Even now, I swear I can feel the earth bending to his will, as if it moves for him. As he walks towards me and I pointedly look away, I sense him getting closer.
When the other man had been gracelessly pursuing me earlier, I was only one step down from being disgusted. His large frame hadinvaded mine without my permission, making his intention and lack of consideration clear, even if his words hadn't done the same.
He might have been my next target if my suspicions about him were correct.
But then we were interrupted by the very man I've been unable to shake since then, both in reality and in the dark corners of my desirous mind.
Earlier, when he rudely interrupted my conversation with the giant asshole at the bar, when I turned to tell him to mind his fucking business, I was temporarily rendered speechless. He was so handsome, yet no one around us seemed to notice. None of the professionals that usually lingered here tried to entice him— none of the newly 21-year-old girls looking for someone to buy them cheap drinks either. His beauty was somehow mine, and mine only to notice.
And notice I did.
His eyes were dark, though the exact color was impossible to tell in the dim light; his black tee and dark jeans molded to fit every inch of his build. A tattoo peeked out of the top of his neckline and another from the sleeve on his left arm, leaving me desperate to discover if they were two separate pieces or one mural across his chest and shoulder.
He hadn't smiled, but his smirk when he thought he was being helpful had formed a dimple in his pale cheek, his lips fuller than any man had the right to have, leaving me wondering what they'd feel like drifting across my skin as he—oh, my god, no. Stop it.
No matter how hard I tried, there was no denying he was a work of art.
One I could indulge. Once. And based on how many times I've caught his gaze raking over me, the feeling is mutual.
Even the tiny bit of his cologne I got was enough to stop my plan in its tracks for a moment. He smelled of cinnamon, sin, and something woody to smooth it out.
But then he had to go and ruin it.
The wink and lip zipping could have looked to anyone else that he was telling me to keep quiet. That he was the killer, and he wanted me to know it. His miming that at all was a risk. A taunt, too. He knew the truth.
Somehow.
And as long as he did, he was either A. off-limits or B. a target.
Now that he came close to me again, leaning against the bar wall in the alley as he slowly looked me over, that scent hit me with full force. Like the scent of a wild fuck in a forest cabin, followed by a cup of spiced toddy. I tried to keep my wits, remember that he's already made himself an enemy by revealing he knows that I killed that man.
But he deserved it. Our elected officials and police have made it perfectly clear they have no intention of doing what needs to be done.
So I will.
With obvious—if feigned— annoyance, my eyes meet the strangers now.
"You know, they say you're not supposed to return to the scene of your crime," he smiles, that dimple popping out again. His head tilts as he looks into my eyes, daring me to... to what? To respond? To deny the accusation?
"Do they?" I ask, playing dumb— my favorite character.
Mischief lights up his face, "They do. Though I suppose in your case, it would have been more suspicious not to, what with everyone gathering and beingverycooperative with the authorities."
I make a noncommittal humming sound, wondering why I'm still humoring this man. He's accusing me of murder and barely refraining from eye-fucking me as he does.
"I'm Marcos," he tells me, his glance lazily shooting back to the caution tape before returning to my face. "What name do I need to be waiting to hear on the news so I can come bail you out?"
Heat fills my cheeks. Whether by his forwardness or his assurance that I'm going to be caught, I'm not sure.
I don't know that I want to give this strange man my name. Why hasn't he told the police he suspects me? Whydoeshe suspect me?
"Nat," I finally settle on. I won't give him my whole name, but it certainly won't be hard to guess what it's short for. "You're quite brave to be accusing someone of murder. What makes you think you won't be next?"
A wicked laugh rumbles from his chest, his right arm landing on his heart as he releases the sound.
"You are more than welcome to try," he finally says. "I am harder to kill than most men."
"So someone has tried, then? Pity they didn't succeed."
