I wake up with a blinding headache and my sixth sense ringing in my ears. That’s what Mom always called it when she was still alive. Me and Ian’s sixth sense. As cliché as it sounds, we’re so close in age that we’ve got smell, hearing, touch, sight, taste, and an innate feeling whenever one of us needs the other one.

Before I even turn on the lamp next to my bed, I roll over to speed-dial my brother’s number. I expect it to go straight to voicemail, the way it’s been doing for the last two weeks. I’ve had to break into his house using the spare key he left at my place just to get in a single word with him face-to-face.

Today, however, he answers on the first ring. “What?” he demands, none of the morning gruffness in his voice. In fact, he’s all business, despite it being the ass crack of dawn.

“Okay, tell me what’s wrong,” I say, my own voice still gravelly from sleep. I’d worked the night shift last night and hadn’t gotten into bed until after one.

Ian groans. “Not this again.”

“I’ve let this go on for two weeks, Ian. No more. You tell me what’s wrong with you or I’m coming over.” Pausing, I grit my teeth and wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t. “I mean it this time.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?” he says. In the background, I hear his coffee maker beep and the sound of him rummaging through cabinets for a mug.

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a terrible liar?”

“No,” he growls. “Because you’re the only one who can tell when I’m bluffing.”

Sitting up in bed, I let my long black hair fall around my shoulders in a tangle of messy knots. “We should play poker together sometime, we’d clean up.” I inject a healthy dose of sarcasm there, and he knows exactly why. Ian had started gambling in high school, after our dad split, and he hadn’t quit for good until four years ago. Right after our mother passed away. He blew half the money we’d inherited from her on a single, grief-stricken drunk casino escapade, so he’d promised never to step foot in the casinos again.

“That’s not what’s going on, is it?” I whisper hesitantly. “You haven’t started again?”

“God, no. Skye, I’d tell you if that was it. You know I would.”

I sigh into the receiver. That much I’ve got to hand him. He might be a liar and a jerk about telling me when anything bothers him, but my brother knows when to be honest with me about the real stuff. The serious shit. He knows our relationship depends on it because I can’t go down that road again. Which is why I’m so confused by the way he’s acting right now.

“Just promise me that whatever it is, you won’t be too proud to just tell me the truth.” When he’s silent, I add, “Can you promise that?”

Now it’s his turn to sigh. He knows me every bit as well as I know him, and he’s fully aware I’m not going to give up. “I swear I will,” he eventually says, though from his tone I’m not so sure I believe him.

For the moment, it’ll have to be good enough. “Okay. So … I’ll see you tomorrow night, yeah?” Usually, we have movie night at the theater down the block every Tuesday, but he’s skipped out on the last couple weeks while avoiding me. Ian’s the only other person I know who enjoys the same off-the-wall comedies that I do—the kind of movies that make other people roll their eyes.

He gets it, though.

“Adam Sandler and Andy Samberg, here we come,” he says dryly.

“You better not stand me up or I’ll come after you,” I warn with a grin before we say goodbye and I roll out of bed. Since I’m up, I might as well get in some cardio.

My boss has been on my case worse than ever lately. Can’t you just lose ten more pounds, Skye? Then you’ll really rake in the tips. Like it’s any of his business what I weigh. Sure, most of my co-workers are thinner than me, but they’d faint at the idea of running a 5K, much less a half marathon like I ran last month.

Greg’s words get to me, though, as much as I hate to admit it. I try to block them out, slipping on my earbuds and turning up Jessie J to deafening levels as I jog down to the boardwalk, but they still rattle around in my head every time I pass anyone my age. Mentally, I know they all must have similar problems. Maybe that smiling couple is making up from a bad argument the night before; or that girl upside-down on the beach in her yoga pose is recovering from a shitty breakup or struggling with a gambling problem like my brother.

You can’t judge people by looking; I know that.

It’s just that they all look so much more at peace than me.

It’s not that I don’t like my life. I do. I was born here, went to community college down the block, lived here my entire life, and will likely live here for the rest of it, too. And I’ve been with guys before, but nobody who lasted longer than a month. Even then it was all casual.

It’s not a bad life by any means. I love being near the ocean. I like my apartment, now that I’ve redecorated the place. My job is decent when my boss isn’t being an ass about my weight, and my regular customers are great. Plus, I love my brother. I just can’t help feeling like there’s something missing. Some big piece of me out there that I haven’t stumbled upon yet. Something that will make all the other puzzle pieces click into place.

Unraveling myself from my thoughts, I reach the end of the boardwalk. My turnaround point. I normally stop here to stretch, or shake my muscles out before I jog home, but there are a couple of guys at the end of the pier. They’re passing around a brown paper bag and swigging from whatever’s inside, the scent of pot rolling off them in waves that makes my stomach pitch.

Keeping my earbuds in but shutting off the volume, I stop a good ten feet from them and pause just long enough to catch my breath. Before I can turn around to run the other way, one of the guys catches my eye and elbows his friend sharply.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He rakes his eyes up and down my body in a way that makes me want to cross my arms over my breasts, even though I know he can’t see anything in my modest tracksuit. “How you doing?”

The other guy leers at me. “Come on over here, girl. You got a boyfriend?”

“Course she does,” the first one yells, still staring at me as he tugs his lower lip between his teeth. It’s probably supposed to look sexy, but it just makes my skin crawl. “Who do you think she’s keeping that ass so tight for?”

I’m already spinning on my heel, my cheeks burning hot. I want to tell them to fuck off, but I’ve lived here long enough to know when to pick my battles. And anyone who’s drinking and smoking up at the pier this early in the morning is definitely battle. So I jog away, my muscles on fire because I didn’t take enough time to rest.

And then, I hear my worst nightmare. The harsh pound of feet on the boardwalk behind me.

They’re following me.

“Hey, bitch, we’re talking to you!” A rough hand closes around my wrist, jerking me out of my stride. I stumble to a halt, suddenly breathless because my heart is lodged so far into my throat.

“Don’t—” I rasp, but what happens next comes so fast it nearly knocks me off my feet. It’s only later, thinking back on the scene, that I can piece together all the details. As I stand attempting to pull my arm free from the creep’s grasp and trying to tell him not to touch me, someone else collides into him. Fist-first. The grip on my arm falls away, and the man raises both hands to shield his face.

It’s too late.

Another heavy punch sends him sprawling on the boardwalk where he lands with a heavy thud. My rescuer, an enormous guy—at least half a foot taller than my 5’7”—with bulging arms and a tattoo on one bicep, shoves me behind him.

“Thank you,” I gasp, still rubbing my wrist.

He doesn’t seem to hear me. He looms over the guy on the ground, dirty blonde hair tumbling across his bronze forehead as he glares down. “Touch her again and I’ll make you wish you were dead,” my rescuer growls in a tone that makes my heart skip a beat. Or three. Wow.

No one has ever threatened anyone because of me before. No one has ever sounded quite so overprotective. And I won’t lie, it’s hot as hell.

But before I can ask his name, or even get a good look at his face, he’s gone, storming up the boardwalk toward the guy who put his hands on me and his catcalling friend. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I should wait here, or follow the man who saved me, or just go. When he doesn’t look back in my direction, I convince myself I misheard the possessiveness in his voice.

It wasn’t me he was protecting. Hell, he probably just has some beef with those guys and I was just in the way of his revenge. I shake myself out of the bizarre—and scary—headspace this whole morning has created, turn away from the scene, and start my long jog home to get some rest before work.

And I make a mental note to buy pepper spray before I go in tonight.