Page 8 of Can't Stop Watching

Sorry, Lila.

But as I drive off into the neon-lit night, I know I'll be back because the way my heart is beating… it hasn't gone that fast in a long while—not even when Death delivered fatal blows right and left just inches away from me.

I'll see you soon, Lila.

Not tomorrow. I have to prove to myself I'm in control, not whatever this is. But I will be. Because in this cesspool of a city, finding someone worth giving a damn about is rarer than a clean cop.

And I've always been a sucker for long odds.

4

LILA

Istumble into my apartment, kicking off my boots and collapsing onto the couch. My hands are still shaking despite my best efforts to tell myself everything is all right. Fuck.

Tonight was... a lot. That's the understatement of the century, Lila. Good job.

I close my eyes, but it's like someone hit the replay button on the world's shittiest movie. There he is again, that overgrown frat boy with his meaty paw around my wrist. I glance down, wincing at the angry red marks blooming on my skin. Great, a souvenir.

As if the memories he reawaked weren't enough of a parting gift.

My fingers trace the outline, feeling the heat radiating from my skin. It's not bruising yet, but tomorrow? That's gonna be one hell of a bracelet. I let out a hollow laugh. "Guess I'll be rocking long sleeves for a few days. So much for that cute blouse."

The absurdity of worrying about my wardrobe hits me, and I snort. Leave it to me to focus on fashion in the middle of a meltdown. But hey, if I don't laugh, I might just scream.

Another memory flashes… Dane's fist connecting with that frat boy's jaw. The sickening crunch. The way the guy's friends jumped in, and how Dane moved like... like it was nothing. Like hurting people was as natural as breathing.

My stomach churns. I bolt to the bathroom, barely making it before I puke up the meager contents of my stomach. Mostly bile and the one beer I allowed myself during my shift. Some "dinner."

Slumped against the cold tile, I let out a bitter laugh. "Well, this is familiar."

God, I thought I was past this. Thought I'd left all that fear and shame back in New Orleans. But here I am, shaking like a leaf because some meatheads got fresh without my permission. Then Dane practically stalked me, waited for me outside to offer me a ride, or so he said.

It's his fault this memories came back.

But it's not the same, I try to tell myself. He wasn't...

I cut myself off, but my traitorous mind fills in the blank. Dane is not Marcus Colton.

"Fuck!" I slam my fist against the floor, welcoming the sting. Pain grounds me, reminds me I'm here. Now. Not back there.

I drag myself up, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I know what I'll see, that scared little girl I've spent years trying to bury, and who springs to the surface at the slightest reminder of things past.

I splash some cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memories along with the taste of bile. As I pat my skin dry, a new thought sneaks in, unbidden but persistent.

DANE. IS. NOT. MARCUS COLTON.

He stood up for you.

I freeze, towel halfway to my face. Yeah, he did. A complete stranger saw some asshole manhandling me and actually did something about it.

It's... weird. Good weird, but still weird.

Back in New Orleans, when shit hit the fan with Mr. Colton, my so-called friends scattered like roaches when the lights came on. Even Melissa, my ride-or-die since kindergarten, ghosted me faster than a Tinder date who realized I wasn't putting out.

But Dane? He didn't even hesitate.

I wander back to the living room, collapsing onto my secondhand couch. It creaks ominously, like it's about to give up the ghost any day now. Join the club, buddy.