Red Thorns (Thorns Duet #1) by Rina Kent

But I’ve never acted on it, never looked at him—at least, not when he was paying attention—flirted with him, or showed my interest. Because unlike the idiot teenager I was, I now realize someone like Sebastian Weaver isn’t meant for me. It’s not that he’s out of my league, but he’s the shallow type—hello, quarterback and rich and comes from a line of politicians?

I’m shallow, too, for actually allowing him to prick my black heart once upon a time. It was a single prick, you know, like a needle that you barely feel, but just like a needle, it’s already spread a chemical inside and now, I can’t purge him out of my bloodstream.

Actually, I can.

I was waiting for the end of college so we could take different routes in life. He’ll be the successor in a line of politicians or get drafted into the NFL, and I’ll move to Japan to bug the hell out of Akira, then convince him to come here so we can plot chaos.

Point is, Sebastian was never supposed to notice me, not when he has countless girls—cheerleaders included—making voodoo dolls to gain a sliver of his attention.

But he didn’t kiss them on TV. He didn’t grab them and restrain them and imprison them against his weapon of a body.

I glide the pads of my fingers over the bruised plush of my lips and a sudden shiver jolts my spine.

Crashing images invade my mind. Images of his naked torso flattening against mine as his tongue claimed me and his strong hands drew me closer—

My phone buzzes in my bag and I release my lips with a start, then sigh when I find a text from my best friend.

Lucy: Want to hang out with us at Reina’s?

Naomi: I’d rather worship at Satan’s actual altar.

Lucy: Come on, Nao. Everyone will be there to celebrate the win.

Everyone including Sebastian?

I shake my head. Why does that matter?

Naomi: One more reason why I shouldn’t be there.

Lucy: But it’ll be fun.

Naomi: My idea of fun is ruining theirs, so I doubt they want me there. Go party and flirt with Prescott, Luce.

She sends back a Japanese crying emoji and I grin. Ever since I exposed my nerdy side and introduced her to them, they’re all she uses now.

I’m about to hide my phone when it lights up with a call from an unknown number. My hand trembles even though I have a clue of who it could be.

Sucking in a deep breath, I answer, “Hello.”

“Ms. Naomi Chester?”

“That’s me.”

“This is Private Investigator Collins. You called my assistant earlier today to schedule an appointment.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have time now?”

“Now?”

“If that’s not possible, we can meet on Monday. But from what you told my assistant, it’s urgent.”

“It is.” I look at my watch, then sigh. “Let’s meet now. I’d rather not go to your agency.” And leave a trail that Mom can follow.

“I understand. Do you know the diner called Tracy’s that’s located opposite the gas station?”

“Yes. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“See you then, Ms. Chester.”

The line goes dead, but it takes me a few seconds to lower my hand.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out an oversized hoodie, then put it on so that it covers my cheer uniform. It still has the Black Devils’ logo on the front, but it’s better than going out to meet a PI, dressed like a high school girl with a crush on the most popular guy.

With a sigh, I blast Rammstein from my car stereo and start driving to the intended location. Several vehicles honk and college students dance around campus in celebration of the win. So I opt to take a different route. One that’s more deserted.

That’s when I notice something’s wrong.

I’ve taken this road several times before, mainly when there are busy events at campus like tonight. But this is the first time that it’s been almost completely dark, except for a few lights scattered far apart. I’m mainly relying on my headlights as I drive down the road parallel to Blackwood’s famous forest.

One where mobsters meet and bodies are found. They’re mostly rumors, but I believe the shit out of them in this pitch-blackness that resembles a scene from one of my favorite true crime shows.

A faint light catches my attention in the rearview mirror and I squint. It’s not as strong as my headlights and the driver of what looks like a dark-colored van isn’t attempting to change lanes, even though I’m driving slow and there’s an empty lane on my left.

It could be the darkness or the forest surrounding me from both sides, but my level of paranoia shoots up like a vengeful bitch.

I step on the gas to speed up and the van behind me matches my pace.

Holy Jesus and all the angels.

They’re following me.

This isn’t me actually losing my mind and being overdramatic. There’s a dark van with dim headlights matching my speed and not changing lanes.

I reason with my mind that it could be an older person who’s not familiar with Blackwood’s roads. But in what world do old people drive black vans that are made for sinister purposes?

My head fills with images of kidnapped girls and sex trafficking and, holy shit, I think I’m going to throw up.

The high volume of the music drums in my head in sync with my beating heart and I put it on pause. I really don’t want my beloved metal associated with the moment of my kidnapping.