SHELBY (Second Chance Novels Book 4) (8 page)

"My shit?" he asks in shock before he scans my outfit. "That's what you wear out now?"

I glare at him. "Not your concern. Go be someone else's stalker-friend. I'm done."

I strut straight into the bar and order a shot, working my attitude and blending in perfectly with my dark surroundings. I may buy something leather for my next night out. Practically draping myself back against the bar, I put out the come-fuck-me vibe across the entire room. Dade moves to stand beside me, crossing his arms and glaring at anyone who looks at me.
 

I throw my hands up in exasperation and turn to him. "Go. Home. I don't need the big brother routine."

"I think you do," he says intensely, his eyes direct and strong.
 

"You don't scare me, Dade," I snark…and he
doesn't
scare me. Maybe he should, but who cares. Our little relationship, whatever it was, is over. "And I don't want you around anymore. I don't know what your deal is, but you need to leave me the hell alone."

"I don't scare you?"

"No."
 

A chill up my spine, however, scares the hell out of me from another direction. I turn to see a very average-looking guy leering at me with a glare so intense it borders on painful. He doesn't fit into this bar, either, simply because his presence is stronger than anyone else here. All I can do is take a step back, trying to figure out why I want to run.
 

In a swift move, Dade physically jerks me back and pulls a gun from it's hiding place under his shirt, aiming it at the terrifying guy at the opposite end of the bar. What the hell?! The guy pulls a gun of his own as Dade is dragging me to the door, shielding me with his body as best he can. He fires one shot in the middle of the bar, tagging the guy in the bicep of his shooting arm. I'm cursing my stilettos as Dade pulls me running to his car, practically shoving me in and tearing out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel. How many seconds have passed? Ten maybe? I have no idea what the hell is going on or who the hell Dade is.
 

I'm staring at him wide-eyed and gaping from the passenger side of the car, pressing my back against the door beside me. Not a single word leaves my mouth as I watch him drive, speeding me away from the evil, calculated glare of a would-be killer. Whose life is this?

"Shelby?" Dade asks calmly, his brooding air now that of a dark guardian angel. "Are you ok?"

My brain has too many thoughts bouncing around to make sense of any of them.
 

"Shelby?"

I can only stare, watching his eyes dart methodically from mirror to mirror. I can't speak, but Dade tries to explain. His words are as confusing as the rest.

"I'm a United States Marshal. I'm taking you into protective custody."

He turns down a side street and begins taking many turns, still watching his mirrors vigilantly. I'm hugging myself, terrified, beyond confused, and unable to process any of this.
 

"Are you with me?" he asks, glancing over at me with a caring, genuinely concerned look in his eye. I nod hesitantly. "Good. I promise you're safe and you'll stay that way. That guy back there won't be able to find you again. I'm taking you to a safe house where I can explain everything."

I nod again, with no capacity to answer any other way. We drive for at least a half hour, crisscrossing roads and retracing paths, obviously keeping track of who may be following. Dade makes several phone calls, the only words of which I make sense of are 'everyone to the house' and 'secured the witness'.
 

Satisfied that we're not being followed, Dade begins a deliberate and speedy path to our destination. He pulls his car into the garage of a normal house in a very average, relatively new neighborhood with nice landscaping and newish trees. He closes the garage door behind us as he turns off the car and turns to me.
 

"We're here."

"I…." I almost stutter.
 

"Yeah," he nods with a heavy sigh.

He exits the car, but I remain rooted to the spot, thinking if I pretend none of this is happening, it won't be. I randomly wonder if I'm drunk and hallucinating through my sorrow. That vague hope is dashed when Dade opens my door and helps me gently from the car.

DADE

Well, there you have it. Shelby's in a corset. I simply shake my head, wondering what lies on the ladder-rung below this one. I've been watching her long before I needed to start surveillance, and I saw her step steadily down one tiny notch at a time since I was assigned her case those few months ago. Watching isn't stalking if I'm her assigned guardian angel, right? I shake my head at myself again. Since then, she's gone from sweet and almost virginal to coming to bars like a walking train wreck.
 

She was such a vision that first evening at the seedy bar…the first day I allowed myself to talk with her, even though I knew interacting with her this early would piss off my boss. Protocol be damned, though, because I needed to try and protect her. Her long, soft brown hair surrounded a nervous, angry expression. Her rebellious spirit had obviously been suppressed until some thirty-something-jilt kicked her attitude into high gear. Now only months later, she rotates between leather pants, tiny skirts, stiletto heels, and now a fucking corset.
 

Don't get me wrong, she looks hotter than hell, but she doesn't care anymore what she's becoming. Most people wouldn't stop to think about the reason behind her actions. In fact, I wonder how many other of these panting idiots can see past her ridiculous bravado. That first night she went to Joe's, she walked straight up to the bar with false confidence and ordered a shot. Two seconds after she had the glass in her hand, she tipped it back and slammed it down on the bar as though determined to believe her own act. She spent the rest of the night the same way: overt confidence, dramatic performances, and flirting with any man within a ten foot radius, myself included. Anyone who didn't notice the performance angle was either drunk or stupid. Most of them were probably both.

It didn't take me long to get protective on a level past professional.
 

I saw the men she flirted with…if you can call them men. Some are simple cheats and liars, some fall under the category of idiot slimes with no character. Some, however, I've seen subtly violent with women in the bar or in the parking lot. I don't want to think about how they would've been in private.
 

I sat with her that first night, hoping she'd stay in conversation with me and make both of our nights more simple. No such luck. When she realized I wasn't trying to get in her pants, she had no interest. I suppressed a sigh and backed off, but I watched her like a hawk the entire night, and every night she came in after. I watched her go home with horny, opportunistic bastards, but none I considered dangerous. Week after week I saw the same show. When she got cozy with someone I didn't approve of, I pulled him aside and politely explained he would not be going home with Shelby. My fist, even at its most polite, can be very convincing.
 

I look over at Shelby, who has earned her current reputation many times over. She sits and peruses the men practically waiting in line for their turn on the ride. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take from her. She's slowly killing herself. Women who act like Shelby don't get a chance to be appreciated, only used. She
wants
to get used, but I'm tired of watching her broken heart get more and more broken, causing mine to crack along with it.

If not for my professional constraints, I would drag her from this bar and simply hold her until she cries or calms. In spite of how low she's fallen, I still see the good buried deep, blurred and darkened from all the anger. She remains beautiful in her core, and I want to heal her. I can only imagine her beauty when the hurt clears away.

Tonight, however, I sense her absolute fall. Her very being radiates a dangerous vibe, one of destruction and a total lack of self-preservation. Simply stated, Shelby doesn't give a shit about herself anymore at all. She gave up hope completely, and is looking to eliminate any sense of herself. My heart aches to see her so low…and wearing a
fucking
corset in a bar like this. I can't hold back another minute. I walk directly to her, ready to set her straight. She needs a goddamn intervention, one I plan to host right here in the bar.
 

She must hear me coming, because she turns around with irritation in her eyes.

"Back off the stalk, Dade. I don't need your shit tonight."

Her next words and actions prove her attitude. To quote her, she's done. I believe her, but
I'm
not done. In spite of her huff and her angry strut, I follow her along the bar, ready as ever to protect her from the worst of her actions. Tonight, however, I may keep myself in her way completely. How could I let her fall any lower?

I sense danger the moment she does. I quickly scan the room, looking for the source of the panic in my gut until I see Shelby staring terrified at a man about four yards away from us. I don't recognize him specifically, but he radiates 'hit man' from every breath. He doesn't pull off
subtle
at all, proving he's a rookie, but obviously a pro nonetheless. Like the newbie he is, intimidation is part of his game…the personal part if I had to guess. This guy likes killing.
 

I allow less than a split second for those thoughts to form as I quickly reach behind my back for my gun, simultaneously pulling Shelby behind me. He's equally quick on the draw, ready to eliminate Shelby in the middle of a goddamn bar. I don't bother debating morals of public gunfire when he's threatening my witness. I take a non-lethal shot and get Shelby the hell out of here. I don't have time to identify the gunman or to find out who hired him. My entire world can only revolve around protecting Shelby.

Years of training and natural instinct kick in as I get Shelby safely from the bar. She's wide-eyed and terrified, and I can't take the time to comfort her. After a quick check to make sure she isn't going into shock, and a perfunctory explanation of who I really am, I return to action. I make all the calls I need, telling the local police to hurry their asses up because the shooter is still alive, reporting to my boss I secured the witness, and to another marshal to get the team to the safe house.
 

A lingering concern outside of Shelby's safety is that they reach the shooter before he can disappear. I need him detained for interrogation. If he's as new as I believe him to be, he may be easy to manipulate. Unfortunately, questioning him isn't part of my job. I'd love to spend some quality alone-time with the man who tried to put a bullet into Shelby.

After my convoluted route to the house, I'm confident we weren't followed. I pull into the garage and sit for a moment with Shelby, giving her time to adjust.
 

"I…" she stutters quietly.

"Yeah," I say softly. I help her out of the car and look down at her frightened, confused, beautiful face and try very hard not to pull her in and hold her. I want to kiss her gently and tell her everything will be ok. Unfortunately, my primary role is that of U.S. Marshal. My entire team is waiting on the other side of the security door in front of us, and I lead that team.
Professional
is my only possible play.
 

Shelby turns to look at the door, and watches me key in the entrance code like I'm opening the portal to an alternative universe. Instead of taking her hand, I simply gesture her through the door. She walks through hesitantly and is greeted by two marshals sitting at the kitchen table, each wearing a suit and a somber expression.
 

"Shelby, this is Rankin and Banks, two other marshals assigned to your case. There are eight of us total, and we rotate shifts staying here, guarding you."

Shelby looks at me in a total haze. "Guarding me…"

"Our job is to keep you safe."

"Safe…" she nods hesitantly, still in stilettos and a corset. Then she looks up at me with a hint of clarity. "You're a U.S. Marshal. I'm a witness in protective custody."

"Yes."

"I'm supposed to live here now?"

"Yes."

"What if I want to go home?"

"You can't."

Those facts sink in, and I have no idea how long she stands silently, adjusting to the barrage of information. Reality pushes the fog from her brain slowly, and she looks me straight in the eye. I simply wait for her reaction, which I now recognize as growing anger.
 

"Fuck you," she says as her eyes well. In a shaky, sad voice she speaks to me, completely crushed. "I knew it. I knew you were just as bad as the rest. I was starting to think you might actually want to be around me, but I'm only a damn assignment."