Chapter 19

I glanced around, and heard it again. It was coming from two college-age types standing near the seating area. More specifically, it was coming from one of their cellphones.

Grinning like idiots, the guys were peering down at the small screen. The one holding the phone, some dark-haired guy in a University of Michigan sweatshirt, was saying, "Wait for it. The best part's coming up."

Suddenly, they both burst out laughing. "Oh man," the other guy said, "he was so Jaked."

Jaked?

Almost like in a trance, I moved closer, listening to my own recorded voice carry across the small distance. As if feeling my gaze, the second guy, a tall blond in a hockey jersey, looked up. When he saw me watching, he did a double-take. He elbowed his friend, and said, "Check it out. It's her."

The guy in the sweatshirt was still chuckling. He didn't look up. "Who?" he said.

"Damn it. Hit pause," the blond said. "Like now."

Sweatshirt tapped the screen and looked up. His eyes widened. He looked down at his phone. When he looked up again, his face split into a wide grin. "Holy shit," he said. "It is you."

"Me?" I croaked.

"So," the blond guy asked, "are you his girlfriend or something?"

"Nah," the guy in the sweatshirt said. "Jake doesn't do the girlfriend thing. She's gotta be an actress." He turned to me and said, "Am I right?"

"I, uh." I held out a shaky hand toward the phone. "Can I see that?"

He grinned over at me. "Sure," he said, handing over the phone.

Cradling the thing with unsteady hands, I looked down at the small screen. On it, I saw a frozen image of Jake in a bloodstained shirt standing near the hood of an exotic red sports car. I recognized the car. I recognized the shirt. And, a moment later, when I tapped the play button, I recognized myself, screaming, "That's not what I meant!" as windshield wipers whacked that Chainsaw guy in the face.

"Oh my God," I said, scanning the details on the small screen. When I saw the number of page-views, I almost choked. It was over a million. And I knew firsthand, the video was just a few hours old.

"So what's he like?" the guy in the sweatshirt asked.

I gave my head a quick shake. "Who?"

"Jake. Who else?'

I felt myself swallow. "Um, well the thing is…" I glanced around. "Who is he?"

Both guys burst out laughing.

"Good one," the blond said. "But seriously, what's he like?"

An image of Jake flashed across my brain. He was raw and dangerous. He had stormy eyes, dark hair, and an even darker reputation. And yet, for whatever reason, he'd come for me. To rescue me? Or to ruin my life? In one short day, he'd done a little of both.

In front of me, both guys waited.

I considered their question. "First," I said, "tell me what you know about him."

The blond gave me a dubious look. "Is this part of some market research or something?"

"Uh, something like that."

Fifteen minutes later, I knew more than I ever imagined.

Apparently, Jake was some sort of internet mogul – a sensation, actually, with twelve million subscribers worldwide and a rabid fan base of frat boys, groupies, and mixed-martial arts fans.

Standing in that crowded food court, I hunkered down with the stranger's phone, watching Jake's greatest hits back-to-back until the phone ran out of juice and I ran out of questions.

Some of the videos were absolutely brutal – with blood-spattered fighting that almost hurt to watch. Some were hilarious, like the one with the Chainsaw and – from what I could tell – quite a few other high-dollar athletes, who tried – and failed – to kick's Jake's ass.

In every single one, Jake looked like a god – a cocky mass of guts and muscle, wrapped in a package that had girls drooling from the sidelines, whether their boyfriends were with them or not.

The way it looked, the whole thing was just a game to him. He took some brutal hits, and yet never seemed to give a crap.

I considered the fight I'd witnessed firsthand. He'd been literally yanked out of his vehicle. Now that I thought about it, he hadn't done a damn thing to stop it.

He had wanted that fight to happen. Anything for his fans? Or anything for fun? I felt my eyebrows furrow. Maybe it was something else. Anything for a buck?

A lot of bucks, actually. The numbers the guys threw around were staggering. For someone who'd grown up in a dump, Jake had come a long, long way. Suddenly, the penthouse seemed a modest investment for someone with his financial means.

After the two guys left, I sank down at an empty table and tried to make sense of everything. I was still trying to make sense of it when Bianca's shrill voice sliced into my consciousness. "You were supposed to meet me at the South entrance, remember?"

I glanced up. "What? I was?"

She blew out an irritated breath. "We talked about this. Remember?"

"Oh." Actually, we had. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

Her brow wrinkled. "What's wrong? You're not sick, are you?"

Still dazed, I shook my head.

"Good," she said, "because we need to run, like now. Henry's waiting."

"Who's Henry?" I asked.

She looked heavenward. "The driver. Remember?"

"Oh."

"Are you sure you're not sick?" she said. "Because if you are, you'd better do it here. Not in the car."

"Do what?"

She lowered her voice. "You know."

Reluctantly, I stood. "I'm fine," I said.

She gave me a dubious look. "If you say so."