Page 11 of Look My Way (Bloody Desires #1)

Liam

I wake up to the blinds missing too. Now, in no way was that me, and Daniel keeps denying having any part in it and I don’t want to push too hard.

He was already suggesting I take a day off work and ride along with him for the day instead.

Last time I did that, Jared kept eyeing me in the rear-view mirror and asking me random questions about my work in a mocking tone.

Daniel doesn’t really approve of what I write either, but he doesn’t comment on it much. If anything, he’d rather pretend it isn’t what it is and just say “your work.”

“You sure you’ll be okay alone today?” Daniel enters the kitchen again, lifting his coffee cup to his mouth.

“I’m sure, Dan. I’m fine, I promise.” Tilting the corners of my lips, I rest against the counter, wearing my best nonchalant expression.

“Okay.” Walking closer, he pecks my lips and tugs on the center of my shirt. “I’ll see you later, then. Want to go out somewhere for dinner tonight?”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be one? Can’t I take my fiancé out on a date somewhere?”

“Of course you can. I was just wondering, and going out sounds great.”

“Good. I’ll be home no later than seven. Plenty of time for you to figure out where you’d like to go.” His lips press to mine again, and this kiss is rougher, but just as quick as the last one.

“Have a good day.”

“You too,” I say back, waiting for the front door to close behind him before turning to the stove to make my eggs.

I scramble some up in a bowl, adding seasoning, and my body stiffens when my eyes land on my recipe box.

It’s not as centered as it usually is, sitting closer to the right side.

My eyes twitch at the uneven spaces around it.

Daniel is rarely here, and I’d never move it there.

There was noise in the back yard last night, which had sounded like a mixture of rustling leaves and footsteps.

A brush of air had tickled the back of my neck, and the scent of paint thinner and cedar had swept into my nose.

I’ve written similar scenes in my books before.

My characters trembled with fear as they felt eyes watching them.

I’d envision it happening to myself whenever I was alone in my office, to get more into the scene and submerge myself fully into my characters’ experiences.

I was myself yesterday, though, and the stalker wasn’t some make-believe person either.

It was Zavier. My mind created what it wanted to, imagining his scent and deep sighs.

My breaths were stuttering and my body buzzed.

I wanted him to be there, and it was such an irrational thought.

What if someone really was there and it wasn’t him?

What if it was him? What if Daniel is right and I’m truly losing my mind and need to cut back on my work.

My phone vibrates, giving me a break from my exhausting mind, and I pour the egg mixture into the sizzling pan while looking down at my lit-up screen.

When my thoughts get going, I forget what the hell I’m supposed to be doing, but my mind wasn’t this busy until Zavier came around.

It has me questioning Daniel more and wondering about shit I need to put a lid on asap.

The message is from my editor, and he’s demanding an exact date for when I’ll have my book to him.

He’s been telling my publishers that I’ve pushed deadlines too often lately, and about the extra edits he’s had to make on my barely acceptable manuscripts, taking credit for the end results as if he wrote them himself.

His changes were small and no different than anyone else who’s edited a book, but I swear the man has had it out for me from the beginning. He thinks I get away with too much and that I’m treated better than the other writers without putting in as much effort.

Does he not realize I have to work harder now than I used to? Between the meds’ side effects, and the headaches and dizzy spells, focusing for long periods is growing difficult. Worrying about other parts of my life doesn’t help either.

My phone goes off again and I sigh, picking it up.

Rick: I know you’re reading this. I don’t appreciate being ignored. Every time you get behind, I get behind.

Me: I’m working on it, Rick. I’ll have the first draft to you no later than the 16th.

Rick: That’s not going to change again, is it?

Me: It shouldn’t. I don’t have much to go before reaching the end, and I made some major progress yesterday.

Rick: Good. I’d hate to have to complain to Tracey again. They have a hard time finding and keeping good editors, but mediocre authors are a dime a dozen.

I slam my phone so hard on the counter the back of the case cracks.

In any other situation this man might get fired, but being related to one of the publishers is the reason he’s gotten so many passes.

This is another reason I want to go off on my own, but I’m not sure I have the energy for it and figuring out where to start is overwhelming.

Not responding back to his message, I take the case off my phone and pull up the internet browser to order new curtains as I push the spatula at my eggs.

I searched high and low for my others when I first woke, trying to hurry and find them before Daniel got out of the shower.

Where the hell are they, and if he moved them, why won’t he just tell me where they are and stop allowing me to question myself?

There were no signs he was lying when I asked about it, but he does have a great poker face.

He had it on when I asked him about Jared too.

I place my order, choosing a lighter color that’ll match my couches better, and then plate my food, carrying it to the bench outside.

Sitting out here in the morning while the whole world is waking up is my favorite thing.

The sky grows bright right above me, and the birds chirp loudly.

Neither distract me for long from the one person I need to keep my mind off.

Those dark eyes flash in my mind, along with that cocky grin.

When he comes back on Monday, will he take more of his clothes off?

My breaths quicken, my pants growing tight.

My sexual desires have been nonexistent ever since I started my new medicine and stressing over tighter deadlines.

Daniel hardly touching me or initiating anything, because he doesn’t think I can handle too much physical activity, makes it easier for me to not think about it.

Last time we made love, he held me like I was made of glass, and when I begged for him to go harder it all ended.

He stopped when I needed him to go faster and handle me a little more roughly.

Him taking his time and keeping everything so routine no longer took me where I needed to go, making it harder for me to come.

Would Zavier give me what I asked him for? Would he shove me over one of the freshly built planter boxes, thrusting inside me so hard I’d feel like I was breaking in two?

“You’re too fragile. You can’t handle that right now.” Daniel’s words poison my fantasy, reminding me he’s the only person I should think about in that way. How can I, though, when getting that from him will never be possible.

Wait. Not yet. We can when you’re well enough.

Those are all words he’s been saying for the duration of our relationship, using them more and more.

It makes me feel so weak and breakable. I hate it.

He’s doing what he feels is best, and as much as I appreciate it, I also resent him for going overboard.

I go back to thinking about how Zavier’s hand tugged hard on the measuring tape, and the way he lifted his body off the ground, flexing his muscled thighs so much they showed through his tight jeans.

He moved up and down so effortlessly, going from kneeling to standing so quickly.

Stop. Get your mind right. You’re marrying Daniel. He’s what you want.

Those words only work for so long before the beautiful carpenter comes barging back into my mind, bulldozing the wall I try to hold between him and me.

It’s because of the lack of attention from my fiancé lately.

That’s all. He isn’t satisfying my need for affection and .

. . and . . . something else inside me I’ve been shoving away ever since Daniel and I started dating.

I’ve settled for what I was able to get from him, learning to let it be enough.

I’d convinced myself he touched me and held me enough. That was until my body envied the way Zavier’s arms tightened around himself while folding, or when his fingers accidently brushed over my skin. I felt starved for more than food when we last had lunch in the diner together.

Zavier never told me where to meet him today, and I’m about to make other plans for lunch when I notice a paper sticking up from where my jalapenos are. Taking a deep breath, I pluck the note from the pot and peel the creases apart.

My eyes scan the paper, reading the black inked words over and over. When did he leave this? Was it as he walked back into the house yesterday? What made him think leaving me a secret note was better than a text? This feels so sneaky and deceiving.

It’s also the most excitement I’ve had in a while, setting me on edge, and I go back to a question I had earlier . . . Was he here in my back yard last night? Did my body somehow feel him there, and that’s why it felt wrong when my fingers touched the lock, quickly falling away from it.

That’s crazy. I shut my eyes and my breathing shallows as I glance at the message he left me again.

Carino.

I hope you find this in time. I like to think you will since I’m a big believer of things happening when they’re meant to, and I just know we’re supposed to have lunch tomorrow.

Anyway, let me get to the main reason for this note. The restaurant is called Rosario’s, and it’s across the street from the diner. You can’t miss the big red and white sign. I’ll be waiting for you at 12:30. I’ll see you then.

Z

Carino. I know what that means because I’ve used it in a book before.

My ears buzz as I hear it being said in his silky smooth tone.

A shiver runs through me. Daniel never calls me anything but baby, and I don’t mind it, but the endearment has never had me glowing from the inside out like this one does.

It’s only a word on a paper, though. But he meant it just for me, much like this note.

He knew I’d find it, and I’m glad I have my morning routine of coming out here while I have my breakfast.

He somehow knew I would. Daniel plays the guessing game, getting it wrong more than right when trying to prove how well he knows me. This man and I have only been around each other three times, but this letter and where I found it makes it feel like so much longer.

Holding it to my chest, I sit in my chair and lean back. I lift my face to the sun and close my eyes, seeing Zavier in my mind, smiling at me in a way meant for me as much as this note and the word carino are.

Mi carino is what I hear in my head for the rest of the morning and for the next few hours. He’s the one coming home to me at the end of the day. He’s the one pressing a kiss to my cheek at night and fucking into me in my bed as he ensures I feel the ache for days without asking.

Picturing myself as my MC helps me immerse myself deeper into the story and find my groove.

That’s all I’m doing. I’m using the fantasy of him and me to finish my book so I can meet my deadline.

It’s so much easier to convince myself it’s the truth when my fingers are moving fast across the keys, picking up the pace that matches the scenes unfolding in my head.

All this is what my characters need to do to reach their happily ever after.

It’s not what I’m hoping to live out myself.

“Meet me at El Maguey at noon, carino,” Lorenzo says in a text to Lex. But the other man doesn’t respond back, arriving at the restaurant five minutes late to keep Lorenzo on his toes so he can do the same to him times two.

No, this is not what I want for myself at all. This is all for Lex—the name I gave to Zavier after I pushed him out of the way of the fast-moving car.