Free I Have a Secret (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Three) by Cheryl Bradshaw Page B

the hotel staff was on edge and practically packed my bags for me.  I decided I needed something a bit more private and splurged on some five-star digs that backed up against the entrance to Tehachapi Mountain Park.  And the best part was all the rooms were detached into free standing one-bedroom cabins—it was my best chance at privacy.  All I needed now was to get there. 
    “So how’s Nate?” I said.  “He still lives here, I take it?”
    Jesse made a left turn and nodded. “I see him every week at poker night.” He glanced sideways at me. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong.”
    “What?”
    “You said before you weren’t sure it was a coincidence two friends in the same clique died within days of each other, but I’m telling you, it’s the wrong direction to go in.  The four of us all lead separate lives now; we have for years.”  
    “You mean the two of you?” I said. 
    He frowned. 
    I continued. “I’m more interested in your lives back then, not the lives you lead now.”
    “Why?”
    I shrugged. “I’m not sure yet—I feel like there’s a connection between the past and the murders. I just need to find it.”
    We drove in silence for a time until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “How is Nate?”
    “Single.”
    “He never got married?”
    Jesse laughed. “Yeah, to his cars…he owns Nate’s Automotive in town.”
    “He always was a good salesman. I remember him talking Mrs. Webb into turning his F into an A in History class. I always thought he’d move away from here though.”
    “Didn’t need to—why move when you have an established fan base?”
    “True. When’d you see him last?”
    “Couple nights ago.  Poker was at his house this week.” 
    “And where would that be?”
    “Stallion Springs.”
    He looked over at me. “Nate is fine, Sloane. I’ll call him if you want so you can put this theory of yours to rest.”
    I shook my head. “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll stop in and see him for myself.”
    Jesse pulled into the parking lot and the car lulled to a stop. I’d already prepared for immediate evacuation by securing my bag over my shoulder and wrapping my fingers through the latch.  I tugged on it and the door swung open. 
    “Thanks for the ride,” I said, hopping out, but before I could plant both feet on terra firma, Jesse grabbed my shirt and yanked me back. Apparently he had a plan of his own, and his blacked-out side windows gave him all the privacy he needed. My shirt ripped in two places, and in the few seconds I spent surveying the damage, Jesse had unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed on top of me. 
    “I want you,” he groaned in my ear. “Say you want me too. Let’s go back to your room and I’ll show you how much I’ve thought of you over the years.”
    His hands forced their way inside my shirt, grappling my breasts. With one foot still out the door, I swung my body to the side, taking him with me. Our bodies fell onto the pavement next to the car. My hands collided with tiny pebbles of gravel, scraping my skin. I reached across, yanked back on his neck, and slapped him across the face. 
    He turned, enraged.  “Really—again with the slapping?”
    “Is this why you’re a cop—so you can exert your power over women! Is that who you are now, Jesse?” 
    I scrambled to get off the ground and was met with resistance as he wrapped his arms around me, trying to hold me down. It was time to teach him a lesson from the Sloane book of what happened to a person who crossed the line. 
    “Sloane?” a voice shouted behind me. 
    I whipped my head around and stared up at a wide-eyed Giovanni sprinting in my direction. When he got within five feet, he took one look at my torn shirt and exposed bra and locked eyes with Jesse. Not good.
    “What are you doing here?” I said. 
    But he didn’t seem to hear me.  His eyes were riveted on the palm of my left hand which was now bleeding.  He hoisted Jesse into the air with a