Ugh.
Also, that motherfucker put some kind of advanced tracker on my Mustang, scratching the undercarriage. Does he not know how expensive it is to drive around in a car with an old-school gas combustion engine? The registration fees alone are eye-watering, and he goes and scratches the undercarriage?
I’m sending his fathers a bill after all of this.
More annoying, though, is how endearing this whole thing is. While stalking is a nuclear red flag, Rami is just so goddamned earnest. He stops every once in a while to voice note his progress or text his cousin Silas.
What? He put a fucking tracker on my car, so I cloned his phone. Fair play, and all that.
The most disturbing facet of this complete farce? His dads text me about what a great job I’m doing with the whole baby bird thing. They see “real potential” in him, and it drives me up the wall.
Whatever this is, it’s not endearing. Not one little bit.
Rami has followed me into the gun range for my weekly practice session, the one sanctuary he hadn’t yet managed to breach. But there he stands, wearing that stupid mustache and backward cap while shooting a ridiculously expensive gun at paper targets.
I can’t tell what’s got me in a worse mood: the fact that Rami is in the one place I go to chill out, or the fact that Detective Hitchens has started liking my posts.
Not gonna lie, I was expecting Rami’s gun-handling skills to be on par with his spy skills, but he’s actually a talented shooter. His groupings are lethal, though I bet his hands would shake in a real gunfight.
Still, I like the competency, plus the little wrinkle of concentration between his eyebrows is sexy as hell. Objectively.
Deciding to ignore him and enjoy my practice time, I take out my old Atlas Athena and start shooting. Nowhere near as tight a configuration as Rami’s, but accurate enough to take down whatever I’m aiming at.
And my handsnevershake.
Unless I’ve had three coffees and have to piss like a racehorse.
After sending a quick gesture to the range officer, I set my gun in its case, lock it, and then head to the restroom. I do my business, and as I’m drying my hands, Rami swings into the restroom, head down as he types out something on his phone.
Seriously, the worst stalker in all of history.
I freeze, unsure if I should announce my presence or see if I can get away with sneaking past him. Before I decide, however, he finally looks up, and his eyes go comically round.
“Oh, Truett. I didn’t know you were here.”
I breathe out through my nose, pinching the bridge. He just… I just…
I want to strangle him, then fuck him, then cuddle him.
“True?”
The insecurity in his voice is so fucking annoying. And charming.
No.Annoying.
“Did I?—”
I cut him off. “How is it you are so bad at this?”
“Wh-what?” he asks, confusion and hurt playing in his pretty eyes right as I imagine Anders and Omar taking turns removing my eyelids while Hopper patiently waits to gut me alive.
I run my hand through my hair, gripping it at the roots. He doesn’t know about his dads. He doesn’t know who they are. So I go with a shallow truth.
“The tracker you used is magnetic, Rami. You didn’t need to wrap it around the axle. You could’ve just peeled off the little skin and attached it to any metal part of the undercarriage. Preferably without scratching it all to hell.”
He gawps like a fish—like a really hot fish—and I shake my head. “It’s also important for you to recognize that a snap back and a really shitty mustache are terrible disguises,” I say, reaching out and ripping the God-awful piece of hair off his upper lip. “Especially if you aren’t even going to try to cover up your fucking eyes.”
“My eyes?”
