to see me. Ever again."

"Babes, I'm not cleaning up your shit. I'm
packing
your shit."

She looks at me, and I realize she's in shock. She probably
was
being followed. Her entire place has been ransacked. She doesn't feel safe and—fuck me—it's probably because I took her out. Went to her school.

Showed an interest.

A cold, hard anger forms in my gut. I didn't want this for her. I wanted to protect her, but I was a selfish fuck, and even though I tried to cut her out of my life—she's here now.

I'm going to protect her now.

And I'm going to find out who's fucking threatening her…

…and end their existence.

"I can pack my own bag," Elle says. "I don't want anything else from you."

I whirl around, my anger making me sound colder, harder and more lethal than I mean to. But I mean what I say, and it's best she listen.

"Well that's too bad, Princess. Because you're coming home with me. Tonight."