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

“Sweven,” he sighed, his icy demeanor melting a little, “of course.”

I was so happy to hear my nickname, I could cry.

He stayed on the phone with me. Asking me about my purchases (he wasn’t impressed with the mop bodysuit) and what burlesque show was featured in Madame Mayhem these days (Suicide Girls Blackheart), trying to get my mind off what’d happened to me.

To Devon’s credit, he dropped everything and showed up fifteen minutes later, double-parking his Bentley and slamming it shut as he pounced on me.

“Are you all right?” He scooped me into his arms and buried my head in his shoulder, engulfing me in a bone-crushing hug. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I immediately began bawling into his Tom Ford suit, smearing my foundation and colorful eyeshadow onto it. I hadn’t cried in so long. This was unlike me.

Devon massaged my neck in circles, dropping feathery kisses on the crown of my head.

“Why would anyone do something like this, Belle?”

“I … I … I don’t know,” I hiccupped.

But I did know.

Even worse, I wasn’t going to call the police on Frank. Even if he was responsible for the letter and for the man who stalked me all those months ago, which I had evidence was the case. The two other men looked different, and neither of them appeared to be connected to Frank.

Truth of the matter was, Frank had been radio silent for months. Now I knew he was behind all those things. Surely, he wasn’t stupid enough to continue. Maybe it was his last hurrah before he let it go. Plus, he had enough problems on his hands. He needed to find another job and provide for his growing family. Hopefully one where he stayed far away from women.

“I thought something was wrong with you. Physically.” I heard Devon’s voice through the cloud of self-pity and adrenaline surrounding me. He guided me gently into his passenger seat and closed the door.

I buckled up and stared out the window, locking my jaw so my chin wouldn’t tremble.

“I’m glad you called,” Devon added.

About that …

Why did I call him and not Persy, or Sailor, or Aisling, or Ross? Even my parents would have made the journey into the city to pick me up. Among the list of people who could come and help me, Devon was the busiest and the person I was least close to.

Yet I chose him to save me.

“Where should I take you?” Devon asked.

“My apartment.”

“Not Persy’s?”

“No.”

I was too wounded, too raw to watch Pers parading her perfect family with a perfect husband who adored her and her perfect kids who stared at her with wonder and awe.

Devon hit the gas, sensing that I wasn’t super talkative.

“I’m sure it was some dumb kid,” I told him, realizing how it must’ve looked from his point of view.

“Like the dumb kid who followed you in Boston Common?” Devon choked up on the steering wheel to the point of white knuckles.

“Who told you?” I whipped my head around to look at him.

“Someone who cares about your safety.”

“A snitch,” I contradicted.

“You can call them whatever you like. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“My answer is that it’s the 21st century, and women can fend for themselves. We can take care of our own well-being, even—try not to be scandalized—vote!”

“If you choose to ignore a stalker, maybe you, specifically, shouldn’t have the right to vote.”

Technically three different men. But now wasn’t the time to bring that up.

“I carry a gun with me everywhere.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Devon asked slowly, sarcastically, to highlight how dumb I sounded. “This isn’t the Wild West, Emmabelle. You can’t shoot people willy-nilly on the street if you think they’re stalking you. You need to go to the police.”

It was the first time I’d seen him even remotely angry, and it was so fascinating. For a second there, I forgot about my problems.

I slanted my head, watching him intently. “I have a secret,” I stage-whispered. “I don’t work at making you happy, Devon.”

He gave me a look that made my soul shrivel into itself. The look that told me he was growing seriously tired of me, and I couldn’t blame him. I was horrible to him. I was so tragically afraid of him that I constantly pushed him away.

“All I’m saying is that I’ve got this,” I mumbled, examining my colorful, pointy fingernails.

“Is that why you called me?” he bit out. “Because you’ve got this?”

Our first fight. Awesome. How could I explain to him that I didn’t like people butting into my business? Into my life? That I couldn’t rely on others?

“My bad. Next time, I’ll call someone else.”

“No, you won’t. I’m the only person capable of dealing with your brand of bullshit for longer than an evening.”

He parked in front of my apartment building, got out, rounded the car, and opened the door for me, doing it all with a face that hinted he was going to chop me into shrimp-sized pieces and feed me to the sharks.

“Thanks for the ride. You’ve been a lovely companion.” I slipped out of the car and proceeded to my entrance, feeling very much like a misbehaving child tossed into their room for a timeout.