14
SYDNEY
At some pointduring the day, Viper simply vanishes. One minute he’s lounging in the café, watching me and scaring our customers, and the next he’s just…gone.
I spend the rest of the day on edge, wondering if he’ll pop out from behind a bookshelf, wondering if he’ll grab me as I come out of the stockroom and pull me back inside. But he doesn’t.
The next morning, there’s another bouquet of lilies waiting for me, wilted and already past their prime. I half wonder if they’re from Viper when I read the note attached:I’m watching you.
It feels like something he might leave for me, a macabre sort of courting gift. And I catch sight of him again, leaning against the alley entrance, watching our front door, when I drag the morning’s trash outside. He gives me a wild grin that makes me hurry, tripping over my feet in my rush to get back inside.
But he doesn’t follow me. And he doesn’t bother me again.
After we close for the night, I consider sending another message to Sebastian to let him know Viper is still hanging around. But I hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen of my cell phone.
We haven’t spoken since he touched me in the stockroom. An image of him standing over me, slipping his finger into my mouth, making me taste myself, suddenly leaps into my mind.
“Lick it clean.”
I navigate away from the screen, swallowing hard, my face too warm.
I open Ashton’s texts instead, quickly scrolling through all the messages I’ve been ignoring from him. It’s a barrage of “Good morning, Babygirl” messages, reminders of his upcoming fight, mentions of some sort of carnival coming to town, and…are these knock-knock jokes?
Sighing, I press the button to send my phone to its lock screen and slip it back into my pocket.
Take out. That’s what I need tonight.
Nothing fixes a stressful day like curling up under a blanket with a big bowl of pho and a good romcom. A nice, normal, romantic comedy where the protagonists kiss once at the end when they finally reveal their thinly veiled feelings. A movie about regular peoplewho do not have complex reactions to dangerous men. People who don’t fantasize about being chased down by a psychopath.
There’s a Vietnamese place just a ten-minute walk from my apartment that never disappoints. I grab my jacket and phone, then head out, determined to satisfy my pho craving.
The night air is chilly, colder than I expected, as I step outside. Perfect weather for pho and a movie.
A car idles in the street outside my building, one headlight cracked and broken. I spare it a passing glance, curious. Someone waiting for a friend, maybe? Still, it’s odd. This block usually goes dead after dark, when our shop closes for the night. There’s not much reason for someone to linger in this area. It’s almost suspicious.
The second I think it, I laugh, shaking the thought away. I’ve been reading too many of Justin’s Blake Callahan thrillers, I guess. They’re fun, but they’re clearly making me paranoid. Everythingmeanssomething in those books, you know? Every little detail is a clue, and every parked car could hold a potential killer.
Real life just isn’t that interesting.
Except, when I turn the corner and start making my way toward the restaurant, the car moves too. It rolls forward, stopping at the intersection. Waiting. When I continue down the block, it moves with me, not speeding up or slowing down. Just keeping pace.
Definitely weird. I pull my jacket tighter, picking up my steps, hurrying down the block. I reach the crosswalk just as the lights start to turn, the walk signal flashing red, urging me to quicken my pace.
Crap.
I break into a jog, rushing out into the street. I’m almost at the other side of the intersection when I catch sight of a pair of headlights, barreling toward me.
Double crap.
But this isn’t just someone running a red light. The car is aiming right at me, speeding into the wrong lane, coming at meintentionally.
I barely manage to get out of the way in time, diving for the opposite curb as the car swerves toward me. Frantic, I throw myself into the doorway of the closest building, hitting the wall brick entryway hard and turning to watch as the car jumps the curb and screeches to a stop, just inches away from me.
My heart is racing. Someone is shouting. Other cars are honking, laying on their horns. I cower there, pressed against the doorframe, gasping for breath.
The car just sits there in front of me. Waiting.
I can’t see the driver clearly, not with the headlights blinding me. All I can make out is the vague silhouette of someone wearing sunglasses, a cap pulled down low to cover their face.
