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Story: Penn (Pittsburgh Titans #17)
Mila
T he hotel room door clicks shut and I engage the lock and safety latch.
The city of Pittsburgh beyond the window glows with neon and headlights, but inside I’m wrapped in the mediocrity of generic beige walls and mass-produced décor.
Doesn’t matter though. I chose this hotel not for any luxurious appointments but because it fit within my budget.
My job as a graphic designer doesn’t pay peanuts, but it doesn’t pay for high end hotels either.
I drop my purse onto the small desk in the corner and sink into the chair, exhaling deeply to release the tension I’ve been holding since leaving Mario’s.
It went worse than I’d expected.
Penn hadn’t even given me a chance once North told him I was there looking for him. A quick, dismissive rejection through his teammate. Like I was nothing. Like I hadn’t once known him—had his back when it mattered most.
I rub at the tension headache settling into my temples. At least the efforts weren’t a total bust. I’m still puzzled why North left his phone on the table—unlocked, with Penn’s contact info staring back at me. His address too. That wasn’t an accident. He wanted me to have it. The question was: Why?
I mean… in what world would he assume I’m not some crazed stalker who might lie in wait in the bushes of Penn’s home and stab him to death? Regardless, I’m grateful because I’m not about to give up on Penn. It’s just… I need another plan. A backup.
I shove those thoughts away and wake my laptop, the blue light glowing against my fingers as I navigate to my email. I need to ground myself in something normal, something that doesn’t feel like my entire world is tilting sideways.
A new message sits in my inbox, the subject line reading First Review—Cover Mockup . Relief trickles in as I click it open, skimming the response from the indie author who’d hired me for a book cover design.
Mila, this is fantastic. Love the typography and overall composition. Could we make the character’s eyes a little more vibrant? Maybe a touch more contrast on the title?
I exhale softly. I can do that. Easy tweaks. It’s not like my creativity has been firing on all cylinders lately, but I still know how to make something beautiful.
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I type a quick reply:
Glad you love it! I’ll tweak the eyes and title contrast and send over a revised version tomorrow. Thanks for the feedback!
I hit send, then click over to my personal inbox. Another unread message.
From: Aunt Dorene
Subject: Thought of you when I saw this!
A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I click it open and see a link to an article: 20 Funniest Graphic Design Fails That Will Make You Question Everything.
Aunt Dorene always does this—finds little things that remind her of me, sending them with no expectations, just a quiet, steady presence.
Her email continues:
Mila-bug, hope you’re having fun in PA visiting friends. Call me when you can! Love you.
A pang hits my chest, one I refuse to name because it would involve words like dishonesty , deceit and betrayal . Visiting friends. That’s what I told her. The lie is innocent enough. She doesn’t need to know the truth.
She doesn’t need to know I came here alone and I have no friends in Pittsburgh. She most definitely doesn’t need to know that I think my life is in danger, and that one of my reasons for leaving her and Florida behind was to keep her safe.
I quickly type back:
Haha, these are hilarious! I’ll call you soon. Love you too.
I close the laptop and exhale, the weight of uncertainty, fear and helplessness settling on me in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
I slump onto the bed, one hand gripping my phone, the other balled into a fist that rubs at the tightness over my chest. I don’t want to do it, but I make myself.
Pulling up my texts, I scroll to the one from an unknown number and force myself to read the messages. I skim the most recent ones, the last coming in a mere hour ago.
1:23 a.m.: You think you got away with it, but you didn’t.
7:04 a.m.: Traitors don’t get happy endings, Mila. You’ll pay for what you did.
11:56 a.m.: Hope you’re watching your back. Better lock your doors at night.
10:15 p.m.: It’s almost time.
A shudder rolls through me, cold and uncontrollable, with a wave of fear so strong, a tiny cry escapes my lips.
I bolt off the bed and cross the room in three long strides, again checking the locks on the hotel door.
Dead bolt engaged. Security latch in place.
I look out the peephole but can’t see anything except that no one is standing directly on the other side.
My fingers tremble as I double-check the windows, even though I’m on the sixth floor. Ridiculous, really. Spider-Man isn’t coming for me.
I inhale and exhale several times, reassuring myself that I am safe for the moment. I am behind secured doors, I have the ability to call for help grasped tight in my hand, and I have a can of Mace that I’m not afraid to use. Spray first—ask questions later.
“You’re okay, Mila. You’re okay.” I tell myself over and over again, out loud, so that my own psyche knows I mean it.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been able to talk myself off the ledge and eventually, my heartbeat settles. Still, that feeling lingers—a slithering unease, the paranoia creeping into my bones.
Why did I think coming here was a good idea?
Why did I think Penn—of all people—might be able to help me?
Maybe it was because, back then, when everything started unraveling, he tried to look out for me in his own way.
He tried to warn me. “Don’t do it, Mila. It’ll only pull you into something you can’t undo.”
Maybe it was because I thought, deep down, he’d understand what it felt like to be marked by something you couldn’t escape. He was targeted same as me, all those years ago.
Or maybe it was because I needed to warn him that he might also be in danger. Surely, if they want me, they want him too.
Either way, he shut me down before I could get a word out. And maybe that was my answer.
Penn wasn’t going to help me.
That left me with only one real option because I needed to protect myself. Threatening text messages and emails weren’t enough for the police to help me. I know this, because I tried.
I swipe to my contacts, my thumb hesitating for half a second before I press the name.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
A female answers. “Jillian Towne.”
I stare at the floor, my pulse thudding in my ears. I can still back out. I can still pretend none of this is happening.
But then I think about the messages. The threats. The fear that’s been trailing me like a shadow for months. Penn’s refusal to talk to me.
And I know what I have to do.
I pause for courage. And then I speak. “It’s Mila Brennan. I’m ready to go forward.”
There’s a pause before she replies, “Are you sure? Because things could get worse for you once I publish.”
It would be stupid not to put some brainpower on that.
She’s not wrong. I told most everything to this reporter, figuring it would be the last-ditch effort to keep myself safe.
If I go public, my stalker can’t afford to make a move.
But when I open this can of worms, it’s going to be like a bomb going off.
The people it will impact—my mother, my father, my brother.
Maybe Penn.
“I got another text tonight,” I murmur into the phone.
“What did it say?”
I can hear her genuine concern. I’ve sat down with Jillian once in person and we’ve talked many times on the phone.
She was intrigued by my story but she had no clue it existed.
I reached out to her when the threats started a few weeks ago.
She’s been sitting on its publication, worried if this would protect me or put me in further harm’s way.
She’s merely been waiting for me to give her the go-ahead.
“It said, It’s almost time ,” I reply, a frisson of fear running through me.
She digests that and comes to the same conclusion I came to already. “He gets out of prison next week.”
“I know.” I pause, not for dramatic effect, but because my mouth is dry. “ It’s almost time. ”
“Mila… I don’t know if I can get it published before then.
I still have a few more things I need to go over with you, then I have to do a whole lot of polishing before I can run it by my editor.
I don’t know if we have enough time to get it out there so that there’s a sufficient spotlight on you for protection. ”
That is not good news. I thought she had enough. I thought she was ready, because now that Penn won’t talk to me, I have no choice but to do this. “Just do the best you can to push it.”
“And you won’t go back to the police?” she asks hesitantly. I don’t know if she wants that tidbit for the sake of journalism or if she’s worried about me.
“They can’t help. Or at least that’s what they’ve said on more than one occasion.” I think about Penn and I’m not ready to give up on him yet. I’ll go to his house and force him to talk to me, but I can’t count on it. “I think the article coming out is my best chance to stay safe.”
“Okay, I’ll push my editor hard on it. You got some time now to talk? I have a few more questions.”
“I’ve got all night,” I tell her and settle back onto the bed to get comfortable.
We talk for almost forty-five minutes and when we’re done, she promises to work on it more tonight. I thank her for her help and disconnect. It’s past midnight and I consider calling Penn. I have not only his address but his phone number, thanks to his teammate. Maybe if he hears my voice…
No. He’ll just hang up on me.
I have to go see him. If I show up on his doorstep, he’ll be forced to talk to me. I know they’ve got a home game tomorrow night and an away game Sunday. So Saturday night it is.
I’ll confront Penn and make him listen, because it’s not just my life in danger, but his as well.
Table of Contents
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- Page 2 (Reading here)
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