Prologue
Amber
Let the record reflect: Crazy people subject to visions should stay away from crowded airports.
I roll my suitcase up to the sink in the bathroom and gaze at my face in the mirror as I wash my hands. My hair's still back in a no-nonsense bun, but my piercing headache has turned me into a monster, eyes bloodshot and sunken as if they're receding into my skull to get away from it all.
Great. A screaming migraine on interview day. Just what I've always wanted.
I dry my hands with a paper towel and pat the damp paper against my cheeks, suppressing a groan.
What was I thinking, flying here? Nothing triggers my hallucinations like being around too many people. A guy in a business suit bumped into me, and his memory flashed in my head: him in bed with a woman. He's cheating on his wife.
I don't know how I know, but I do. And I wish I didn't.
Maybe I'll just hide in the bathroom until they call my flight. Yeah, that's a plan. Crazy Amber, hiding in bathrooms because she has visions wherever she goes. I went to law school for this?
My phone beeps. Ten forty-two a. m.. Fifteen minutes until boarding time, and five hours before my interview. I dig for ibuprofen, wincing at the rattle of pills in the bottle.
Let the record reflect: I need to keep giant bottles of pain meds in my purse at all times.
"Excuse me." A warm voice sounds behind me, and an old woman touches my back as she reaches past me for a paper towel.
I mean to duck away without eye contact, but the woman has me trapped between the sinks and the paper towels, unable to escape. I glance up with my polite smile pasted in place.
The woman has long white hair but a surprisingly youthful face, and wide blue eyes. "How long have you practiced the intuitive arts?"
I look behind myself, even though I knew no one else is there. But the woman couldn't be talking to me, could she? "Excuse me?"
She still touches me, her fingers lightly resting on my sleeve now. "The intuitive arts? How long have you been practicing?"
A chill runs through me. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."
The woman's face clouds. "Oh." Her expression clears. "Well, you're supposed to, honey, and you're going to keep having headaches until you do."
My vision blurs with the fast-motion movie reel pictures I've been trying to suppress. Nausea blasts through me. I see a huge, muscle-bound man standing on a beach, brow wrinkled, fists clenched. Then a wolf in a cage, snarling.
I force the breath out of my lungs and draw in fresh oxygen, shaking my head as if that might clear the stupid visions. When my focus returns to the bathroom, I blink. The woman's gone.
Grabbing my suitcase handle, I wheel it out of the bathroom, scanning for the white-haired woman when the clock catches my eye. Ten forty-two a. m. That has to be wrong.
I check my phone just as the two changes to three. Almost no time passed in the bathroom, but there's no sign of the woman.
How did she vanish into thin air?
Chapter One
Three Years Later
Amber
I step into the elevator, propping the door open with my foot to hold it for the group approaching.
"Thanks." A deep voice resonates in the small space. A large hand tattooed with a the phases of the moon wraps around the door. It's attached to a blue-eyed giant of a man. Underneath his faded T-shirt and tattoos, he's got muscles like Conan the Barbarian. He could probably eat me for lunch and still be hungry.
Two younger men, just as hulking in size, flank him. Shaved heads, a mess of piercings, and more tattoos. I have to stop myself from recoiling.
What are the Hell's Angels doing in my apartment building?
Don't show fear. The first thing I learned in foster care. Study the threat. Again, foster care, though the lesson carries over to the courtroom nicely.
I draw myself up to my full five foot, three inch height. No matter that I barely come up to the shortest guy's shoulder. I'm a badass, too. Maybe I don't have giant ear gauges or an eyebrow piercing-ouch, talk about suffering for fashion-but I'm wearing pointy pumps. They're pinching the hell outta my feet, but with a three inch spike heel, they'll double as a weapon.
"Visiting someone in the building?" My voice has a dubious lilt. I'm not actually a snooty bitch, but when my safety is compromised, the claws come out.
The first guy gazes down at me and the corner of his mouth twitches. "No."
At least this guy looks somewhat normal, except for his huge size. Scratch Conan the Barbarian. This guy is all Thor, right down to his square jawed good looks. I don't normally go for huge and muscled, but damn if he doesn't have my lady parts tingling with new awareness.
I stifle any fantasies about what it would be like to be manhandled by such a guy. And manhandled? Seriously? When have I ever wanted to be manhandled?
The three men file onto the elevator, choking the small space. The Three Thugs. Like the Three Stooges, except with more piercings and tattoos. There's so much testosterone in here, it's a wonder I can breathe.
Heat rushes up my inner thighs.
I lean against the wall, hope these guys aren't up to no good. I don't want to judge, but I wouldn't have survived my childhood if I ignored a threat. And these guys look rough. Their presence makes my skin prickle. Not the stomach-roiling of a full blown vision, but a slight buzzing that can only mean one thing.
Danger.
I stare at Thor's barrel chest, the raised contour of muscle standing out under his T-shirt, and curse my nipples for beading up at such an obvious display of masculine power. What in the hell is wrong with me? I rarely get turned on by men, and my hormones choose this moment to rev into gear? Choose this motorcycle-driving He-Man? He's probably a criminal. I cock a hip and wait for him to explain why they are here.
He says nothing, but one of the younger guys smirks at me.
My hand flutters to my neck, ready to knead away the tension at the base of my skull. I cover the defensive gesture by checking to make sure my updo is secure before pushing the button for the fourth floor. "Which floor?" I ask in my best I-could-kick-your-ass-in-court tone.
"Same as yours," Thor drawls.
Is that a come-on? Or a threat? Are they following me? No, that's silly. They could've just grabbed me in the parking lot if they wanted. I heard their motorcycles roll up, but I never imagined the riders were coming in here.
Thor looks at me, though I refuse to meet his eyes. I hold my briefcase in front of me like a shield until the elevator stops and the doors slide open to my floor.
Please don't let them be after me. Paranoia, my old friend. I'm being skittish here, but the whole reason I'd moved into an apartment building instead of buying a house was to feel safe.
You'll never be safe.
Cell phone at the ready, I wait for the motorcycle gang to get out first. Let's see if they actually have someplace to go. The men saunter off, heading past the door to my apartment and-oh crap-they stop at the very next door.
No. Way. It couldn't be. "You're my neighbors?" I've lived here a few weeks but haven't met anyone, yet. The new high rise is right downtown, and the rent is pretty high, even for my salary. Not to be rude, but these guys in their ripped-up T-shirts and jeans don't look like they can afford the place. Unless they are drug dealers. Which would be just my luck.
"Is there a problem?" Thor asks.
"Ah... no. Of course not." Not until you throw a disgustingly loud party complete with biker babes and too much booze. Frankly, I can't believe they haven't already.
I slide my key into the lock, glancing back to make sure they're really going into their apartment. Thug Number Two-the smirking one- lunges at me, snarling like a ferocious dog.
I shriek and drop my briefcase.
Thug Number Three laughs.
"Knock it off." Thor grabs the scruff of the barking man's shirt and yanks him back. "Get inside. You don't need to scare her." His eyes land on me again. "She's doing a good enough job of that herself."
The two young men stroll inside, still chuckling. I grab my briefcase. Tendrils of hair break free from my hair clip, and I swipe at them to hide my flushed cheeks. Damn punks. My hand shakes, and I hate that most of all. I am no longer the girl who cowers in doorways.
My head feels a little tight, herald of an oncoming vision. I haven't had one in a while, so this one should be a doozy.
Great.
Heart hammering against my ribs, I enter my apartment and start to shut my door. A steel-toed boot jams inside the doorway, stopping me. My eyes fly up to Thor's face, landing on the startling blue eyes. The corners crinkle, and he gives me a predatory half-smile.
I shiver.
"I'm Garrett." He extends his large hand through the gap in the door.
I stare at it for a full two seconds before good manners win out over fear. I transfer the phone to my left hand to take his palm. The heat from his hand envelopes mine, a shock of connection running up my arm. A strange sense of knowing runs through me-like this guy and I are old friends, and I've just forgotten.
I shake off déjà vu. Gotta keep Crazy Amber at bay.
"Sorry Trey scared you. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again." His voice is deep and velvet-smooth, matching his rugged good looks. It sends heat curling low in my belly. He appears to be not much older than my twenty-six years. Too old to be dressing and acting like a punk. Although he does it so well. Faded T-shirt stretched across giant pecs, tattoos peeking at me from his sleeves and collar. Tousled, just out of bed hair and midday scruff. Mmmm.
Let the record reflect: Tattooed bad boys make my ovaries sit up and beg.
I shove my awakening lust back down. This is no time to be turned on. This guy probably mugs little old ladies on his way to motorcycle gang meetings.
"Are-" I clear my throat, trying to sound conversational instead of freaked. "Are all three of you staying there?"
"Yeah. So you'll be safe with us around." He flashes a full smile that takes my breath away. He has deep dimples and remarkably full lips for such a manly man. Chris Hemsworth has nothing on this guy.
Safe. Yeah, right. "Fantastic. I feel better already. Would you mind removing your foot from my door?" I'm going for cool, calm, and collected, but it comes out sounding a little tart.
He gives me a lazy smirk that unfortunately ignites a slow burn between my thighs. "You never told me your name."
"I know." I look pointedly down at his foot.
He tsks, folds his arms, and leans against my doorframe. "Look, princess-"
"Don't call me princess."
He raises a brow. "Then, what do I call you?"
"Ms. Drake. Amber Drake."
"You a teacher or something?"
"Lawyer. And you're close to a harassment charge." He's not, actually. They haven't done anything wrong. I don't usually throw my lawyer weight around, but I want to get inside my apartment before I have a vision. Don't need my hot new neighbor knowing I'm crazy.
"We didn't mean to scare you."
"You don't scare me," I say quickly.
"So why are you clutching your pearls? As soon as you saw us, you got your panties all twisted in a knot."
Oh lordy. He's talking about my panties. "I'm not wearing pearls." I use my most lawyerly tone.
"What about panties?"
God help me. The sensitive bits covered by said garment contract at the mention. "No comment." I yank the door, but it doesn't budge.
He raises his hands in surrender. "Figure of speech. You'd be clutching them if you had them. The pearls."
The image of me clutching my panties instead, as he rips them off me with those strong, white teeth, makes my breath hitch. To hide my mounting lust, I go back to scowling, giving up on tugging the door.
"Listen," he says. "My guys are cool. They may look rough, but they're motherfucking Boy Scouts."
I wince at the ill-placed curse word. "Well, Mr.... Garrett, maybe you should get back to helping old ladies cross the street." Or mugging them. I shoo him, but he doesn't budge.
"I'd rather help you next door to my apartment." He leans closer, and heat rushes over me. It's been a long time since I've been hit on by someone this hot. Maybe never. The lack of subtlety has me rolling my eyes, but I have to admit, there's something to his cocky directness.
No. I am not tempted in the least.