Page 80 of Hideaway Heart

“Doesn’t matter. Someone was here,” I said through clenched teeth. “How did I fucking miss it?”

“Because these guys are pros. They know all the tricks. They’ve got the equipment.”

“They followed us to my dad’s house. Then they followed us again. Goddamn it.” I stopped moving. “Is there a photo credit?”

“I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“Because I’ll fucking find him.” I tugged my T-shirt over my head.

“And do what? Beat him up? Smash his camera?”

“That’s a start.”

“Do you know how many of these guys exist in my world? You can’t beat them all up, Xander. You just learn to live with them.”

“Bullshit.” I knelt on the bed and grabbed the phone out of her hand, looking for the photo credit. All it said was Now News Media. “What’s this?”

“It’s probably a company the paparazzi sell to. There are tons of them.”

I felt like TNT was running through my veins. How could I have been so fucking careless? I remembered the beige Honda Civic I’d seen parked on the road Friday night. Why hadn’t I called someone to run the plates already? I knew fifteen people who’d have done it for me. Instead, I was busy thinking about my dick.

I tossed her phone onto the mattress and stood up. “Pack your things. We need to get out of here.”

She gathered up the covers over her chest. “And go where?”

“For now, my house. This place is compromised.”

“What about the boat?”

I raked a hand through my hair, thinking about all my mistakes. “Jesus, fuck, we were running around outside last night. He could have been out there.”

“Xander, you’re overreacting! This stuff happens to me all the time. It’s just photographs.”

Furious with myself, I scavenged around the floor for my socks, then pulled them on. “Anyone could have gotten photos of us through the windows last night. How much do you think a photo of you with my face between your legs would get? Or you on your knees with my dick in your mouth? Christ.”

“They don’t want to hurt me, they just want to get paid for the pictures.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if I’d been on my game. If I hadn’t been distracted.”

“Wait a minute. Are you blaming me?”

“I’m not blaming anyone but myself!” Roaring mad, I left the bedroom.

Out in the living room, I found my phone and texted a friend with contacts at the DMV, asking her to run the plates of that beige Honda. Then I shoved my feet in my boots and went outside, standing there on the porch, heels planted wide, fists clenched, chest expanded. “Are you there, motherfucker?” I muttered. My eyes swept the surrounding area. I cracked my knuckles. “Come on. Take my picture. I fucking dare you.”

After a few minutes, the lava in my veins started to cool, and my heart rate slowed. Satisfied there was no immediate threat—but also kind of disappointed I wouldn’t get to smash a camera—I went back into the house.

Kelly still hadn’t come out of the bedroom. I owed her an apology, but I thought it might have a better chance of being accepted if I offered it alongside some caffeine, so I made some coffee first. When it was ready, I poured her a cup and took it with me down the hall.

She’d shut the bedroom door. Grimacing, I knocked on it. “Kelly?”

“Go away.”

“I have coffee.”

“Leave the coffee and go away.”

“Can I please come in?”