BRONTE
If I were a smoker, I’d be lighting one up. But I’m not. Instead, I sit in my car parked in the clubhouse parking lot and take a moment to think about my next move, my nerves itching for a coffee.
He left.
After last night.
He goddamn left.
And when I thought about the look on his face this morning, my heart cracked just a little more.
Yeah, I know that look because I am the fucking queen of that look.
Trying not to let the sting of rejection sink its hooks into me any further, I start the ignition, but before I can pull out, Loki appears at my window.
“Hey, where are you running off to?” he asks.
A thick vein of guilt runs through me. “I’m not running anywhere.”
“Kinda looks that way to me.” His brow furrows. “My father know you’re leaving? Because I don’t see the prospect with you, and I’m pretty sure Jack said you’re not to go anywhere without one of us handsome guys going with you.” He grins, and the brotherly warmth in it makes me want to cry. “Need some company?”
What I need is to go home, and right now, I’m prepared to lie to make that happen.
“Jack’s riding ahead. I’ll meet him at his house. I was meant to leave the same time, but I got side-tracked.”
Loki’s blue eyes study me for a few seconds before his handsome face breaks into a grin. “Well, okay, then. You drive safely, okay, bee.” He gives me a wink before turning away.
As I watch him disappear inside the clubhouse, my cell pings with a message, and even though I will never admit it, when I reached for it, my heart blooms with the hope that it’s Jack.
But it isn’t.
It’s from another unidentified sender.
Another burner phone.
Unknown: Thinking about you.
Fear replaces the sinking sensation of rejection.
Dread replaces the prickly heat of lying to Loki.
For days, I’ve been languishing in Jack’s bed, preoccupied with my need for him and safe in his protection, but now The Poet is back.
Before my fear can hit the bullseye in my heart, I hit the call button.
I’ve had enough.
I’m fed up and pissed off enough because after last night, he goddamn left.
If The Poet isn’t man enough to come to me, I’m coming for him.
The ringing on the other end of the line has my heart beating like a drum, but I’m standing on the precipice staring into the abyss, and I’m done running. I’m going to face the sonofabitch.
The call rings out, and there’s no message bank.
A second call nets the same result.
Damn.
Dropping my cell like it’s a hot stone, I yank the car into gear and tear out of the parking lot and drive furiously back to Jack’s house. I’ll grab the rest of my things and hit the road.
Ten fast minutes later, I plow into Jack’s driveway and come to a screeching halt. Leaping out of the car, I run up the steps and let myself into the house, but once inside the door, I come to a sudden stop.
Is The Poet inside the house?
Is he waiting for me behind a door somewhere?
Fuck.
Being preoccupied with Jack has clouded my better judgment and made me reckless. Hence, me standing in a house where the man who has been stalking me for months, may or may not be waiting.
Buzzing with fear, I run to the kitchen and grab a carving knife from the butcher block on the counter, my hands shaking and my knees like jelly as I walk slowly through the house.
I can’t take much more of this.
The craziness.
The looking over my shoulder.
The anxiety creeping up my spine every time I walk into the house, wondering if he’s going to jump out of the shadows.
I’m done with it.
If he’s here now, then let him show his face. I’m exhausted. I don’t want to keep running. I don’t want to be afraid for one more second.
“I’m here, motherfucker.” The sound of my own voice tears into the quiet. It feigns a bravado I don’t possess as scenes from different slasher movies play out in my mind. The ones where the protagonist walks through the house unaware the killer is right behind her. “What are you waiting for?”
Time stretches out in front of me, the silence loud, the stillness humming with anticipation.
“Come on, you cock-sucking sonofabitch.” The knife shakes in my hand—I’m so ready for this to be over. “Show yourself.”
I move slowly, my ears straining, my instincts alert.
But there is nothing.
No creak of the floorboards behind me.
No sinister voice from the shadows.
No dark figure stepping out from behind a door.
I’m alone.
He isn’t here.
No one is.
Finally, I let go of the breath I’ve been holding since walking into the house, and a flush of foolishness crawls along my skin. Of course, he isn’t here. He doesn’t even know I’m staying here.