Chapter 8

Eight

EMORY

"Breathe," I demand.

I'm peering down at her pale face and forcing a calm into her to the best of my ability. Scottie is absolutely unhinged, and I sort of feel bad for her. The thick ends of her eyelashes brush against one another when she locks onto me with her big blue eyes. A quick whip of something hot slashes at the back of my neck, so I remove my hands from her waist and take a step away.

A surge of her warm, sweet breath hits me in the face when she exhales, and it takes everything in me not to sniff the air like some fucking pervert. Get a fucking grip.

"I know it wasn't you." I roll my eyes.

I'm irritated. I don't like that she has me all twisted up inside, and pairing that with the crazy chick from last night is a recipe for a bad fucking mood. I was one missed puck away from snapping my stick in half during the game.

Scottie peers up at me with innocent doe-like eyes, and it's a contradiction in itself. "You believe me?" she asks with a timidness to her voice that I've yet to hear.

My forehead furrows. "Unless you can shapeshift into a bleach-blonde woman with fake tits and a need for a psychiatrist, then yeah, I believe you."

I stand with my arm on my open door and stare at Scottie. She's wearing loose jeans with holes in the knees and a thick jacket that needs to be zipped if she plans to stay warm. There isn't an ounce of makeup covering her smooth skin, and it's a shame how deceptive she can be, because she's beautiful. How can someone who appears so innocent with the prettiest, flawlessly placed features be so deceitful?

After a few seconds of silence between us, I sigh and explain further. "She showed up at my house, so yeah, I know it wasn't you. I had the police escort her off my property." I pause when our eyes catch. "Unless you hired her to do your dirty work for you?"

Scottie looks offended, and I have to keep myself from smirking because, at the end of the day, it really isn't something to joke about. Frustration still runs through my veins, and although Scottie is nothing like the woman at my house, the truth still stands: she tried to blackmail me. And that gives me a pretty good reason to put her on my blacklist with the rest of the women I come into contact with.

I slowly start to climb inside my car to distance myself from her because, knowing my luck, a journalist with a craving for drama will pop out of the bushes and snap our picture to spin some story about me dating a stripper.

If only Scottie was Miss America or something, then I'd jump at the opportunity to clear up my image like Ford suggested so it would stop the rumors that are damaging my reputation even more.

Before I slam my door, Scottie moves to block it. Her eyes are wide with concern. "You should get an alarm if she knows where you live."

My eyes narrow. Does she really expect me to take advice from her? When I say nothing, she continues to ramble with more stellar advice.

"I'd get one with a camera so you can see who is at your door. She may have given your address out or posted it on social media." She shrugs and tucks a loose piece of light-colored hair behind her ear, like she's embarrassed.

My chest does something strange, and that doesn't fly with me, so I huff with irritation. "I sure hope she didn't give you my address." Scottie's forehead creases. I lean out of my car so she can hear the tightness in my voice. "Who knows what a woman like you would do if you knew where I resided."

Her jaw falls open, but she clamps her lips together as soon as I shut the door. My car comes to life, and I rev it once while looking at her through the window. Her eye roll is so appealing that I want to press on the gas again, but before I can manage, she turns and stomps in the direction of her own car.

I should drive away and hope that's the last time I come into contact with her, but something keeps me inside my Audi with it idling. Every few seconds, I glance into my rearview mirror to get a glimpse of where she's going.

Before I can stop myself, I shift into reverse and back out slowly after she speeds off. I follow her taillights like a full-fledged stalker because there's something so fucking enticing about her. Scottie is bold, but there is something below the surface that contradicts it.

I want to know why she was so desperate for money that she conned me into meeting her in an empty bathroom only to apologize seconds later. Or why she came all the way over here on a chilly night, well after the sun had set, to clear her name and offer me advice on a security system.

And where the fuck is she going now?

My foot plays with the brake as I trail her sad little car that is one pothole away from losing a tire. I keep enough distance so she doesn't realize I'm several cars behind her, but the farther we go downtown, the more my Audi stands out like a sore thumb.

My agent warned me that this part of Chicago was not for the fainthearted and reiterated I should avoid it at all costs. The road is becoming darker with broken streetlights, and the sidewalks are overgrown with weeds popping up through the many cracks. The houses are run-down to the point of demolishment, most with broken windows and plastic wrap flying with the gusts of wind.

Sweat covers my palms as I grip the steering wheel and park off to the side, refusing to go any farther. I squint when Scottie seemingly has the same thought and parks several cars ahead of me.

I watch her get out of her car while holding something in her arms.

A blanket?

A tent?

Fuck, is she homeless?

I sit up a little taller in my seat and almost get out of my car to follow her, but she stops right in front of a group of people standing mindlessly in the middle of the road. It's right out of a movie: a steel trash can with a small fire inside burns brightly, and what appears to be several homeless people huddle around it to catch some warmth.

Their faces light up when they see Scottie, like she's the little moon on their dark night. My jaw slacks with confusion when I see her handing out… coats ?...to each one of them. She even helps some of them as they struggle to pull the warm jackets over their bony bodies.

Jesus.

What is it with this woman?

The cool night air wraps around my tense shoulders when I climb out of my car and step onto the sidewalk. I lean against the side of the hood, checking my back a few times to make sure no one is sneaking up on me, and continue to watch Scottie hand out coats to the homeless. Some are lying on the cold sidewalk, and my heart catches when she takes the fabric and drapes it over their sleeping bodies.

I duck down when she spins and heads for her car, but I slowly stand back up when I see her pause mid-step. She looks over her shoulder, and I follow her line of sight with a weird sense of protection backing my moves.

To my surprise, it's a severely malnourished woman. Her arms are exposed, and they resemble toothpicks. She smiles when Scottie turns all the way around, and even from the distance separating us, I count several missing teeth.

Scottie's steps are hesitant as she moves closer. My fist clenches when she jolts backward after the woman tries to reach for her, but deep down, I know Scottie is a lot more resilient than I originally gave her credit for. The woman's hands lower, and she nods in Scottie's direction.

What happens next confuses the hell out of me.

Scottie's shoulders are exposed first and then her bare arms. She shimmies out of her jacket and holds it out for the woman to take.

As soon as the woman has it, my little culprit rushes back to her car.

She's long gone before I'm even inside mine.

The entire ride back to my house, I can't help but come up with all kinds of different scenarios about Scottie—all of which make me want to find out more.