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Cindi

Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck.

The gun trembles in my grip.

They’re here.

The Gallaghers are here.

They’re at my door. They’ve come to kill me.

If not the Gallaghers, then the pirates.

“Come on. Come on,” I whisper, willing my phone to work faster as the alarm blares.

I dart my eyes between the locked workshop door and my device, my trembling fingers flying across the screen to enter the password for the security camera.

My injured hand screams at me, louder with each swipe.

I flatten myself against the wall, hoping and praying I’ll make it to the hatch on the other side of the room before they knock down the door.

He’ll have men outside.

It won’t matter how quickly I make it beneath the house.

Someone will see me running.

Fuck, why didn’t I hide an emergency pack in the forest in case I needed to make a quick escape?

The alarm continues blaring through the house, pounding against my head as viciously as the Gallaghers will once they get their hands on me.

They’ll want to keep me alive for what I’ve done, to exact their pound of flesh and the data I store in my mind.

I turn off the gun’s safety and point it at the door.

The application finally loads.

Sixteen surveillance videos blink into view.

A cold sweat skates down my spine as I click through each footage.

Once. Twice.

Four more times.

Nothing.

No Tommy.

No Gallaghers. No pirates.

No one inside or outside.

That can’t be right.

The alarm wouldn’t go off by itself.

Maybe it was an animal, or a random thinking they could rob me while I’m asleep, or maybe a glitch caused during the assembly process because of my limitations.

The empty screens don't make me breathe any easier. The Gallaghers are out there. I know it. They’re watching, waiting, playing me for their own sick game.

I hit Rewind on the security tapes, muscles bunched, ready to see the ghost of the man who haunts my dreams.

I killed him. I know I did.

I think.

There was no social media covering his funeral, but he was removed from the company register. That’s all I have to go off.

That, and the lack of a heartbeat when I left him on the floor.

Someone’s out there. I can feel it. My short breaths make my head swim as I navigate the shitty, user-unfriendly app Deedee’s friend made.

A figure appears in the camera installed on the porch. I hit Pause, frowning. What the… I rewind the footage, watching him or her—or it —move in reverse, from the front of my house to the windows by my bedroom, circling my place before retreating into the woods.

The figure is nothing more than a giant blob of darkness that doubles in size in front of my bedroom window.

I scroll back, earlier into the night when the sun set and I had just gotten back home. On the screen, my face is as clear as day, as is the fly that landed on my leg and the puff of fumes from the exhaust.

How could anyone pull something like this off? This is far more advanced than anything I know exists. What would turn a person into a black blob on screen? At least two feet around them is blurred and distorted.

I scramble to the safety of my hiding spot to grab my laptop off the bench before scuttling back beneath the desk. With the gun in my clammy hand, and the device in my other, I pull up the tapes. Maybe there’s an issue with the app on my phone.

But no. All sixteen camera angles show the same thing.

I silently tap my foot on the floor. I don’t feel safe stepping foot outside to do an in-person check. I don’t feel safe inside either.

Cold sweat trickles down my back. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, debating whether to wake Deedee up to send out an SOS.

It was probably a fucking poltergeist. Tommy’s actual ghost, not a figment of my imagination.

Whatever it was, it can wait until morning. Until then, the Glock is never leaving my hand.

I lower the laptop to the floor, rise to my feet, then tiptoe to the door. According to my security cameras, the living room is empty. Still, I hesitate, a scream lodged in my throat, ready for any sudden movement.

Fuck. Here goes nothing. I throw the door open and dash for my bedroom, slamming it shut behind me before locking it and shoving the deadbolt in place.

I clamber for my bedside table, whipping it open and faltering at the sight that greets me. Maybe putting a hunting knife next to my monster dildos wasn’t the best idea.

Shoving the toys aside, I grab the mini taser then change into a practical pair of shorts before locking myself back in my workroom.

It’s going to be a long night.

I’m seeing triple.

My blood sugar is shot from the adrenaline rush I’ve been riding for the last fifteen hours.

I’m on three hours of sleep.

Every time I turn my head, I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion.

I’m convinced Tommy is sitting in the back seat of the car.

My painkillers have made me drowsy, but it’s done fuck all to get rid of the pins and needles assaulting half my arm—not to mention the near-agonizing pain every time I move my elbow.

To top it off, I’m stuck in rush-hour traffic because my fucking supplier thought five o’clock in the middle of Seminyak was a good time to do a drop.

I spent the whole day messing around with my cameras to figure out if the anomaly was intentional or a fault on my part. When I couldn’t get to the bottom of it, I installed a couple of sensors that link to a silent alarm in my bedroom.

Droplets of sweat trickle down my spine, burning the inflamed, still-healing tattoo rubbing painfully against my cotton tank top.

The AC in Nat’s car isn’t strong enough. I feel like I need to throw myself into the water just to wake up—and Jesus fucking Christ , this weather is going to be the death of me if Tommy’s family doesn’t kill me first.

I pull up into a free parking spot on the side of the road and say a silent prayer before stepping out of the car. My equilibrium shifts, and I nearly trip over my feet while doing a 360 check of my surroundings.

Balancing myself on the dirty car, I avoid a near collision with a motorbike and hustle to the sidewalk. I scrub my clammy face, willing myself to wake up so I can pay proper attention. But the world is too loud. Too busy. There’s too much everything .

Too many people want to kill me. I’m in a constant state of fatigue. I need a twenty-four-hour nap. I like my life here—or, at least, I liked it better when the only soul who visited me was Deedee.

I considered booking a hotel room tonight so I can sleep without fear, but I figured if I’m going on the run, I need to save all the money I can. There’s no point wasting it for a single night of reprieve.

Tourists and locals mingle in the street, getting from point A to B or sitting back, taking drags of a cigarette. As always, nobody pays me any mind, but it still feels like I have a thousand pairs of eyes trained on me.

I keep my head down, fighting the ripples of fatigue as I keep my eyes peeled, passing a few more stores before crossing the road into an air-conditioned smoothie joint. Once I have my order in hand, I settle in the seat near the back of the store with a clear view out the front window, waiting for Wayan. If I spot one of the Gallaghers, I’ll have a few second head start to make a run for it.

Deedee may have vouched for Wayan, but I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. The guy rubs me the wrong way.

The pressure in my head grows with the ever-present feeling of doom. The dread doesn’t pair well with my smoothie, but I force myself to polish it off, swallowing down the bile. I need all the energy I can get. Forgetting to eat all day was also a bad move on my part.

My gaze flicks in the direction of the beach. It’s been days since I’ve been out in the water. If I live to see tomorrow, I’ll go.

Maybe for the last time.

My leg shakes restlessly. I check my phone at five o’clock on the dot to see a text come in from Wayan that he’s going to be forty minutes late.

Fucking prick.

That’s another forty minutes of me being out in the open.

I shift in my seat, pushing myself up against the wall, flinching whenever someone walks in or when there’s a loud noise. Even though it’s not my place, I send a frustrated message to Deedee about her supplier. They might be friends, but I don’t care at this point. It’s plain rude and disrespectful to send that type of text at the exact time you’re meant to meet.

Wayan doesn’t pull up across the street from the smoothie joint until an hour and half later. I would’ve gone straight home if I didn’t need the supplies to make more chips and fix one of the machines at the factory.

I sway as I jump to my feet. The world is vibrating with colors and sounds I swear I can smell. I blink back the exhaustion from my eyes and storm across the street, narrowly avoiding a collision as I slip into the front seat of his car. The plan was to meet inside, but fuck it. I’ll get in. I can’t sit in there for any longer.

I have a gun in my bag, a switchblade in my boot, and a modified taser in my pocket. If Wayan wants to fuck around, he’ll find out.

The car unlocks as I approach. The constant state of anxiety has strung me so tight, I’m about to snap.

“What the fuck do you call this time?” I fume, slamming the door behind me. Cigarette smoke and BO slams into me, and I almost swing the door back open to escape it.

My brows spear into my hairline when he holds a hand up to my face without looking at me.

You know what? I might kill him too.

Wayan prattles off a string of words in Bahasa, throwing his hands up in annoyance before pointing angrily at the tourists in front of the car as if they’re the ones on the other end of the phone. He says his goodbye in the form of an aggressive tap before chucking his phone on top of the four others sitting in the center console.

Oh, good. It looks like we’re both in a splendid mood.

“Let’s make this quick, ya?” he mutters, scowling. “I have things to do.”

“So do I,” I snap. “I don’t appreciate being told you’re late at the time you’re meant to be here.”

He glowers at me, and I return the glare tenfold. I flinch when he reaches behind me, and I quickly right myself to pretend it never happened. He unceremoniously drops a box onto my lap.

“Careful,” I hiss. Gripping the container, I send a scathing sneer his way.

His shrug sends a bolt of irritation through me. I grit my teeth and focus on checking the wafers. If he broke any of them with that little stunt, I’m ripping his head off.

Attempting to ignore the low throbbing in my arm and my blurring vision, I unlatch the box to check it.

What kind of sick joke is this? “Where the fuck is it?” I’m not in the mood for any of this bullshit—or any bullshit, for that matter.

He doesn’t look at me. He just takes a deep drag of his cigarette. “Pirates,” is all he offers as an explanation.

My stomach sinks. “Tell me everything,” I demand.

Wayan shrugs, rolling down the window to flick the ash out onto the sidewalk. “Got there, and it was already empty.”

I stare at his side profile. “ And? ”

“The courier said it was pirates. That’s all I know.”

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

Fuck.

It’s not fine. We need those wafers to make the next batch.

“And the parts I ordered for the machine?”

Wayan nods at the empty container. “Gone.”

I gawk at him, dipping into my energy reserves to stop myself from blowing up at him. “And you couldn’t have called me about this so I didn’t come out all this way for nothing?”

An hour and half, I waited, and for what? The time I could’ve spent dealing with my security breach could’ve been the difference between life and death.

I feel like I’m about to lose my mind. I want to smack him upside the head, or maybe just hit someone in general.

Tears spring to my eyes. I’m so exhausted. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder, tired of seeing Tommy hidden behind every corner.

I can’t deal with this right now. I want to go home, back to the garage I was raised in, back into Dad’s arms whenever he’d do his weekly reminders of how proud he was of me.

I grit my teeth. Pull yourself together. This is the shit I’ve been dealt, so deal with it.

I’ve been in far worse situations. This is nothing. We have enough for the current batch, which means I have time to figure out an alternative. If I can’t find a supplier in Indonesia, then Malaysia. We’ll look at rescaling, or focus on just printing in the meantime while we try to find a solution. Maybe we’ll expand the factory to make the wafers too. Or maybe the pirates will wipe us off the map.

Or it could be a Nat and Deedee problem if Tommy or whoever was at my place last night kills me.

Who knows.

The possibilities are endless.

I scrub my face, fighting back the tears.

Tomorrow . I can’t think when I’m running on fumes. I need to sleep, even for a couple hours. Everything else can wait until I can regroup and talk to the girls about what we should do.

Taking a deep breath, I fix my stare on the beach at the end of the street. Survive the night, and tomorrow, I can go . “Fix it.” The words fall without infliction.

Wayan scoffs. “What do you expect me to?—”

“I don’t give a shit what you have to do, you fix . It. You have one job. One . I don’t care if you’re busy. I don’t give a shit if your kid has her first fucking school play. You get paid to do a job, so do it .”

I’m out of the car, slamming the door behind me without waiting for his response.

Nausea churns in my stomach. I sounded like Tommy. He had the means to back up his threat, but there’s nothing I can do to Wayan. No one will back me up.

My thumb taps an erratic rhythm against my thigh as I will the memories to fade. I try to blink away my blurring vision. My eyes dart from person to person, swinging my attention behind me then to the side into each store. Every person begins looking like they have his moldy green eyes, his dirty blond hair.

Tommy’s laughing at me. I’m nothing, just like he said. No one wants me. No one’s there for me. It’s just me. I’m nothing.

Oxygen burns a path down my lungs as the sound of motors and chatter grows louder, the smell of garbage and fumes stronger, and the moonlight bears down on me like a tangible weight. Each flickering light is the spark of a bullet, every movement a threat.

He’s here. He’s everywhere.

My throat starts to close. I can’t breathe. I’ve got to get out of here?—

The air whooshes out of me when I collide with a brick wall. Strong hands steady me, keeping me close as I blink away the shock to get my bearings.

“I caught you.”

“Get your hands—” My attention snaps up to the man with the deep, melodic voice, and for a moment, I’m completely transfixed. The words are dead on my tongue. His scent engulfs me, so potent that my knees threaten to give out beneath me. It’s like I’m stepping straight onto a beach untouched by humankind—where the salty air tastes fresher with the scent of rain and the breeze feels freer.

I’ve never seen someone so…beautiful. He’s almost ethereal with the way his tanned skin glows beneath the fluorescent lights from the nearby stores. It catches on his deep blue eyes, the shadows dipping beneath his cheekbones before cutting into a lethally sharp jaw paired with sinfully soft lips.

Raven black hair spills over his broad shoulders and onto his burly chest, grazing the bottom of his ribs. For a second, I want to reach out to touch the silky strands to see if it’s as soft as it looks, but my thoughts fizzle out when my attention lands on his naked torso.

The muscles of his pectorals and shoulders tighten as he pulls me closer to his orbit. I’m helpless to drop my gaze to the hard expense of his abdomen, every dip kissed by shadows to accentuate his Greek God–like appearance only amplified by his towering height. He must be over 6’6”, maybe taller.

Something molten heats my core as I follow the prominent lines down to the deep V that trails below a pair of shorts to a massive bulge. My stomach quivers at the thought of what he’d look like without a single string of thread to cover him.

My slow perusal lands on the strong hands around my shoulder.

The realization makes me leap out of his hold with a snarl. My skin burns where he touched me. Panic rises in my throat.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.

He can’t be touching me. No one can touch me.

“Mate,” he whispers.

Blue eyes flicker to green. Long, black hair shortens to dirty blond.

The man morphs into Tommy right before my eyes.

It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself it can’t be him. My mind is certain it is.

It’s him.