The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

“It takes two to tango.” And three to create a soap opera, I thought bitterly, remembering Tiffany.

“Right?” Her eyes widened. “At least I found a job at the local thrift shop. He barely gets out of the house these days. Just drinks and watches TV and … shit, I’m sorry.” Her cheeks turned crimson. She ducked her head, shaking it. “It’s not your problem, obviously. You’re too kind.”

“Dude, I spill my guts to anyone who’s willing to listen, so don’t even think twice about it. My insurance broker knows my blood test results, and the lady at the grocery store across from my apartment is my reluctant therapist.” I handed her the bags full of the things she needed, along with my business card. “Call if you need anything—if it’s something for the baby or just a shoulder to cry on.”

She took everything gratefully, her eyes clinging to me.

“This must be a sign that things are getting better. You know, half an hour ago, my boyfriend asked me out of the blue if I wanted to come here. He never takes me anywhere. This is so fate.”

“Fate is like a stalker. It has its ways of finding you.” I winked at her.

Twenty minutes and five dubious purchases later (did I really need a baby body mop and a booty fan?), I made my way from buybuy Baby to my car, swinging the bags in my hands, contemplating how many scoops of ice cream I was going to treat myself and Baby Whitehall to.

Three, I decided. One for me, one for her, and then another one for me, because Momma hadn’t had sex in a long-ass time and needed a mood boost.

When I popped open the trunk—featuring my novelty license plate BURSQGRL—to discard the bags, I realized that my car looked … different. I looked down and let out a little gasp, stumbling back.

All four of my tires had been slashed.

I slammed the trunk closed, looking around manically, trying to see who else was in the parking lot. It was possible the asshole who did this was still around to ravish in my misery.

A car honked in the distance of the parking lot. Heart pounding, I swiveled my head in its direction. A beat-up 1996 red Camaro rolled past, the windows down, the driver’s arm propped out. I recognized the woman in the passenger seat immediately—it was the distressed girl I helped thirty minutes ago at the cashier. She stared at her lap, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

But the man in the driver’s seat was the one who took my breath away …

Frank.

As in the man I’d fired months ago.

The bitter, violent, sexual harassing asshole I came to blows with.

A piece of the puzzle clicked together.

Frank.

He was the son of a gun who went after me.

He also had a pregnant girlfriend I didn’t know about when I fired him.

It went without saying that when I caught him with his hand between the burlesque dancer’s legs, the first thing that popped into my head wasn’t, I bet this guy is a great family man who is on the cusp of becoming a father.

Now? Now he was broke and in big trouble.

But so was I.

Because he wanted me dead.

Frank shot me a sneer, flipping me the bird as he sped out of the parking lot.

I thought about chasing him, but I didn’t want to put myself or his girlfriend in danger. I was going to deal with this, though. Now that I knew who he was.

I pried my phone out of my bag and called Devon. My hands felt cold and shaky, and it took me several attempts to find his name in my contacts.

It was the first time I’d called him for something that wasn’t our scheduled weekly meeting. A breach of contract, if you would.

It was also the first time I called him voluntarily since I found out he was bumping uglies with Tiffany. And yes, italics were necessary.

He answered on the first ring.

“Is the baby okay?”

I gulped air, my oxygen supply dwindling as the implication of what I’d just discovered slammed into me. Shit, shit, shit. Frank had been the one to send me a string of clues and threats, and this one was the latest. Did I even know where he lived? No, I didn’t. After I sent him the last check, it was returned to Madame Mayhem. He must’ve moved after I sent the reporters to hound him.

“The baby’s fine.” I think.

“What’s going on?” Devon sounded sincerely alarmed.

“I … someone slashed my tires. I need a ride.”

And a drink.

And a shoulder to cry on.

A graceful, elegant, infuriatingly gorgeous almost-prince to make it all better.

Not necessarily in that order.

“Why would anyone do that?” he demanded.

I wasn’t telling him what was going on with me. Screw that. He would lock me in a tower and never let me see the light of day.

“I don’t know, punks?”

“Where are you?”

“buybuy Baby.”

“The place is known for high crime activity around it,” he drawled impatiently, yet again exceling at making me feel like a kid. “Send me the address. I’m on my way.”

“Uh, hmm …” I was showing off my magnificent eloquence.

“What?” he asked, sensing there was more.

I looked around me again. No one promised me Frank wasn’t going to return after dropping his girlfriend off to put a bullet in my head.

“Can we … uh, talk on the phone until you get here?”