He drags his eyes to mine, then tips my head forward until I'm cradled to his chest, naked and pressed against him. His erection still digs into the apex of my inner thigh, so close to where I want him to be.

Yet not close enough.

I stir in his arms and he gives a shuddering breath, releasing his tension.

"Get dressed," he whispers. "Get dressed and get out. It's all or nothing for me, and it must be nothing. For Keith and my promise to him."

He turns his back on me and I die a little bit. Sucking in my breath, I scramble to get my clothes off the floor, but suddenly, he crouches next to me, handing me my things.

He brushes loose strands of hair back from where they stuck to my sweaty cheeks.

"Avery," he starts.

"There's nothing you can say to me," I hiss. "I'm tired of only words."

"You need to be protected, I can do that best with you here. You were targeted by a serial killer."

"Not according to the detective who came to the apartment," I remind him.

He shakes his head while I yank my jeans up, going commando since I can't find my panties. I shimmy into my silk pajama that does next to nothing to hide my breasts. My nipples peek again at the slide of the cold cloth on them.

He stutters to stop on whatever he was going to say, hand moving almost unconsciously towards my waist, as if to draw me in again.

I flinch.

He curls his hands in a loose fist, not touching me. "You were targeted. A man broke into your place, not even hiding from your neighbor, and left someone's fucking hair on your floor. You will stay here, with me, until I'm sure it's safe for you."

"Right. I'm your song bird in a golden cage."

I rush out of his office, willing the tears to stay out of my eyes for a change.

The second I'm in the dark corridor though, and the stage—my new stage—comes into sight in the club beyond, it hits me.

I can't breathe. My stomach turns, then clenches and I'm shaking.

I'm on my knees.

I'm gasping for air and filling my lungs with too much at the same time. While my heart races a million miles, my head spins.

Please no.

Please stop.

Please don't do this, I'm begging my body.

But it's no use.

Panic hooks poisoned claws in my chest.

I fall back and slide down the wall, banging my head as I go, willing the pain of hitting my skull to stop the pain inside me.

The noise from the club—some rhythmic song is on—is like a sledge hammer to my brain. Laughter and chattering voices slice into my eardrums. A shadow crosses the end of the short hallway.

I close my eyes and cover my ears, trying to slow my breathing.

"Oh, hun," a woman's voice says. A hand touches my bare shoulder. "Are you all right? Shit. Sweety, do you need help?"

I nod, not able to look at this person coming to my rescue. Finally. A feminine person helping me after men have put me in this situation. I croak out Ty's name, but she's already gone. I don't know if she's calling me an ambulance (probably not—what do they do with medical emergencies in the illegal club? Toss people outside on the sidewalk?), but I only hope she isn't trying to find Devon.

I don't want his help.

The thought of him finding me in the middle of an attack has me pushing myself up the wall to stand on my feet. I won't show him weakness after what we just did.

Movement nearly makes me throw up, but I stumble forward. At the end of the hallway, I round the corner to stand inside the sprawling club room It's dark enough, no one should see me.

At the same time as I have this thought, a man approaches me, a drink in hand from the bar.

"Ciao, bella," he says in a rolling, bass-toned Italian. It reminds me of my Italian voice instructor from the university. We were all "bella" or "bellissimo" to her. "Too much to drink? Let me help you. My table is right over there."

Before I can protest, the man is leading me from the wall towards a table in a dark corner, while I try not to throw up on his patent leather shoes.

"Apetta, Lorenzo," a voice I recognize says. The man pauses.

Van is here, taking my arm, arm around my waist, moving quick and smooth, but wound tight, like a boxer testing his opponent before getting in the real punches.

Lorenzo, the Italian customer with the drink, protests, says something I don't catch. Something about a ribbon or a necklace.

The women working here have color-coded ribbons around their necks, I realize. He thinks I'm a guest, and available since I'm not wearing one. I look around to confirm my theory.

The waitress, the one who must have seen me and gone for help, stands nervously to the side, chewing on her lower lips. She has wavy, black hair and olive tone skin, willow frame and tiny waist. She hovers, watching the men closely, as if she knows something I don't. As if she's watching a bomb squad diffuse—or not—a bomb.

She's wearing the same yellow choker as the other servers.

"No," Van says, shaking his head. "Lei è nuova, una cantante."

New. Singer.

He's crowding Lorenzo, or is that an Italian sense of personal space, closer than Americans stand next to one another? His stance is wide, blocking me partly from his view.

Lorenzo loosens his jaw in anger, then focuses on me.

He flicks a card between his fingers, giving it to me. "If you decide to do a private show, call me. I would like to hear you sing, just the two of us."

I'm just barely able to breathe without hyperventilating again and have no idea what the real cause of my attacks is, besides men not leaving me alone these days. Still, I take the card, mostly so he'll go, and he returns to his table. Suddenly, Ty is there, too, all brawny muscle, tattoos and beard. He argues with Van, cutting anger in his words.

I crouch on the floor near the wall and the sweet waitress rubs my back. "Are you ok?"

I nod gratefully. "Thanks. Panic attack. I just need to get out of here for some fresh air."

"This way, come on," she says. "When those two get started, it can get hairy."

I stand on wobbly legs and follow her, letting out a wry laugh. Hairy—between Ty's unruly locks and bushy beard, and Van's full head of black hair swept up and back in a dashing European style, plus the dark tufts at the unbuttoned top of his shirt, there's a lot of hair on these men.

I'm tired of men—hairy or not.

I'm tired of Devon and his club.

She guides me behind the bar, down a winding service corridor, through several locked doors and up. We don't go all the way outside—it's too cold. But here, in a hall with a glass door to the street outside, the air is clear and cool.

I gulp it in with deep breaths.

"You going to be okay?" she asks. "I need to get back, but I can stay a bit."

"Go ahead, I'm all right," I say. When she turns, I stop her. "What's your name?"

"Rosana. The door here is locked, so don't go out unless you want to go around the building to the front in your little top." She cants her chin at my practically naked chest and leaves me in the hall.

My shoulders sag. What the hell is wrong wi—

A heavy footstep sounds behind me.

*** ONC 1260 word count. It's a rough night so far for Avery! Hit the star if you enjoyed the chapter! ***