Chapter Two

"Bo Holt?!" the woman yelled at me. "What the hell are doing here?!"

I sat stunned in my chair. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. In every essence, she was the one that got away.

Long legs, blonde hair, great body and a set knockers that would make even the most devout man do a double take, Melissa Williams was a college fling of mine back in the day. We met at a party at the football house one Saturday night. I was drunk, she was well past that, and I kept tabs on her to make sure none of the non-football players didn't try a move she wouldn't accept.

Later on in the night, and few more drinks later, one of the campus creeps took a shot at her. I stepped in and when the guy tried to shove me off, I lost control. I shoved him, grabbed her and we headed out the door. While outside, she started to puke, so I pulled her hair back, flagged down a taxi and we went to the nearest convenience store for some medicine and water, the latter of which we both needed.

After intense interrogation of the intoxicated bombshell, I called another cab that took us to her place. I walked to her door, said my goodbye and headed back to the cab to get on home. I may have been viewed as a football-playing meathead in the papers, but momma raised a gentleman in our Pittsburgh home.

Several days passed and all I could think about was her. During class, throughout practice and when I laid down at night, Melissa was all that was on my mind. I figured I'd never see her again, but truth be told, I was missing her figure more than anything else.

It was December and I was still on campus since we were set to play in the Rose Bowl against the University of Southern California. I was a senior and decided to forego the time that coach had given us to go home so I could focus on preparing for the game. I knew going pro was in the cards, so I wanted to make my last one count.

Following a morning film session with the coaches, I headed across campus to the library where I would hit the books; I still needed to catch up on a few classes. It turns out, she was working at the front desk at the library. Since I was usually busy with football or class at that time of day, I never ventured into the building, thus missing out on seeing her.

As drunk as she was that Saturday night, she did remember my face and her roommate told her the following morning about my chivalrous deed. She thanked me for taking care of her, and I told her that I'm just glad things worked out the way they did.

Despite my prowess as a 225-pound all-conference linebacker, talking to her made my legs shake and heart pound. Earlier in the year, we played against the University of Michigan in The Big House and against the Ohio State at The Horseshoe. And while both stadiums had well over 100,000 in attendance, those moments didn't even begin to prepare me for the nerves that I felt in that moment.

"Do you know anything about English?" I said, immediately regretting picking such a simple topic. Of course she knows English, I thought. She's a librarian.

"That's my major," she responded, causing my stomach to turn at the realization of how dumb my question really was. "What do you need help with?"

"I'm writing a paper on 18th-century literature and could use some help. It definitely isn't my strong suit," I said, honestly, I might add.

Over the next several hours, we sat in the bowels of the school library studying, reading and -- mostly her -- discussing the works. By the time the sun went down, I had a paper that I was actually proud of, rather than one I was just happy to be able to turn in.

To thank her for her help, I took Melissa out to dinner that night. At first, it was strictly as a thank you, but as the night went on, we began to really hit it off. Day after day, we spent more and more time together, and before we could realize what was happening, we were an item.

I was stud linebacker destined for the NFL with a dime of a girlfriend. As far as I could tell, life was great.

In the Rose Bowl, however, I ended up tearing my ACL in the first quarter, on the first drive, causing me to miss the remainder of the game. On fourth down and needing only one yard to score and win the game, the Trojans punched the ball up the middle, my usual spot in the defense. All I could do was stand by and watch them celebrate what was supposed to be my final hoorah.

Losing that game sent me into a deep and dark state. I wouldn't call it a depression, but the parties and social gatherings weren't as sweet following that loss, and neither was my attitude. I became angry at myself, the world and Melissa. I rejected her help and let my emotions and temper get the best of me. After trying numerous times to help me, she left, and I would never be the same. The pure joy that came with her presence could never be replaced by another woman.

And now here she stands in my office, though that pure joy is not exactly what I feel. The last time I saw her was when she said goodbye, and this time she returns to me with a gun in her hand. I sit at my desk shocked, having plenty of trouble trying to comprehend what the hell is going on.

"Melissa!" I exclaim, trying to remain calm. "What a pleasant surprise! It's been years since we last talked. Have you returned to rekindle the fire? It's great to see you. You always did know how to make an entrance."

"Asshole," she wasn't in the mood for my games, apparently. "I should have known it was you. Of all the private detectives in this damn city, you're the one that's fucking all of this up."

I admired at her good looks, not knowing what to say. I looked down at my desk and I see Rick's file. The security guard at the door said that it was a blonde woman, and that her looks would be a dead giveaway. I read my notes on his description of her, and realized that I now sit staring at that exact person.

"Look at me, Bo!" she yells, noticing the file on my desk and realizing the dots that I've connected. "You don't understand what you've gotten yourself into. I know who sent you. I know what you're doing, but don't you dare fuck this up for me. This isn't what it seems and I can't have you fucking this up."

"Melissa, what are you talking about," I ask. I'm getting a sense that Rick may be committing more than just adultery.

"It's Rick -- the guy in the folder, the guy across the street, the guy you're investigating."

"Yes, what about him?"

"He sent me here to kill you."