Chapter Six

Bowie

When Angie looked up at me in the lobby, her face ashen and her entire body trembling, it was like a knife twisting in my chest. I had seen fear before, but not like this—not the kind that drains the color from someone's face, not the kind that leaves a person shaking like a leaf in a storm. It was as if she had seen a ghost, or worse, as if her past had come back to haunt her in the most brutal way imaginable.

Without even thinking, I pulled her into my arms. Her body was cold, fragile, and I felt an overwhelming need to protect her, to shield her from whatever was causing her so much pain. She didn't resist. Instead, she buried her face against my chest, clutching at my shirt like she was holding on for dear life.

"Hey, it's okay," I whispered, my voice low and soothing as I rubbed gentle circles on her back. "I'm here. You're safe."

But even as I said the words, I knew they weren't enough. I could feel the rapid beat of her heart against my chest, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Her interaction with whoever that guy was had shaken her to her core. The only thing I could do was hold her, hoping that the warmth of my embrace would offer some small comfort.

"I don't feel right leaving you like this," I said softly, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. They were wide and unfocused, glazed with the kind of fear that cuts deep. "Let me drive you wherever you need to be."

Angie stared at me, her eyes searching mine as if she were trying to determine whether she could trust me. For a moment, I thought she might refuse, but then she nodded, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Okay. Take me to the summer concert festival."

The request wasn't exactly surprising. From the moment I'd met her, I had a feeling she was somehow connected to the entertainment world. The penthouse suite and non-disclosure agreement she'd spoken of all but confirmed it. But there was something about the way she said it now—so quiet, so defeated—that made my chest tighten.

"Alright," I said, guiding her out of the hotel. I handed my ticket to the valet, keeping one arm around her the entire time. I didn't want to let her go, didn't want to lose that connection that seemed to be the only thing keeping her grounded right now.

A few minutes later, my Ferrari pulled up to the curb, the sleek black paint glinting in the morning sunlight. I opened the passenger door for her, helping her in before sliding into the driver's seat. Angie sat there, staring straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap. She was so still, her eyes wide and unblinking, that it was almost eerie.

As I pulled away from the curb, I glanced over at her, trying to gauge her state of mind. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She looked lost in thought, her gaze distant, as if she were a million miles away. I wanted to ask her what had happened, to find out who that man was and why he had scared her so much, but I knew better than to push her right now. She needed time, and I was willing to give her that.

Instead, I reached over and took her hand, rubbing my thumb gently over the back of her knuckles. Her skin was cool to the touch, and I could feel the tension still coiled in her muscles. She didn't pull away, but she didn't acknowledge the gesture either. It was like she was in shock, her mind still reeling from whatever had just happened.

"Angie," I said softly, trying to keep my voice calm and reassuring. "You okay?"

For a long moment, she didn't respond. Her gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, her thoughts clearly somewhere else. Then, finally, she nodded, but it was a small, almost imperceptible movement. It wasn't the kind of nod that filled me with any confidence; it was more like she was going through the motions, doing what she thought she should do rather than what she actually felt.

I kept driving, not wanting to push her to talk if she wasn't ready. But the silence between us was heavy, thick with unspoken fears and unresolved tension. I was worried about her—more worried than I had been about anyone in a long time. There was something about Angie that had gotten under my skin, something that made me want to protect her, to keep her safe from whatever—or whoever—was haunting her.

When we finally arrived at the festival grounds, I parked the car and got out, walking around to open her door. She stepped out, still holding my hand, but there was a distance in her eyes now that hadn't been there before. It was as if she had erected a wall between us, a barrier to keep me out. It hurt, but I understood. She was scared, and this was her way of coping.

I walked with her through the crowd, the noise and energy of the festival buzzing around us. But Angie seemed detached from it all, like she was moving through a dream, barely aware of the people and sounds around her. We reached a silver Airstream travel trailer behind the main stage, and she pulled a key from her purse and fit it into the lock of the door. We walked inside and I closed the door behind us. Angie turned to me, her expression hardening.

"Why are you really still here, Bowie?" she asked, her voice sharp and bitter. There was a defensive edge to her tone, as if she were expecting me to take advantage of her vulnerability now that we were alone together. "What do you want from me?"

The change in her demeanor caught me off guard. Just minutes ago, she had been trembling in my arms, and now she was looking at me like I was the enemy. It stung, but I knew this wasn't really about me. Whatever had happened back in that lobby had rattled her to the core, and she was lashing out, maybe even questioning my intentions.

"I'm here because I think we have a connection," I said honestly, meeting her gaze. "I really like you, Angie. And if you want me to leave, I will. But seeing you scared like that…it just made me want to protect you. I'd never want to see my sister look the way you did back there. You can trust me, but I know we've only just met, so I'll respect whatever you want me to do right now. Say the word and I'll turn around and go."

Her beautiful green eyes filled with tears, and I could see the internal struggle playing out on her face. She was fighting something deep inside, something that was clearly tearing her apart. Finally, the walls she had been trying to build around herself crumbled, and she started to cry, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

"Do you mean that?" she asked, her voice trembling, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

I nodded, reaching out to gently wipe away the tears that had begun to spill down her cheeks. "Every word, Angie. I'm not going anywhere unless you want me to."

She closed her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath as if trying to steady herself. "That man back at the hotel…his name is Trace Skilling. He's my ex. He was…he was abusive. He's the one who gave me this scar." Her fingers feathered over the faint line on her face, the one I had noticed but hadn't asked about. "He almost killed me when I tried to leave him, Bowie. He was supposed to be in jail."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface erupted into a full-blown inferno. This bastard had done this to her? He had hurt her, left her scarred both physically and emotionally, and now he was out, free to do it again? The thought made my blood boil. I wanted to find him, to make him pay for what he had done to her, to make sure he never got close to her again.

"Why didn't you say something back there?" I asked, my voice rough with barely restrained fury. "I could've done something, Angie. I could've stopped him."

But Angie just shook her head, her tears flowing freely now, her voice broken and full of pain. "It wouldn't have mattered, Bowie. Trace…he's dangerous. And he's smart. He always knows how to get away with things. He's a manipulator. Everyone loves him. It's like he weaves some sort of spell over them so that they overlook whatever he's done, make excuses for him, even stand up for him. That's what I did once. Until I finally learned the truth about who he really was, and what he's capable of when he can't get his way."

I cupped her cheeks, forcing her to look at me, my voice low and intense. "Angie, listen to me. You're beautiful, and that piece of shit is nothing but a coward. He's the one who should be scared, not you." I leaned in and kissed her hard, letting her feel the depth of my emotions. When I pulled back, I looked her straight in the eyes, my voice calm but firm. "I'll take care of it, Angie. I promise you, I'll make sure he never hurts you again."

My mind was already racing with plans, thinking of all the things I could do to make sure Trace Skilling never came near her again. I wasn't proud of some of the things I'd done in my past, but I knew how to handle men like him. I knew how to make them disappear, to make sure they never saw the light of day again.

But Angie shook her head, her hands gripping my arms as if to anchor me, her voice pleading. "No, Bowie. Please, don't do anything that could get you in trouble. You have to think about Sunset Vines, about your sister. Please, just let me call the jail and find out what's going on. Maybe it's a mistake, maybe he wasn't supposed to be out."

I wanted to argue, to tell her that I didn't care about the consequences, that I would do anything to protect her. But the look in her eyes stopped me. She was already terrified, already on the edge, and I didn't want to push her any further. So I nodded, pulling her into my arms once more.

"Okay," I said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "We'll figure this out together, Angie. You're not alone anymore. I promise."