The Watched Girl Read online

  Published by Evernight Teen ® at Smashwords

  www.evernightteen.com

  Copyright© 2017 Rachel Rust

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-282-0

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Audrey Bobak

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Ava and Sera, the toughest girls I know.

  THE WATCHED GIRL

  The Escape Series, 2

  Rachel Rust

  Copyright © 2017

  Chapter One

  Someone was spying on me. As if I needed any more stress in my life.

  Ten days after my high school graduation, I plucked a large manila envelope out of the mail box. Addressed to me, Natalie Mancini, with no return address.

  I figured it was something from Columbia University. Important papers containing information for my impending move to New York City in the fall, where the cool, crisp air of centuries-old academia awaited my presence. Maybe a notification about my dorm room, or my roommate’s name.

  But the envelope contained only two eight-by-ten glossy photos. And they had nothing to do with college.

  Sitting on my bed, in my house on the outskirts of Rapid City, I stared at the pictures, unsure what emotions were most appropriate, because I felt them all.

  The first photo was of me walking out of Little Bobby’s drug house, dressed in a short black dress and red heels, with my hair poofy and lips red. An unwelcome reminder of the danger I had been in two weeks ago, when I had gotten caught up in a tangled web of drug dealing and human trafficking—and nearly lost my life.

  I had to admit, the tight dress looked kinda good on me. But someone else must’ve thought so too because they had stalked me and taken this picture. Someone had been watching me through a camera lens that night. But why?

  What if they’re still watching me right now? My entire body shuddered at the thought. Who was to say my stalker wasn’t sitting outside my house that very moment, waiting to snap more pictures? I glanced nervously at my bedroom window.

  Our house was surrounded by trees, with miles of thick Black Hills forest creating the perfect cover for anyone wanting to spy on me.

  My nerves had made me a homebody over the past two weeks. All my free time had been spent right there in my room. Netflix, Internet, books. Having barely escaped death, I avoided reality as much as possible. And now the pictures in the mail confirmed my lingering fears—the world wasn’t safe. At least not as safe as I had once believed it to be.

  I closed my blinds, shutting out the world and the early afternoon sun.

  But I couldn’t hide all day. It was nearly one o’clock—time to get ready for work.

  I placed the manila envelope and pictures under my bed, in case my brother or Dad wandered into my room while I was gone. Down the hall, I immersed my troubles in a hot shower, but the steaming water did little to evaporate the photographic images waiting for me in my room. What kind of sicko spies on people? My fingers trembled as I shampooed my hair.

  A hard knock on the bathroom door made me scream, and I nearly slipped on the tiles underfoot.

  “Hurry the hell up!” my brother, Josh, yelled through the door.

  I stuck my soapy head out of the curtain and yelled back, “Use another bathroom, dumbass!”

  Our dad had a bathroom in his bedroom down the hall, plus there was a small bathroom downstairs off the kitchen. But my brother loved to find ways to annoy me, so he continued to knock on the door. Knock… Knock… Knock… A slow, consistent thumping that pounded into my head, tensing both my muscles and my patience.

  I ducked my head under the rushing water and rinsed the shampoo away as fast as possible. After shutting down the faucet, I toweled off and put my robe on. I barely had it tied before I yanked open the door and came face-to-face with the smug smile of my brother.

  He was a head taller than me, but only thirteen minutes older. With our same black-brown hair and hazel eyes, people often told us we were as identical as brother-sister twins could get.

  I pushed my way past him, ramming a shoulder into his chest.

  “Ow,” he said with a fake whine. “You could say excuse me … or sorry.”

  “You could’ve used a different bathroom,” I called over my shoulder as I plodded barefoot back into my bedroom.

  Josh and I were fiercely loyal to one another, but we never missed an opportunity to knock each other down. When we were little, I used to beat him up. But once puberty set in and he grew bigger than me, I had to rely on my intelligence to clobber him. Which was okay, because in a battle of wits, I always won—since I had them and he didn’t.

  In my room, I dressed in black skinny jeans, and a black-and-white striped shirt. My hair went up into a wet, messy bun.

  I pulled out the photos again, staring at myself in that little black dress outside of the drug house. I had never touched an illegal drug in my life. I had avoided trouble for eighteen years, but all that changed with two slips of paper in government class—the random pairing of my name with Victor Greer, Kennedy High’s notorious drug dealer.

  What a school assignment partner he turned out to be.

  A chuckle escaped my lips—a rare occasion these days. I still couldn’t believe it. My grubby-haired classmate had been a twenty-three-year-old undercover FBI agent.

  FBI Special Agent Eddie Martinez. A real FBI agent. With a gun and badge and everything.

  And I had totally kissed him, too.

  Holy shit.

  Pretty sure I deserved an award for that one. Especially since he had kissed me back. He had wrapped his arms around me and pulled me in close, despite our five-year age difference, and despite the fact that I lived in Rapid City and he lived in New York.

  Except, I was headed to New York for college in the fall and I had his phone number programmed into my phone. But that ten-digit number gave me heart palpitations like no other. He was older. He was handsome. He had a gun strapped to his side because it was his job to be a bad ass.

  A cute bad ass.

  My fingers ran across my lips, trying to remember his—how they felt, how they tasted. Trying to recall his scent and the feel of his arms around me as he pulled me closer.

  But I didn’t have to remember the scenery from that kiss.

  I was staring at it.

  The second photo that had come in the mail was a picture of Eddie and me, kissing on a gravel road. The wind that day had tousled his messy brown hair. My long, black-brown hair was shown blowing in a breeze, caressing Eddie’s muscular forearms that had wrapped around my waist.

  Yet, despite having shared a kiss, I hadn’t seen or heard from him since that day, and it hurt my heart.

  But greater than heartache was an escalating fear.

  Eddie and I had been alone that afternoon. No one else had been there. It was just the two of us on a deserted gravel road. Or so I had thought.

  Someone had lurked unseen in the trees around us, camera in hand. The knowledge that we had been watched made my skin crawl.

  I dropped the photo and ran my hands down the side of my head, forcing deep, calculated breaths.

  My anxiety did that sometimes—stopped me in my tracks, making my head light, my breathing shallow. Almost to point of passing out. I had never had any anxiety issues before that night. Before my world got flipp
ed upside down. And now, even though things were once again right-side-up, my mind hadn’t quite made that transition back to normal.

  I’m okay. I lived. I survived. That night is over. They’re all in jail, and they can’t hurt me anymore. I repeated these words over and over again in my head.

  The FBI had given me the name of a psychologist, telling me that talking about the events of that night would help me cope with the trauma. But I never made an appointment. I didn’t need a stranger prying into the details of my life and my mind. I could deal with all the mental baggage myself. Big deal. Time heals wounds and all that crap.

  But the photos were different. Someone was messing with me and it was unclear if it was a harmless prank or something way more serious and scary.

  I had to tell someone about the photos. I needed to put that whole damn experience miles behind me, and erase it for good. The grimy criminal connections from that night still clung to me like leeches. I wanted more than anything to scrub myself clean and move on with my life.

  I picked up my phone, which had a spider web-like crack in the upper corner—another consequence from the night of my criminal run-ins. I should’ve replaced it, but I hadn’t been able to let it go yet. My phone had been by my side as I endured a dangerous night, and despite the cracked screen, it had survived just like I had. Tattered, but alive.

  I tapped the screen until Eddie’s name appeared. He needed to know about the photos. This involved him as much as me. My thumb hovered over the dial icon. It had been two weeks since we spoke last—two weeks since we stood on that gravel road.

  My thumb twitched. What would I say when Eddie answered? How would he react? Maybe he had only given me his phone number because it seemed like the nice thing to do. What if he didn’t want to hear from me again?

  But then again, what if he did?

  What if the FBI agent with the badge, gun, and cute smile actually liked me? It was a ridiculous thought, but in this insane world, anything was possible.

  My eyes closed, my heart raced, my thumb pressed the dial icon.

  The phone began to ring.

  Chapter Two

  As the first ring resonated into my ear, I bolted up onto my feet. His voice was mere seconds away. The second ring sounded, and I paced. Any second now, Eddie Martinez was going to answer, and then what? The third ring. My feet moved faster, shuffling back and forth across the carpet in front of my closet. I hadn’t heard his voice in two weeks and wanted desperately to refresh my memory of it. Fourth ring. Shit. I scratched a hand over my wet hair. Fifth ring.

  The phone clicked and an automated voice stated that the person at that number was unable to pick up at that time. It beeped. I froze. Leave a message, or don’t leave a message?

  But it was too late. My silence was already leaving a voicemail for him, so I blurted out, “Eddie, it’s me, Natalie. I need to talk to you. Call me back.”

  I ended the call and dropped my phone onto my bed as though it were a bomb that was going to detonate. Except the detonation happened in my head and in my heart—had I really done that? Had I really called and left a message for an FBI agent? It felt like something I wasn’t important enough to do.

  But he had willingly given me his phone number.

  The whole thing had me reeling in a vat of confusion. Eddie and I had survived a dangerous night of traffickers, bullets, and crooked cops. We kissed. We had each other’s phone numbers. We were going to meet up in New York.

  Was it a relationship? I had no idea. Deep down, my gut said no. He was older. He had an awesome career, and probably a gaggle of sophisticated New York women programmed into his phone. And me? I was barely out of high school. New to the world, untested and young. Naïve.

  Our kiss had probably meant more to me than him.

  I glanced at the pictures laying on top of their manila envelope and reminded myself that, despite any personal relationship confusion, Eddie needed to know about them. He was law enforcement. Big deal if he had a nice smile, and big deal if he was cute and a good kisser.

  It was, literally, his job to help me.

  I shoved the photos back into the envelope and placed them under my bed. After a couple of swipes of mascara, and a dab of pink lip gloss, I slipped my feet into black flats and took one last look in the mirror.

  Meh. Good enough.

  My dad was in the kitchen downstairs, sitting at the table, staring at his laptop. His usual position for a Saturday afternoon. “Work?” he asked, not looking up as I walked into the room.

  “Yeah, ’til eight tonight.”

  One week ago, I had started a summer job at November, a women’s clothing store. The store wasn’t the epitome of cool, but it wasn’t nerdy either. We carried mostly business casual clothes, like slacks, blouses, and cardigans. Things for lawyer types, or for teachers who were married to someone with money, thus allowing them to buy ninety-dollar tops.

  “It’s your birthday in a couple of weeks,” my dad said, as though I needed reminding.

  Every year on June twentieth, it was the same thing. Dinner with my dad, where he’d hand me a card with his signature scratched onto the bottom and a one-hundred-dollar bill inside. Oh, and there’d be no card from my mom in Salt Lake City. There never was. I didn’t expect anything less—or anything more—for my nineteenth birthday.

  “I have a work fundraiser on the night of your birthday,” he said. “So we’ll have to go out the night before or the night after. Think about where you’d like to go eat for dinner. Maybe The Tavern Green downtown. Haven’t been there in a while. They have pretty good steaks.”

  “Sure.” Whatever, as if it mattered.

  “Would you like a ride to work?” he asked, finally looking up from his computer.

  “No, I’ll drive.” Getting off work at night and having to walk out to a dark parking lot was my least favorite part of the job, but I also didn’t like relying on my dad for a ride. I wasn’t a child anymore.

  “It’s not too late to consider Sophia’s job offer,” he said.

  I shook my head and opened a bottle of iced tea. I took a long drink before replying. “No, thanks. I prefer crabby retail customers to little kids.”

  My best friend, Sophia, had just left for an internship at a Montana newspaper. This meant she left behind her regular summer job as a camp counselor at Camp Coyote, a sleep-away camp for grade schoolers, tucked away into the Black Hills outside of Rapid City. She said they were still looking to fill her counselor position, and she had given them my name. All I had to do was call and I’d be hired. A summer-long gig of wrangling bratty kids, warding off ticks and mosquitoes—not to mention dealing with annoying male counselors.

  My dad shut his laptop and looked at me straight on. “I know it’s not glamorous work, but I really feel the Camp Coyote position would give you a sense of real leadership and would look better on a résumé. You’d oversee your own group of kids, lay down the rules, and enforce them. A real management opportunity, and it pays well, whereas the job at the mall…”

  “Is what?” I asked. “Beneath me?”

  He gave me a stern look. My dad was a mixed bag of messages, telling me to be strong and confident, but at the same time, he didn’t like me throwing my opinions his way. I usually kept my thoughts to myself, because that was easier than fighting with him. He didn’t like being challenged. He was smart and believed he had all the answers.

  Though, deep down, in that place where secrets couldn’t hide, I knew I was exactly like him. That’s why we butted heads whenever I spoke up. Because I was smart and had all the answers, too.

  As an orthopedic surgeon, my dad had long-forgotten his first job of flipping hamburgers. He loved his large house, his large bank accounts, and his daughter with the perfect high school GPA and Columbia scholarship. He was a Columbia grad himself, and eager to see me succeed in his footsteps.

  If only I was brave enough to tell him I wasn’t going to major in pre-med. That was a conversation for another day. Or mayb
e I could leave for New York in the fall, ignore his phone calls, and tell him years down the road that I had decided not to become a doctor.

  I took another sip of tea, contemplating that idea. My dad had always wanted me to be a doctor, to create a new family legacy of fancy degrees, big money, and prestigious medical practices. And I wasn’t in a rush to crush his dreams or be lectured by him on bad life decisions.

  “I like the mall job,” I said, stuffing the college major conversation way deep down. “It’s air conditioned, and I don’t have to swat away horny male counselors.”

  My dad gave me a disapproving look.

  From the living room, Josh laughed. “As if you really attract that many horny guys. You’re more likely to repel them.”

  My dad and I ignored him. Josh had long given me grief over my penchant for studying over dating. It’s not that I never dated. I had ex-boyfriends. I wasn’t even a virgin. But my focus had always been on the big picture: College and a future career. That’s why I had ended up battling drug dealers with Eddie Martinez at the end of the school year two weeks ago. I had been protecting not only my life, but my GPA and Columbia scholarship.

  Josh didn’t have Columbia plans. His grades had barely allowed him to slide into Central Dakota University, a state school two hours away in Pierre.

  “It might be good for you to get away and work at the camp,” my dad said. “After what you went through a couple of weeks ago, it would be good to spend some time outdoors, get some fresh air this summer, meet some new people.”

  Yeah, right. As if fresh air was going to erase my memories of running for my life, being sold to a human trafficker, or being held at gunpoint by The Barber.