Page 7
Diletta
I shove the container of cookies out in front of me, but the living statue of a man doesn’t move. I’ve shocked him. It’s so obvious given the absence of emotion, feeling, anything and everything.
Even though I have the upper hand right now, I’m the one who is surprised when he turns his eyes on me. Cold, blue flames glance over my face, searing me with their heat. He stares and stares, until the man beside him with the dark hair and trimmed beard, excuses himself uncomfortably. That silent stare goes on and on, an otherworldly communication just for me. It sets off a tidal wave inside of me that washes out my insides, making me feel watery because of how hard my heart is pounding. Coming face to face with this man is unreal. The adrenaline crawls up my throat.
I’ve never had anyone look at me the way this man is looking at me right now. There isn’t a word for it. Like he’s known me for years. The real me. The me that I never allowed anyone to see, even when I had a chance.
He blinks and the next instant, he drops his shields, but there’s nothing vulnerable about the wicked desire on his face.
He sees me. He wants me. That look screams, mine.
It should make me want to kick him in the nuts to assert my independence, but all I can think about is how beneath this prim and proper dress, I’m shamefully wet.
Even worse than knowing that this man has stalked me for an unknown length of time is the weird claim I feel standing right here. It’s nonsensical. Then again, isn’t that the very definition of what’s happening?
“We’re leaving,” he states flatly. “Now.”
Excuse me, WHAT? I don’t think so, sir. I’m not going to be the first one to die in this horror movie.
“Nope. Not going anywhere with you.” I shove the cookies into his chest. He can take them or let them fall to the ground. His arms react on instinct, hands closing around the container woodenly. “I thought you were leaving, but I didn’t believe you’d actually do it.”
“I did.”
“You came back.”
“Yes.”
Single words. Honest. I didn’t expect that. That’s probably his game. Trying to catch me off-guard. I have no illusions as to how many mental illnesses could be behind someone stalking. Manipulation and personality disorders could be the words of the day. Stalking might be seen as cutesy in old rom coms, with the heroine finally realizing that she loves the hero after assorted displays of questionable behavior, but we aren’t in a movie. This is real life.
My eyes linger on his black leather vest with the patches. It matches all the ones the other bikers wear. I keep them there instead of letting them flicker longingly over his muscular body.
“For your club.”
“Yes and no.” He doesn’t flinch while I study him, and neither do I.
I want him to know that I’m his match in every way and that I’m not afraid of him. “I could have shot you.”
“Yup.”
I breathe out a long, frustrated sigh. If all I’m going to get out of him is one-word answers, then what’s the point? “I want you to stop.”
There. Say yes again, asshole.
Of course, he doesn’t say anything. His bright blue glare just keeps on looking right through me like he knows everything. I know that’s not true, but it’s still unnerving. He might know the details of my life as I present them, but he doesn’t know the real me .
Time to assert some of that real me right the fuck now. “I want you to stop. If I see you outside my house again, I will shoot you. I might not kill you, but I can promise it’ll hurt.” I drop my voice to a near whisper. “Not because I don’t want to go to jail, although I don’t, but because if I maim you, you won’t report it. You’ll go see some private surgeon and get patched up. No police. No hospital. No paperwork, no records, no ramifications for me. It’ll be like it never happened, but you’ll get the message that I am not fucking around.”
The cold, frighteningly hard planes of his face crease and then one side of his mouth tilts up for a fraction of a second. A smile? Is he fucking enjoying being threatened?
I should have realized that terror is his kink. He’s a damn stalker.
He knows I’m capable of it. He saw what I did the other night. He has to have realized that this meek kindergarten teacher had some skills. He probably thought I learned them in self-defense class and that’s fine. Let him think that. I just want him to know that I could have followed through if I’d wanted to.
“I don’t know when this started, or why, but it’s over. You’ll leave me alone, or you won’t like the alternative.”
His eyes flick to my forehead and do a slow assessment down. It’s the most unnerving thing anyone has ever done, scanning me that way. He takes his time so open about it. It makes me tremble, and not in a way that I’m proud of. I’m not afraid. I’m turned on. What’s more I feel strangely… calm. And alive.
More home than I’ve been for the past five years.
Now would be a good time to consider that the loneliness has made me a little bit insane. This man is a stalker and a biker. Is he also a killer? How many hearts has he stopped? How many bodies in his past?
He exudes danger like he bathed in it. His facade is stony and cold. Cold enough that I can already feel the attention of the crowd drawn our way, but then quickly and forcefully removed, like they’re afraid to get caught staring at him. He reminds me so much of my father, and maybe that’s why I’m not properly afraid.
I’m going about this all wrong. If you want to come out on top, you find your opponent’s weakness and you press on it until they cave. That’s one of the lessons I learned watching my father. “If you don’t stop and a bullet won’t deter you, then I’ll have no choice but to resort to niceness.” Something flickers deep in his eyes, and I want to fist bump the air. “Maybe I’ll stalk you . I’ll bake you cookies and cakes and pies and deliver them here. You know how much I love to cook and that I always have extras that I have to freeze. I’ll come around here so often and be so charming that the thought of not letting me in won’t even be a thing.”
He laughs at that. Sharply and rudely.
“Oh? You think I won’t do it? Hmm.” I cross my arms and throw out my hip sassily. What am I even doing taunting a man like this? “I suppose there are other ways to get in. The same way that the women who hang around this place do. Or maybe, I should go work at one of the clubs owned by this organization. One thing you don’t know about me? I’m a very good dancer. I think that I’d be perfect for—”
His brows crash down over his eyes dangerously. My heartrate goes wild in my chest, pinging off my ribs. The sense of satisfaction I get at having finally riled this beast into showing an ounce of emotion is immense.
And crazy stupid.
He surges forward unexpectedly, wickedly fast for a man his size, but he doesn’t touch me. He stops with the cookies pressed between us. Literally touching us both. He’s throwing all sorts of heat and shade. My insides squirm as my breath catches.
“You’ll stay away from those places,” he grinds out, moderating himself even though he’s got to be so pissed, he’s probably seeing a haze of red. What makes a controlling, obsessive asshole angrier than the thought of other people seeing and setting hands on ‘his’ woman?
“Mmm, I don’t know. That’s the thing about free will.”
“That is not the thing. If I—”
“Whoa!” I’m done with letting him think he’s the one dictating the terms. “No. You’re not going to do anything about any decisions I make, because you won’t be involved. You have no say in it. You’re just a creeper with a voyeurism problem.” The whole time, we’ve been having this conversation basically in a corner, at low volume. I try and keep my voice down despite my rising anger, because we’re attracting attention and hiss, “Get help and cut it the fuck out, or I’ll go to your leader or whatever he calls himself. He doesn’t know, does he? You’re probably guarding his kid. I don’t think he’ll like any of that, but…” I shrug. “What do I know about you at all?”
If the threat hits home, he doesn’t let it show. His control is remarkable. It shouldn’t make me want to rise to the challenge of cracking him.
I don’t step back, because that would be breaking first. I’ve always had a problem with that. Showing weakness. I fucking hate it. Ask the men who kidnapped me years ago. They’ll be the first to tell you that I was anything but an ideal, meek, scared victim.
“What’s your name?” I ask, a savage curl to my lips. I’m more like a beast than this man, not the good kindergarten teacher I’ve made myself out to be. I hope no one is watching me right now, that I’m hidden enough back here, because anyone who recognized me would be shocked.
“Gunner.”
I can’t help it. I snort. “That’s something my kindergarten students would come up with. I don’t mean your little boys’ club name. I mean your real name.”
Yeah. I went there. Called a badass, rough group of bikers a little boys’ club like they don’t murder people and probably do all the foul things my father does when it comes to drugs and weapons. The cookout made the club seem like they’re a bunch of golden retrievers, and I know that a person can technically be both a fearful man and a soft, sweet, caring person who would do anything for those they love, but I also know that appearances are deceiving.
“If you’re not going to tell me your name, then tell me what color your eyes really are.”
He blinks. The cold, impossible bright blue doesn’t change, because that color is false. He’s for sure wearing contacts.
“Brown. Glasses ruin the badass biker aura, you know? Try pounding someone’s face in if you can’t find them because your glasses got knocked off and you can’t fucking see.”
That’s not it. From one person hiding to another, I can tell that this man has secrets past his biker shit. Probably past the stalking too.
Not stopping with the attitude just because he gave me one little bit of info that might not be false. “I’m not something you can add to your collection. A toy or a trophy. I’m a real person. I have feelings. I have thoughts. Dreams. A life. You are not a part of it. You might think you are, but you’re only standing on the outside, stealing. You’re a thief, Gunner with brown eyes.”
“Yes.”
His maddeningly easy confession makes me want to scream.
“I’m going to ask you nicely one more time and then it’s straight to your boss.” A smart woman would go to the cops. But what do I do? Set traps in my backyard, and come here to threaten a dangerous, unhinged man in his own territory. I actually am intelligent, I swear. It was my abnormal upbringing that made me want to solve all my problems myself. “Cease and motherfucking desist, asshole.”
In one swift move, he lifts the container of cookies above my head, and with the barrier no longer in the way, he presses in. No part of him touches me, but he leans in and gets close enough to dip his head right near the shell of my ear and drag in a massive inhale.
I shiver as my inner cavewoman goes berserk.
He’s motherfucking smelling me.
“We both know that I’m not going to do that. So, if you want to tell my Prez, he’s right over there. Dead center, the little girl from the shoe store on his shoulders.”
It’s so tempting to ball my hand into a fist and plant it straight in the smug bastard’s face. It would be a vast improvement if his nose was slightly rearranged.
I rear back, keeping my hands to myself. Touching this guy isn’t a good idea. I don’t trust myself to stop. The feral part of me calls out to the distant animal in him. Fucked Up One meet Fucked Up Two. A pairing designed in and destined for hell.
“This isn’t a game. This is my life. You want to insert yourself where you don’t belong, don’t blame me for the consequences. I can be nice, Gunner. Seriously nice. I don’t think you’re ready for that level of non-debauchery.” I nearly wince. Why did I have to use that word?
He’s too much of a professional to let anything slip, but my desire is probably written all over my face. I’m not ashamed of who I am, but having it all out there when I’m trying to prove a point? Not my finest moment.
“I hope you’re ready to be buried in a mountain of food. You’re going to see so much lasagna and so many casseroles that you’ll wish you’d taken my advice. I won’t tell your president. He’ll figure out something’s up all on his own when all my gifts keep coming directed to you. I won’t just stop at baking. I’ll give you houseplants and then you’ll feel obligated to keep them alive, boxes of chocolates with sappy notes, cheesy rom com boxsets. And I’ll keep on going until you get bored and go looking to stalk a woman who’s a challenge.”
Heaven forbid, that my actions send him off to creep on someone else, but hopefully he might see that his behavior is not acceptable.
All I get is that lopsided, malicious smirk and a whole lot of nothing else, everything carefully controlled and dead. “Do your worst. Or your best. Either way, it’s not going to change anything. You already understand the inevitable.”
That you’re mine.
Mission accomplished, asshole. I flip him off. I can’t help it. It’s as childish.
“Enjoy playing Russian Roulette with the stuff I drop off. One in every six dishes might give you the worst food poisoning of your life.”
He leans against the brick wall, at ease, deceptively casual, all his potency barely leashed and simmering and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have his huge body covering mine, to be at his mercy, to have his long, thick erection pressed into me with one brutal stroke, claiming me, all his pent up fury and raw destruction a match for everything I’ve kept so carefully a secret.
He dips his head in a nod, eyes burning like a predator’s, like I just screamed all of that right in his face. “I’ll take my chances. I have a special talent for survival.”