I’m not this person.I’m not someone who stalks strange men through grocery stores or imagines a relationship where there isn’t one.I’m cautious.Careful.I’ve spent most of my life avoiding attention, not chasing it down in the form of a man who could very likely kill me just to keep a secret.But something about him won’t let me go.And it’s not just him.It’sthem.
The ghosts are always worse when I’m close to him.Like his presence stirs them up, makes them bold, but they've stayed loud since living in London fell apart, since Mila looked through me in the lobby of her lab like we’d never shared a life.I told myself a new city would quiet them.It hasn’t.It just changed the station.There’s one here now, right behind me as I pretend to compare brands of toothpaste.His collar is dark with old blood that’ll never dry.
“He doesn’t like being watched,” he says, a little amused.They rarely talk to me.Holy crap, they barely talk to me.My throat goes tight.Great.We’ve graduated from flickers and vibes to full sentences.I must really be losing it if the dead feel obligated to narrate now.“But I guess you already know that.”
“Go away,” I whisper.He doesn’t.
By the time I get to the produce section, I’ve spotted two more.One man with no hands.Another with a hole in his throat that looks like a torn pocket.They hover.Watch.Almost like they’re waiting to see what I’ll do.I clutch my basket tighter, fingers aching.I do the rule.Three slow laps.Cereal aisle, dairy case, bakery.If I still want it on the third pass, it’s a need and goes into the cart.That’s how my head makes peace with my gut.The rule keeps me from unraveling.I promised myself Vegas would be bravely lived, not perfectly managed.Some days brave looks like buying the bread on the first pass.
On the second lap my gut sours because I recognize these particular spirits.Their injuries aren’t random.They’re deliberate.Precise.Knife work.My stomach drops, and something low in me answers back with heat I don’t want to examine.These men are tied to Cassius.The man with no hands sat by me atMiragelast night.The man with the bloody collar is from the grocery store spice aisle.The one with the hole in his throat, I don’t know how he found himself in Cassius’s orbit, but I know he did.The knowing lands with two options: believe he’s a monster, he called himself theMachine, and stop whatever this is, or decide I already knew what he is and keep ignoring it.
I think about what it would be like to stop answering his messages, to go back to who I was before I knew he existed.It’s only been five days, but somehow I’m a completely different woman than I was then.They feel like bad men.I’m telling myself they deserved whatever Cassius did to them.It’s not proof.But, I’m comfortable calling it instinct.It’s also denial.If I name what he is out loud, I don’t get to text him tonight.So I shake off the ghosts’ warnings.I won’t justify him, but I won’t walk away from him either.
I don’t see him.But I know he’s here.The same way you know when you’re being followed, even if you can’t hear the footsteps.And I’m sure he knows I’m here, too.That he’s watching me flounder through this weak excuse for reconnaissance and letting it play out because it amuses him.
Because he’s already won.
I move to the bakery next, pretending to inspect croissants, when the air shifts.Every hair on my body stands up.He’s definitely here.
Across the store, his cart parked, one hand on his phone, head slightly down.Then his eyes lift enough to meet mine.Not long.Not obvious.But it’s enough.
I freeze.His expression doesn’t change.No smile.No acknowledgment.But I feel the curl of it beneath my skin when my phone buzzes.
Cassius:
I see you, Lindy darling.Go ahead.Keep watching.
So I do.Because I can’t stop.
I straighten a crooked price tag, line my basket handle with the tile grout, and give myself ten seconds before I move.Ten seconds to be honest.I didn’t just happen to choose the grocery store across town.I waited an extra fifteen minutes in my car pretending to check emails just in case he walked in again.I fantasize about the cut of his shoulders and the way it’d feel to tuck my face there, to be steered by a warm palm at my hip, his mouth at the hinge of my jaw, his breath sayinggood girlwhere only I can hear.I imagine stubble scraping my throat, the heavy hush of his body pinning mine—not to trap me, but to quiet the static.The ridiculousness of it makes my cheeks burn.I straighten a second price tag just to have something to do with my hands.
It’s a lie, of course.I’ve never been good at lying.Not to myself.Not when it matters.
I’m stalking him.Badly.This isn’t on any of my Vegas goals.I made aVegas Bucket Listand slid it inside his favorite book when it showed up.
stand in a closed room with a man at work and keep my breath steady
edit a book that makes me believe in love and magic
make one real friend and don’t spend the whole time waiting for them to leave
spend one whole day alone on purpose and have fun
unpack every box and hang art without measuring
drive the Strip by myself and not shake
learn my way around the city by heart without maps
say no once and don’t apologize after
It doesnotsay chase a man who feels like a crime scene in a suit.If I can’t make this work here, if I can’t chase passion at work, make a friend, and build a life I’m not afraid of, what was the point of leaving London?
I pretend to examine bell peppers I won’t buy while watching him from the corner of my eye.He’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, pushing a cart with the ease of someone who could kill you with one hand and organize your pantry with the other.He doesn't look dangerous here.He looks normal.But I know better.
His phone buzzes.He looks down, thumbs out a reply, then lifts his head slowly.I freeze, my heart slamming into my ribs.
He so obviously knows I’m here, but he doesn’t look at me, not directly.There’s a twitch of a smile on his lips that makes my stomach twist.He’s playing along.Letting me think I’m getting away with something.
