“Stupid cunts,” I mumble, rubbing my hands together and wishing I had brought gloves. At least the chilly night air might blow some of the anger and melancholy from my brain.
A deep chuckle unexpectedly greets my eardrums, and I whip my head around, my eyes popping wide when I lock gazes with a dark-haired man sitting on the bench beside me. I never even heard or felt him sit down. Though he doesn’t look like a stereotypical serial killer in his custom-fit suit under an expensive black wool coat, I’m instantly on my guard.
Narrowing my eyes, I skim over his features. His dark hair is cropped close to his skull, and there’s a small hole at the side of his nose, indicating he wears a nose ring sometimes. A few black and silver rings adorn some of his fingers on both hands, and telltale ink peeks over the collar of his white shirt at the nape of his neck. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and he’s not wearing a tie.
He's older than me. Mid to late twenties if I had to hazard a guess, but he seems even older than his looks, if that makes sense. It’s just something about the way he’s sitting, permitting my nosy perusal of him in a very dignified manner, and a vibe he exudes from every pore. Like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it’s a responsibility he takes seriously.
This man is definitely a bit of an enigma.
He looks like a cross between a billionaire businessman and a member of an MC.
Judgmental much, Stevie?
He holds my gaze, as I blatantly assess him, with no discernible emotion on his face. I watch him assessing me too, and we just stare at one another in silence for a few seconds until he speaks.
“You have no reason to fear me,” he says, astutely reading my reaction. “I promise you’re safe with me.”
“Says every serial killer on the planet.”
The smile fades from his handsome face. “I just needed some air. This was the only vacant seat when I came outside.”
I glance around the empty garden. “You could take your pick now.”
“Yes, I could.” Big brown eyes stare earnestly at me, like some form of silent challenge.
I lean against the back of the bench, tucking my hands under my arms, as I stare straight ahead, saying nothing. I don’t think this guy has any nefarious plans, but whatever. If I’m wrong and he has sinister motives, it’s probably just karma catching up to me.
I’ll take whatever punishment comes my way because the universe knows I deserve it.
“If I’m making you uncomfortable, I’ll switch benches.” He moves to get up.
“It’s fine. You can stay.” I briefly glance to the side, making eye contact with him. “If you’re determined to chop me into itty-bitty pieces, changing benches isn’t likely to thwart your plan.”
“True.” His full lips curl up ever so slightly at the corners.
Silence descends, but it’s not awkward.
Loneliness has been a constant companion these past eight months. Even when I’m surrounded by others. But for some reason, sitting on this bench beside this stranger erases some of the isolation.
“I’m getting a coffee before the coffee truck closes for the night,” he says, unfurling to his full height. “Would you like something?”
“Coffee sounds good.”
He arches a brow.
“Surprise me.” I reply to his silent question in a most uncharacteristic way. I’m fussy about my coffee, but we’re in Seattle. Home of the best coffee in the entire world, and the vintage silver truck permanently stationed on the hospital grounds serves a decent cup of joe. I’m sure whatever he gets will be fine.
He walks off with a hint of intrigue on his face, and I take a sneaky moment to study him. His long legs eat up the short distance to the coffee truck, and he holds himself almost regally as he scans the menu and places an order. Broad shoulders fit snugly underneath his tight-fitted coat, which highlights a slim physique. Black dress shoes match his suit, tapping quietly off the ground when he returns a few minutes later with two paper cups in his hands.
He reclaims the seat beside me and hands me a cup.
“Thank you.” Removing the lid, I lift the cup to my nose and inhale the blended aroma of coffee and buttery, sweet caramel. My tongue darts out, savoring the syrupy froth, and even if I didn’t know what it was from that first smell, the taste would confirm it. “You got me a caramel macchiato.” I stare at him like he’s some kind of magician, or maybe he’s psychic. “That’s my favorite coffee.”
“My sister’s too,” he says before sipping his drink. The lid is on, so I can’t tell what his is. If I had to guess, it’s a black coffee. The same kind Garrick drinks. He always joked it was the manliest coffee. Simple and without any embellishments. Just like him.
My heart hurts at the visceral images the memory conjures in my mind. I briefly close my eyes, wrapping my hands firmly around the cup as the tightness in my chest stretches wider.
“Are you okay?” the stranger asks, yanking me back to the moment.
