“All over. Someone scattered them all over the damn place. They’re wilted, dead, too. Who the fuck does that? Our parking lot isn’t a fucking garbage dump.”
I blink, looking closer at the rose. These aren’t the ones he left for me, the ones with that note; the ones I hurled out the car window like a venomous snake. These are new. Dead, but new. He’s still here. Still watching. Still reminding me that he can reach me anywhere. My fingers clamp around my coffee mug to steady the shaking.
My throat goes dry. I try to swallow the panic, but it scrapes all the way down with jagged claws that dig ragged furrows in the depths of my throat.
“Maybe it’s some kind of prank?” I say, my voice thin.
He shakes his head and drops the rose back into the bag. “Sick fucks. That’s all I’m saying.” He turns, muttering, and disappears down the back hallway.
Molly appears beside me, brows pulling together. “Riley? You okay?”
My voice is soft, too soft. “I’m fine. Shame about the flowers.”
Molly doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push — just gives my shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before heading off. “You’re safe in here, Riley. We all got your six. Don’t forget that.”
I take a long breath, steadying myself, reminding myself of the reality: the entire club is looking out for me. Breaker loves me. He can’t get to me in here. I want to believe it, even if everything inside me is calibrated for disaster.
I finish my coffee and stand up. “It’s time to get to work,” I say to myself and no one in particular.
After Molly leaves, I duck into Breaker’s bathroom and run cold water over my wrists, and then splash my face. I stare at my face in the mirror: pale, freckled, a little sleep-deprived, but otherwise unremarkable. Why is he after me? What is it about me that makes him want me so much? I wish I knew; wish Iknew so I could change. I’d do anything — anything — to be free of him. Sighing, I force myself to take three slow, measured breaths: in and out. It doesn’t help much, but I keep going, and I pull my hair into a ponytail, dab on a little gloss like armor, and tell myself I’m ready.
Routine helps. Moving helps. Pretending nothing is wrong helps.
Usually.
Not so much this morning.
But I still try.
I grab my notepad and force a smile as I step onto the bar floor. It’s quiet at first, but by late morning, customers trickle in, and they’re mostly locals looking for the hearty food that The Noble Fir is known for. Already, I’m recognizing their faces, their personalities, and their little ordering quirks, like Sam, who always wants to know if we’re going to add any new salads to the menu. And Dean, who always finishes his meal with a slice of pie. The first customer I approach — a middle-aged guy with rough hands and a shy smile, no threat I can name, and yet my body still reacts as if he’s holding a knife.
“Morning,” he says. There’s something about his tone, and for a split second, I swear his silhouette looks familiar; my pulse jumps; my vision tightens; my pen trembles in my grip. Then, just as quickly, I blink, and the illusion is gone.
It’s no one. Nothing. Just a man and a shadow.
“Morning,” I say. “What can I get you?”
“Just a coffee, darling,” he drawls.
I take his drink order, steadying myself again. I remind myself I have violence coupons in my apron pocket — ridiculous, but weirdly comforting, and redeemable for whatever I want and need.
I wish he were here, my stalker. Then I could just hand the coupons to Havoc and Mayhem and say, “Do your worst.”
I don’t know what their worst would be, but I know I’d want to watch. Part of it, at least.
Then the door opens again, and the bell rings, and another man walks in. Shadowed by the light behind him, he’s nothing more than an outline that sends shivers down my spine as I seehim.
Himand his slick smile.
Oh, that smile. The sick grin that comes before that charming, careful voice slithers from between his lips, weighted by the cold, hollow violence that always lives behind his eyes.
My breath stutters and the room tilts.
I waver and stumble, only barely catching myself on a barstool.
Molly raises an eyebrow at me, but I barely register it. I can hardly breathe.
Then the man steps fully inside, and I realize it’s not him. Not even close. The man is almost a foot too short, too paunchy, and has eyes that remind me of my grandfather any time he used to break out a new model airplane set to build.
