His arms squeeze around me and his hands turn into fists. His chest rises and falls in rapid succession, hot air blowing out of his nose. I reach out and caress the side of his arms, trying to get him to calm down. Although I can't see his face, there is no doubt in my mind that it is blood red with anger.

"Those fucking pigs can't do anything right. Never could." With those words, I know what he means. The times he called the cops when his foster parents abused him. And how they never truly helped him.

He begins to rock back and forth, taking me along for his little trip. I don't say anything, just listen to the frantic beat of his heart. It takes a couple minutes before he's able to calm himself down enough to talk.

"I'm going to catch this fucker, Cami. I can promise you that much. I'm going to hunt him down until he can't hurt or scare you anymore." His body shakes at the last words as if he made a scared oath to himself. A promise that he'll fulfill, even through death.

There isn't a bone in my body that doesn't believe him.

"I just want him to get what he deserves. Let him rot in a a prison somewhere." I'm surprised at my own words. Maybe it's the lack of sleep or uneasy feeling in my stomach.

Whoever the person is, I hated him more than anything in my life. In the last few months, he made me live in fear. But not anymore.

Not when King is here to protect me.

Chapter 6.

"Do you need anything from me?" Jean walks up behind me, making me hop into the air. He notices and touches a hand to my shoulder, bringing me in for a tight squeeze. "It's just me. You have nothing to worry about." The keys in his hands jingle as he turns the lock to the gallery.

Tonight's been a bust for the most part. I didn't manage to sell of any of my pieces. Every time I had a potential buyers all I could think about was if they were the one stalking me. For some reason weirdly eyeballing the rich people made them feel uncomfortable. Go figure.

None of them said anything; they just closed their check books and moved on. Not that I cared that much. I'm sure Jean was hurting about it more than I was.

The faster that I put this whole stalking business behind me, the quicker I can move on my life. It's getting to the point where I'm jumping at things that aren't even there. Practically jumping at my own shadow half the time. It was funny at first, but it's getting old fast.

Plus, if I can put all this behind me, I can figure out where King and I stand. After King made his promise the other night, he's been making calls all over Portland. He's only been here for a couple months, but because of his underground racing background, he's got friends all over the country.

Sometimes it helps to be a little bad.

Since the police won't help me, King certainly will. He doesn't have to follow the same rules that they do. It also helps that King was never one to really play by the rules anyway.

"Can you just walk me to my van?" I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. A couple of guys walk past me and I can't help but take in their faces. After the break in, I'm putting way more effort into remembering everyone that passes by. I'm learning that it's quickly becoming too much and giving me a headache. Also, the lack of sleep since last night isn't helping.

"Not a problem. I can't lose my best artist." He winks at me and swivels his head from side to side. I bring a hand to my mouth and hold back laughter.

I can always count on Jean going out of his way to make me feel a little better. He might be a man of small stature, but he is a man with an enormous personality.

Jean makes his way in front of me, a hand holding me back while he looks up and down the street. He holds his hands out in front of him in a fighting position, ready to punch anyone who comes too close to me. It's like having my own bodyguard.

When we get to the van, he makes me wait a couple feet back while he inspects it. He even pretends to talk into an invisible mic in his wrist, kind of like the Secret Service. The whole time, I'm doing my best not to break down in laughter. Which I completely fail at.

When he's done with his inspection he waves me over, opens his arms, and gives me a tight squeeze.

"I've got your back. Don't you worry," he whispers, the New Orleans accent bleeding through. He pulls away, rolls a hand into a fist, and sticks his index finger out.

He blows on the imaginary gun barrel and slinks across the rusted van. "I'll see you at the bar," he looks down at his watch and back up at me, "at 2200 hours. Over." With that, he body rolls away from the van and he's gone.

Only his laughter bounces off the walls of the parking lot.

The van door screeches when I pull it open, and a little bit of rust falls to the ground. For the first time, I really wish that I had traded my car. Having an unreliable car and a stalker is like the worst possible scenario. One bad start and I could be on the eight o' clock news with how things are progressing.

The old blue van starts on the first key turn. I've been getting lucky pretty lately. But it's only a matter of time before that runs out. I'll have to remember to ask King to take a look at it next time he's around.

Every time I turn a corner, even though I'm tucked inside the van, I hold my breath. I'm expecting to see whoever it is standing there. Looking at me while I drive by. The only faces that I can trust right now are King's and Jean's. Everyone else has become a potential suspect in my mind.

With each block that I pass by, the crowds of people lessen. When I get two blocks away from the bar, I let myself relax. A couple drinks and some fun with Jean and his friends is what I need.

Jean has hooked us up with reservations at the newest gay bar in Portland. How he managed to pull that off I'll never know, but I do know he has friends in high places.

With sweet daydreams of me sipping on Long Island Ice Teas and laughing away the night, I let myself take a breather. A set of headlights hits the windows in the back. The light bounces off the rear view and into my eyes, killing my little daydream.

Does he really need the high beams right now?

I arch my head over the dashboard and see that the city streetlights are on. The car behind me honks, but I don't move. It's a dark sedan with tinted windows. The red light from the stoplight illuminates the front of my car.

I don't know what the hell he wants, but I can't move until the light turns green.

This time the sedan blares on the horn, holding it for a couple seconds. A couple of lights from nearby apartments flicker on, heads poking out to see what the hell's going on. I roll down the window and wave him forward. If he wants to break the law, he's more than welcome.

The sedan revs its engine and gives me a little push on the bumper, making me almost hit my head on the steering wheel. His tires blow clouds of gray smoke behind as he continues to nudge my van forward, until it ends up in the middle of the intersection. The air freshener that hangs from the rear view mirror bounces around wildly, and my hands grip hard on the wheel. My heart starts to race.

It's him. There's no doubt about it.

I twist my body and turn the wheel, my hands climbing over one another trying to steer. I slam my foot hard on the gas. The van roars to life and it takes a good two seconds until the wheels start to turn, burning the old rubber into the road. The van nearly tip over its side as I do a quick u-turn, bringing it upright as I pass the sedan.

I stare out the window, hoping to get a look at my stalker. Even with the headlights, I still can't see anything through the tinted windows. He honks as I race past him. He turns the car at the last second, nearly clipping me at the bumper.

Everything's a blur. I have no idea what street I'm on as I turn left, then right, right, and another left. I try my best to loose him in the winding turns and for a second I think that I do. Until he bursts from an alley, his horn blaring into the night.

Pedestrians look at us and point. Some pull out their phones and record, while others dial. Hopefully one of them is smart enough to call the cops. I would, if I wasn't a little preoccupied at the moment.

I turn a corner at the last second, and my front wheels bump off the crosswalk. I spin the wheel, but manage to hit a mailbox. It flies into the air, a shower of letters descending to the ground. It's not long before the inside of the van starts to shudder.

Smoke seeps out from under the hood and it won't be long before it dies on me. This van isn't made for wild chases around the city while I try to dodge a potential murderer. The fact that I have it going over 30 mph is a surprise to me.

I zoom down an abandoned street, the sedan close on my trail. He gives me a couple taps on the bumper. Almost making me swerve into the neatly parked cars on the street.

I hold my breath. It's only a matter of time before he hits me in the right spot and I end up flying through the air. These old hippie vans aren't really known for their safety configurations. I doubt there's even an airbags in it.

That's when the roar of an engine sounds off down the block. I turn my head, foot inching off the gas. A smile penetrates my face and my heart nearly jumps out of my throat.

"King!" I yell. There's no way that he can hear me, but I would recognize his car from anywhere.

His 1967 Camaro RS with two solid red stripes along the side bursts from a nearby alley, directly between the van and my purser. The sedan slams on its brakes at the last second, nearly colliding with the side of King's muscle car.

I hit the brake, giving the van its much needed rest. Out of the side mirror, I see King look my way. Probably to make sure that my van's still in one piece. He nods his head and looks in the other direction, the wrinkles on his forehead coming out as the sedan's headlights hit him in the face.

The engine of the Camaro booms to life. Off in the distance, I can hear the wailing of sirens. The sedan waits for a moment, probably thinking out his next move, before his reverse lights come out and he peels away. King follows in hot pursuit.

Well, this is my cue to get the hell out of here. The last thing that I need is a criminal record after zooming through several red lights and hitting one mailbox.

I slap the dashboard and strum my finger along it before I leave. "Thanks for getting me through this," I whisper.

At the end of the day this will just be another story tied to the history of this van. Not that it didn't have enough already.

Outside my loft I park and wait a little bit, my eyes scanning up and down the streets. I won't be joining Jean tonight. I'm sure he'll understand, after what I just went through.

When the coast is clear, I slam the door shut and rush to the front door, my keys already in hand. I climb up the stairs two at a time, my black purse hitting my hip and the wall. With key in hand, I reach the end of the hallway and press on the door to my loft.

It opens wide. Not expecting it, I take a few steps back and stare into the pitch darkness of my loft. Even from the hallway, with the help of the flickering hallway light, I can see that everything is a mess.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" My finger reflexively types in 911. I decide against it at the last moment.

There's no way that I can call the police. They won't do anything, just like last time.

"I'm calling the police right now," I scream down the hallway.

There's no answer.

I wait a couple more seconds before timing each step that I take.

"I'm coming in and I've got a gun." I need every advantage that I can take.

When I break the threshold of the loft, shards of broken glass crunch under my shoes. Every foot further inside reveals a little more and more of the damage. Broken dishes and mugs scattered on the floor. Torn apart pieces of clothing. The couch cushions stuffing on the carpet. Splintered wooden chairs.

Nothing's survived that monster's touch.

Just like before, I flick on every light in every room. Going through and assessing the damage, while also keeping my guard up. When it's obvious that there's nobody here, I lean against the wall in the entrance.

Everything that I built over the last year is ruined. My art pieces lay torn at my feet. All the mementos and trinkets I've built in Portland lie in shambles.

Slowly, I fall down to the ground. My hands curl up into fists and I smack them against the back of the wall. Tears are welling up in my eyes and I can't hold it back anymore.

"Why won't you leave me alone?" I yell, my voice bouncing off the destroyed loft.

Broken and ruined.

That's the definition of my life right now.

Chapter 7.

It takes a couple minutes to regain my composure. When I gather myself, I call everyone that I know.

Nobody picks up.

Marina is probably fast asleep. And Jean is probably to drunk at the bar to even hear his phone.

There's only one person that I can turn to. There's no one else for me to go to. In all these years here, he's still the only person that will help me out no matter what.

My index finger hovers over the old ornate doorbell. Part of me hopes that it's too old to work. That I'll need to go back home to my broken apartment and gather myself. And try to move on.

The other part yearns to see him. Those devilish blue eyes of his and that smirk.

The only problem is that I'm a complete mess. Dry makeup down my cheeks and blood shot red eyes.

I don't want him to see me like this. But, what other choice do I have?

Everything back home is destroyed and it's probably no longer safe to be there. The freak seems to have no problem getting in and out of my place. The police won't do anything just like last time. He's the only person that I can turn to.

I swear under my breath and press the button. There's a soft buzz inside. I hold my breath and a couple seconds later, the lights above the front entrance turn on and I can see my reflection in the small window on his door.

I'm a mess. My wavy brunette hair is nothing; but a big poof ball. There's streaks of dried makeup running down the side of either cheek. My eyes are bloodshot red and my fake eyelashes are barely holding on.

King walks down the steps, his head craning down to see who it is. He's wearing a white wife-beater that hugs his barreled chest. There's a scar running down from the end of his neckline, getting lost underneath his shirt. A couple of old and new tattoos cover his body. I'll have to ask him about them some time, preferably when I'm not being chased by some creep.

Even after everything I've been through, I can't help but get turned on by his sight. All I can think of is being wrapped in his arms on my couch once more. The couch that now lies in the middle of my living room, turned over.

When he pulls the door open it slams against the inside wall. And before I know it, I'm in his arms. I feel the hard beat of his heart underneath his shirt. He looks up and down the street before pulling me inside.

And I just give myself to him. I let his warm embrace take over me.

"Cami, what are you doing here?" he says, a worry in his voice. He leans back and looks me over, his thumb wiping away the dried makeup. He smiles at me for a moment and I mimic him.

I don't know why I was so worried about coming to him. If there's someone that can take care of me, it's King.

With a heavy head, I press into his chest and take him in. The familiar smell of cigars and old oil. He's been working on the cars all day.

Something inside of me bursts. I raise a finger in the air and wave it in front of his face. "Was it you? Were you the one who destroyed my loft?" I scream.

I don't know if it's the lack of sleep or not being able to trust anyone that I see, but I unleash on him. As much as I want to trust him, I don't know if I should. Everything about my instincts and feelings are out of whack. I don't know what to believe anymore.

King stands there for a moment, listening to my accusations. He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his body. "I can't believe that you're accusing me of this right now. What do I have to do to convince you that its not me? Didn't I just fucking chase off the guy who followed you tonight?"