Page 114 of Faking the Goal

I'm coming down with something.

"No," I mutter, grabbing my bag. "Absolutely fucking not."

I do not have time to get sick. My schedule is already packed so tightly I practically need to make an appointment with myself to take a piss. Getting sick right now would be catastrophically inconvenient.

My immune system can schedule its nervous breakdown for winter break like everybody else.

I dig in my purse for my phone as I hurry toward my car. The parking lot is mostly empty now, the club's neon sign buzzing behind me, the streetlamp over my beat-up Honda flickering in and out like it can't decide whether to die dramatically or commit to one final shift.

I'm tired. My feet hurt. My eyes feel full of sand.

But apparently paranoia doesn't get tired.

Because halfway across the parking lot, that familiar prickling sensation crawls over the back of my neck.

Someone's watching me.

I don't know how I know. I just feel it, that uncomfortable awareness of eyes somewhere behind me, and suddenly I'm gripping my phone tighter and listening harder for the sound of footsteps.

Is someone following me?

My pulse picks up.

Is it him?

After that fucking phone call, I've been waiting for this. Dreading the moment when that person finally decides to stop hiding and show himself.

I don't turn around. I just walk faster, digging through my purse for my keys and curling my fingers around them. My heart starts beating too fast and too hard, pounding all the way up into my throat. My car is right there, but somehow the last stretch of parking lot between us feels a hell of a lot longer than it did thirty seconds ago.

I'm maybe ten steps away when I hear a voice behind me.

"Hey."

I whip around with a scream, dropping my purse in the process.

"DON'T FUCKING COME ANY CLOSER!" I scream, stumbling backward. "I don't know what the fuck you want from me, but I swear to God, I'll kick you so hard your balls will come out of your mouth!"

My bag hits the pavement and spills half its contents across the asphalt. Lip gloss, wallet, tampons, two pens, a packet of gum, and approximately seventeen receipts I've apparently been collecting for no fucking reason scatter around my feet.

"Whoa—"

The huge figure in front of me immediately throws both hands up before reaching for his hood and shoving it back.

"Lewis. It's just me."

The flickering streetlight catches his face.

Sharp jaw. Dark eyes. Black hair. That perpetual slight frown I've come to recognize as Kentaro Azuma's resting state of existence.

"You?!" My hand flies to my chest. "It's just you?"

I double over, planting both hands on my knees while I try to convince my heart that death has officially been canceled.

"What the actual fuck, Azuma?" I wheeze. "I thought I was about to die."

A quiet chuckle slips out of him as he crouches and starts gathering everything that fell out of my purse.

"I didn't mean to scare you."