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  He took a lurching step toward me, and Clear was instantly between us. At the same time, Eloise grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “I want you both out of my house now,” snapped Clear.

  “Leaving will be a pleasure.” Eloise marched Joshua outside.

  Clear slammed the door closed behind them. Sighing, she put her fingers to her temple. “Kensey, I’ve made so many mistakes. Believed so many lies. I truly did think that Maxwell’s marriage was already over. He played me. But I don’t regret that, Kensey. It gave me you. Even though it meant my family tossed me out on the street when I wouldn’t abort you and they now consider me dead to them, I don’t regret it. And although I’ve made mistakes, I don’t consider having you or marrying your dad to be one of them.”

  I knew that, since I’d spent years of my life fruitlessly trying to reach her through the self-protective bubble she lived in; trying to be enough for her and “heal” her so that she wouldn’t need Michael anymore. But I’d come to realize that he was almost like an addiction for Clear. He fulfilled something inside her that I never could. She needed him, and nothing I’d done or ever could do would change that.

  I wanted to hate her for it. I’d tried. Hard. Really hard. But how could you hate someone who’d given up everything for you? How could you hate someone so lost, wounded, and vulnerable that they were unable to deal with reality?

  It wasn’t that she was crazy, despite what many believed. People thought they knew what kind of person would marry a murderer on death row. A serial killer groupie. A whack job who wanted to experience killing through another person. Or someone who’d do just about anything for their fifteen minutes of fame.

  Clear was none of those things.

  Every male in her life, including her own father, had abused her in one way or another. She’d come out of that cycle of abuse without losing her soul, but that soul had taken a real beating. It was broken beyond repair—something I’d finally accepted. Desperate to find the love she’d been starved of since she was a child, she sought it wherever she could find it, which meant she’d basically doomed herself to go through life emotionally bruised.

  In sum, she was a lost, fragile little girl who lived in a world of her own making, and who looked for love and protection in all the wrong places.

  Marrying a serial killer was one hell of a fucked-up thing to do, but all I could do was feel pity for this person who only felt safe in a relationship where her husband would never get the chance to harm her. Serving several life sentences with no chance of parole, Michael Bale could never hurt, abuse, betray, or walk out on Clear.

  I’d read everything I could find on Michael, wanting to understand him. Wanting to understand what it was about him that ‘spoke’ to her. I’d learned about his past, his life, his crimes. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the little boy he’d once been, who was horribly abused and completely unloved.

  I even felt bad for the troubled teenager he’d once been, who’d never known a touch that was anything but rough or hurtful. He’d fought a lot on the streets where he lived; he’d done it for money to survive, but he’d also done it because he liked the pain. He liked to feel the endorphins swimming around his body—he’d even said he found it addictive. But that hadn’t been enough for Michael, because he also liked to dish out pain. And he’d soon got a taste for it.

  “You’re his type,” I told her. “The type of victim he went for.” A mother who’d gotten pregnant young, like his mother. The difference between the victims and Clear was that she kept, loved, and took good care of her child. The others had either abused or badly neglected theirs.

  “I know. But I also know he loves us. He may not feel the emotion the way you and I feel it, but it’s still love.”

  If I didn’t know he was a sociopath, I might have believed that. But a person surely couldn’t torture and kill thirty-two women and be able to feel an emotion such as love in any form, could he?

  “I can understand that you find it hard to reconcile the dad you know with the man who did those things. I do too. But he had no one, Kensey. No one who understood him. No one who anchored him or made him feel loved. Just as I hadn’t for a very long time. I think if he’d had us back then, he never would have done those things.”

  I wasn’t so sure of that.

  “He’s on death row, which means he could be scheduled to die at any time. I intend to be there for him until that day comes.”

  I felt a sudden chill, because one thing I feared was that when that day finally did come, Clear would choose to die with him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Eleven years later

  Whipping my car into a parking space outside Chrome Canvas Bar, I switched off the ignition and let out a tired sigh. I was suspicious of anyone who said they liked Mondays. Anyone. I supposed I should be grateful for the small mercy that my shift didn’t start until noon.

  Sarah, who also waitressed there, had suggested we enjoy our weekend by hitting a music festival. We hadn’t arrived back in Redwater until late last night, and I truly lacked the energy and coordination to face the world. I only had myself to blame. Actually, no, I had Sarah to blame. And I totally intended to do it.

  Sliding out of my car, I lazily strode toward the bar. It doubled as a store for motorcycle parts and accessories as it was also attached to Chrome Canvas Cycles—or CCC, as it was often referred to—which specialized in manufacturing custom motorcycles. I thought the bikes were out of this fucking world, but it would be fair to call me biased, as CCC was co-owned by Sherry’s husband, Dodger. The big, bearded teddy bear was one of my favorite people.

  Really, I didn’t have the personality suited to waitressing. I wasn’t outgoing or chatty or helpful. If you stuck me in a party setting, I’d alternate between clock-watching and playing with my phone, intending to duck out once I’d stayed for a polite amount of time. Honestly, I knew more about my favorite book characters than I did about the actual living, breathing people around me.

  Sherry said I made her think of a flighty she-wolf—always existing on the periphery of my pack of people because the social aspects of pack life were simply too draining. It was pretty close to the truth.

  I’d originally started working at the bar, which Dodger also co-owned, to help Sherry after her waitress took off with a biker. I’d stayed for the simple reason that Sherry asked me to. The big-busted, big-haired, biker babe was another of my favorite people, and I owed her a lot. She’d been there for me in ways that Clear, despite loving me, never could.

  As the roll-up bay door of CCC was open, I could see Dodger crouched beside a black and neon-blue monster of a bike. I was just about to call out hello when I heard the click of claws on concrete. One hundred and ten pounds of blue/brindle fur and hard muscle loped out of CCC. It was one mean-looking, badass dog. He was also absolutely gorgeous. Tall and well-proportioned with dark, almond-shaped eyes and a short, sleek coat.

  A growl rumbled out of him, and he peeled back his upper lip. With an inner smile, I snarled right back at him. His own snarl melted away and, with a happy bark, he padded toward me. I crouched down to his level. “Morning, Bandit.” I petted his sleek fur, and the Cane Corso Mastiff practically melted against me. It was kind of our morning ritual—he’d growl, I’d snarl, and then he’d playfully dive at me and demand some attention.

  Looking over his shoulder, Dodger smiled, flashing a gold tooth. “Hey, Kenz.”

  “Morning, Dodger.” Straightening, I walked into CCC. It smelled of metal, grease, and paint. A few bikes were raised on lifts, and stacks of wheels and rims sat here and there. Power tools and large equipment were propped on workbenches while cans, bottles, tubs, and jugs lined the metal shelving. A few stools were positioned beneath the large pegboard on which a variety of tools hung.

  “How was the festival?” he asked.

  “Great. Until Sarah punched a security guard right in the face. Long story; don’t ask.” I adored Sarah. She made me think of a Pitbull terri
er. Loving, loyal, strong-willed. She’d also bite the face off anyone who threatened her.

  Dodger chuckled. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “No, neither can I. Where’s Cade?”

  Dodger sighed. “Probably still recovering from his bender. He’ll be here.”

  Cade worked for him and was equally as talented at the job. People came from all over the world to have the father-son team work on their bike. “Listen, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Some true crime writer left a voicemail on my phone. He wants to interview me about Michael. I deleted it and won’t be returning his call, so he might turn up here. Might even ask you some questions.” It had happened before, sadly. “His name is Noah Linton.”

  “Noah Linton,” Dodger echoed. “I’ll remember. I really wish assholes like him and the journalists would just leave you alone.”

  Yeah, so did I. “Pass on the warning to Cade for me. I gotta get to work.”

  “Will do. Hey, do me a favor, Kenz, and bring me out a coffee, would you?”

  “No problem.” I gave Bandit one last stroke. “See you later, big guy.”

  I turned … and stilled as I caught sight of over six feet of solid male muscle slipping out of a black, shiny Maserati, talking into his cell phone. All that muscle rippled beneath his shirt like waves of sea water. With tailored black slacks, gleaming shoes, and the top few buttons of his white shirt undone, he had that business-casual look going on. And, yep, my mouth just dried up.

  He walked with long, relaxed, confident strides as he breezed through the parking lot. Moved slowly. Calmly. Fluidly. Totally in control. The slight breeze ruffled his short dark hair that shimmered and shined in the sun like black water.

  Damn if my hormones didn’t do a happy dance.

  I studied him, trying to gauge how old he was. Probably in his mid-thirties, I decided. He had a mature air about him that—

  Hard, bottomless, glacier blue eyes suddenly found mine. And everything sort of went tits up. An electric snap of attraction hit me hard, sending a buzz of sexual energy sweeping across my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It wasn’t lust. No, lust didn’t snare you or make your breath stutter. This was so much more powerful. And intensely fucking scary.

  Sarah talked about sexual chemistry all the time; talked of how it sent your pulse racing and scrambled your thoughts. Honestly, I hadn’t believed it existed. I just hadn’t. I had a wild imagination, sure, but I was very practical in many ways. I’d rolled my eyes at the idea of such intense, intoxicating chemistry. I hadn’t seen how anyone could be reduced to a hot mess from nothing more than a brief look.

  Yet, here I was, dazed by an unmistakable, blindsiding, uncontrollable force of sexual chemistry. There was nothing rational or intellectual about it. No, it was visceral. And I felt … ambushed. Seriously. It came out of fucking nowhere and now … It was like when you were watching something enthralling, hanging on the edge of your seat as you waited anxiously to see what happened next.

  He ended his call just as he strode toward CCC, eyes still holding mine. My stomach clenched almost painfully, and my nerves seemed to suddenly explode. He was—no exaggeration—smoking, mind-meltingly hot. There was more to his appeal than that, though. He was alarmingly compelling. Blatantly dangerous. Had such a strong, imposing presence that I’d bet he caught people’s attention the moment he entered a room. Add in all that dark energy he spilled and the raw sexual magnetism he projected and, yeah, you had yourself a lethally seductive specimen.

  I felt my face heat and knew there’d be a slight telling flush on my cheeks. He didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss a thing; his eyes raked over me, drinking in every detail. There wasn’t anything impressive to see. My long, dark ruler-straight hair was styled into a simple, high ponytail. My shirt and skirt were casual and nondescript. And I used a minimal amount of makeup—mostly because I was too lazy to spend much time on it.

  When his eyes once again caught mine, there was a curious, irrepressible tug in my stomach that seemed to draw me toward him. At the same time, my scalp prickled, and I felt uncomfortable. His dangerous vibe would have reeled in many girls, but I made a point of staying away from bad boys. I was not my mother.

  I didn’t hang around for Dodger to introduce me; I headed straight for the bar. If I hadn’t been so shaken, I might have smiled at the sound of Bandit snarling at the stranger behind me.

  Pulling open the door and stepping inside, I was assaulted by the scents of wood, beer, and coffee beans. The bar-store hybrid was awesome, in my opinion. The windows were tinted in a way that minimized the natural light. Framed pictures of bikes hung from the red brick walls near the shelves that were lined with helmets, bike parts, and accessories.

  A blue neon ‘BEER’ sign hung from the ceiling just above the bar, where we also served hot and cold snacks. Two pool tables were at the rear of the bar near the restrooms and the flashing gambling machines.

  The bar wouldn’t officially open for another fifteen minutes, so the stools lined up along the bar were as empty as the booths and the heavy wooden tables. The rear doors would soon be opened, allowing patrons to sit outside and enjoy the sun.

  There were only two people in the large space. Reed, the bartender, was fussing with the cashier till while Sarah was leaning over the bar, looking destroyed. Her head slowly lifted when I entered, making her mocha-brown hair part like a curtain to reveal a pale, haggard face.

  “Regretting the festival yet?” I asked.

  “Fuck, no,” she said. “But I regret the Vodka. Definitely regret the Vodka.”

  Planting his meaty fists on the bar, Reed narrowed his wide-set blue eyes on me. “You look a little off.”

  “Duh, Vodka. And you’re no spring chicken yourself, you know.”

  He snickered and patted his slightly rounded stomach. “I just love my abs so much that I protect them with a few layers of fat.”

  Snorting, I walked behind the bar and through the door labeled ‘Private.’ After stuffing my jacket and purse in my locker in the breakroom, I went back to the bar and made Dodger’s coffee—black, just how he liked it.

  “I got a favor to ask you,” said Sarah.

  I lifted a questioning brow. “Oh, yeah?”

  “The thing is … my landlady’s doing her annual inspection in a couple of days. She and her son will want to take a good look around my apartment.”

  Knowing where this was going, I gave her a pained look. “Don’t ask me to tidy your place again.” Sarah’s idea of tidying was to shove everything at the back of her closets or cupboards. For Sarah, if she couldn’t see the clutter, it didn’t exist.

  “But you’re so good at cleaning! You’re the only person I know who has a ridiculously and abnormally tidy home yet has still managed to make it feel like a haven rather than a showroom.”

  “Sarah, you know how to clean. You just don’t care if the place is tidy.”

  “I do when my anal landlady is coming to inspect it.”

  “Each time I walk into that post-apocalyptic war zone, I die a little inside.” Okay, not really. Cleaning wasn’t a compulsion for me. I didn’t need order and cleanliness to feel in control of my life. Everything didn’t need to be immaculate or have its own place. I wouldn’t panic if I found a sock on the floor, and I didn’t feel an immense need to color-coordinate or alphabetize anything. Really, I couldn’t give a tinker’s shit if others lived in filth. No, but I liked there to be order in my own territory.

  I also liked to be able to find things quickly and easily—it was imperative, really, as I always seemed to be running late. My apartment was so damned tiny it didn’t have room for clutter anyway.

  I wasn’t gonna lie, there were times when I disappeared into cleaning if faced with stress. But was there anything wrong with channeling your anxieties into something productive rather than sitting around moping or worrying? I didn’t think so.

  “Please,” Sarah begged, hands joined in prayer, brown eyes gleaming with a rather dramati
c amount of despair.

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  Sarah did a little clap. “Yay.”

  “You’re a total softie,” Reed said to me. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I’m no softie. I’m a bitch of epic proportions.” Rounding the bar, I said, “I just need to pass this coffee to Dodger. I’ll be right back.”

  Hoping Maserati Guy was gone, I slipped out of the door with the take-out cup in hand. Dodger was standing in the parking lot, talking to someone. The black Maserati was still there, though, which meant its owner wasn’t far away—he was possibly even inside CCC. Well, I wasn’t going to just stand there until Dodger was done talking. I’d leave his coffee on his workbench or something.

  Steeling myself, I headed toward the open bay door. The murmur of voices drifted to me, and I halted as the words penetrated.

  “I was surprised to find out you have Michael Bale’s stepdaughter working at the bar,” said a voice so deep and rough that it almost seemed to vibrate. “You really think that’s a good idea, Sherry?”

  “Being his stepdaughter does not define Kensey,” said Sherry. “She’s a person.”

  “Yeah, she is. And I’m not saying she should be punished for a family dynamic that she has absolutely no control over. But she must draw the kind of attention to the bar and, by extension, CCC that you don’t want.”

  “It’s not like she has serial killer groupies following her around or anything, Blake.”

  Ah, so Maserati Guy was Blake Mercier. He’d recently bought half of both CCC and the bar from Dodger’s old silent business partner, who’d wanted to sell his share and relocate. I didn’t know Blake, but I knew of him. Most people in Redwater did.

  I knew he owned a chain of nightclubs and had invested in a lot of the businesses that were scattered throughout the city. It was rumored that not all his businesses were above board, but I had no idea how true that was. I’d also heard that he had connections just about everywhere and was not a man to be crossed. It was said that you never wanted to owe Blake Mercier a favor.