3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
HARLOW
I’m barely a block down the street when the storm the weather channel’s been warning residents about blows in. Heavy freezing rain slaps against the windshield of my old, rusted-out pink Jeep, Rosie, the wipers working overtime in a futile attempt at keeping up with the icy onslaught.
When a red-and-white neon diner sign comes into view, I park haphazardly on the street in front of the building and sprint between fat raindrops to the entrance.
A little bell jingles above my head as I throw the door open and practically hurl myself inside to get out of the storm, my sneakers squelching on the tile floor as tiny drops of water cascade down my face.
I probably look like a wet dog that just crawled out from behind a dumpster. But besides Marjorie, the short, plump woman in a waitress’s uniform standing behind the register, there’s not a soul in sight.
Not surprising considering it’s nearly three in the morning, the same time I roll into this joint after every long shift at the club.
“Hi, dear,” Marj greets, sincerity flashing behind her dove-gray eyes. “My goodness. It’s quite the storm we’re getting out there.”
I force a weak smile, shake the water off my hands, and meet her at the till.
“Hey Marj. Is my order ready yet?”
“Let me check.” She smooths her hands down the front of her uniform and waddles off to the kitchen.
Leaning against the counter, I glance around the restaurant. It’s outdated, the red pleather benches all fading and cracked. Some of the tables are missing chunks of laminate, and the puke-green walls could use a fresh coat of paint. But it’s clean and the food never disappoints.
Besides, I’m a sucker for old and original.
Case in point: Rosie.
Just as Marjorie is poking her head around the corner to tell me they’re bagging my food up, the doorbell chimes behind me and a whoosh of frigid, damp air kisses the back of my rain-slicked neck.
All the tiny hairs there stand to attention as my instincts flare to life, ice snaking down from my skull and solidifying like concrete at the base of my spine.
It’s a feeling I’m unfortunately familiar with—there’s a predator nearby.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Clenching my jaw, I turn to face the front of the diner, every molecule in my body crystalizing as I set my eyes on a man in a black raincoat filling the entrance.
His face is concealed beneath the shadows of his hood, his enormous fists balled at his sides, and his feet, which are stuffed into black combat boots the size of skis, are planted firmly on the tile floor.
Christ on a salted cracker, he’s big, his shoulders nearly as wide as the doorway and thighs like two thick tree trunks encased in well-worn black denim.
Swallowing, I blink a few times and count the drops of water falling to the floor at his boots. After precisely six plops, he reaches up and flips his hood back, revealing himself.
My breath hitches.
Whoa.
As if he knew I was staring directly at him, his blue eyes meet mine, dangerous and dark and as bottomless as the depths of the sea.
His hair is a shade lighter than black and just long enough to run fingers through.
And the week’s worth of thick stubble on his face does nothing to hide the sharp cut of his square jaw.
I get the appeal of bad boys. I really do. And this one’s bad factor ranks off the charts.
But this isn’t just a bad boy. Oh, nay nay.
This is a bad man.
Nonetheless, our gazes remain locked, his dark brows furrowed low over his eyes, while I probably look like a deer caught in fucking headlights.
His large hands flex at his sides as he glares at me like I killed his grandma and dumped her on his porch.
When he lifts his chin slightly, I catch a glimpse of a tattoo peeking from beneath his jacket collar.
I can’t tell what it is, but it has eyes and I’m pretty sure it’s staring straight through my dirty, filthy soul.
He takes a step forward and my chest tightens as some sort of ominous energy floods the space between us. It’s heavy, all-consuming, and downright toxic. I can feel it in my bones that this is a man I should avoid.
So, with my nerves rattled—and even though I’m pretty sure I can smell smoke billowing from my vagina—I steel my spine and look away.
“Here you go, dear.” Marjorie’s soft voice startles me, and I spin around to find her beaming at me while holding a brown, grease-soaked paper bag out between us.
She gives me the total, and I pull a crumpled twenty out of my back pocket and slap it down on the counter, snatching the bag of food from her.
“Keep the change,” I blurt, then turn and bolt toward the exit, my footfalls coming to a screeching halt when I realize the door is still blocked by the brooding mammoth of a human.
Up close, he’s even scarier. And bigger than I thought—I glance down at his crotch—everywhere.
When I finally drag my eyes back up to his face, I realize he’s smirking at me, his lips hooked into an arrogant grin. As if he can hear my internal monologue and finds it amusing.
Not only is he unnervingly large and attractive, but he’s also an asshole.
Irritated now, I pop a hip and glare at him.
Despite my dead father’s relentless efforts to wear me down into the shy little church girl he always wanted me to be, I’ve never conformed. Not even a little bit. And at the ripe old age of twenty-five, I’m pretty much stuck like this.
“Excuse me,” I say with more snark than necessary.
Rude, sure. But the dude is literally a brick wall blocking the exit.
When he makes no effort to move out of the way, I angle my head and tack on, “My blood sugar levels are dangerously low, buddy. Why, I’m liable to stab a person. ” I flash him a sardonic smile.
He stares at me a beat longer, his blue eyes darting over my features as if committing me to memory. He appears to be intrigued. Perhaps he’s not used to coming face-to-face with feral sewer creatures like myself.
I cock a brow in challenge, his amusement waning the longer we face off.
When he finally steps to the side, relief swarms me.
But it’s short-lived. Because as I move past him, his fingers graze my left wrist, the scar there sizzling beneath the contact.
The touch is so subtle that I could’ve imagined it.
Probably did, honestly. My sanity isn’t exactly intact these days.
But regardless, it sends me soaring high as a kite as I keep my eyes on the ground and race out into the rain.
I don’t need to look back to know he’s turned around and watching me leave because I can feel the heat of his stare as if his body were pressed directly against mine. It’s a stark contrast to the icy pelt of the angry storm.
Clambering up into Rosie, I hit the lock button, drop the grease-soaked sack of food on the passenger seat beside me, and press the back of my skull into the headrest to catch my breath.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
But even as my panic attack subsides and I’m no longer floating off into outer space, the ghost of his touch still lingers on my skin, and I can’t help but wonder if the demons of my past are fucking with me again or if my instincts are on point.
Thumbing the scar on my wrist, I narrow my gaze on the lone black pickup truck parked directly in front of me. It’s lifted with oversized tires and windows that are completely blacked out with tint. But it’s not like one of those douchey trucks you see overcompensating hillbillies driving.
It’s more like if the Grim Reaper drove a Chevy.
Turning my attention to the large bay window at the front of the building, I squint past the rivulets of rain distorting my view and peer inside the diner.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly is still lurking at the register, his chin angled down as he counts out money and slides it across the counter to Marj.
Rubbing my lips together, I consider my options.
Be a good girl—the kind my father would be proud of—and simply walk away with the risk that the scary stranger could follow me home.
Or …
Grabbing my jackknife from my bag, I hop out of Rosie and race toward the truck and crouch beside it.
My heart slams in my chest, adrenaline rushing through me like a tidal wave as I raise my knife high and bring it down with force.
But the blade barely punctures the rubber.
So I garble out a curse word and try again, this time harder.
When the satisfying hiss of air escaping the tire whispers in the rain, I spare a quick glance at the diner window, my heart lodging in my throat as I make eye contact with the glowering man at the register.
Shit.
I waste no time taking off back to Rosie and peeling the fuck out of there.
As I weave through blocks and navigate my way home, I wonder briefly if I’ve made a grave mistake.
But there are no sirens blaring in the distance. No police lights flashing in my mirrors. And no big black truck with an angry man behind the wheel chasing me down.
I’m fine. It’s all fine. Everything’s fine.
But as I approach my run-down apartment building and begin to relax, a memory flashes behind my eyelids.
Blood—sticky and warm and coating my hands. Splatters of it on my legs, arms, and face. A pool of crimson on the cracked concrete floor, creeping toward my toes and threatening to pull me in.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Eighties rock crackles through the speakers of my Jeep as I fly down the highway with my windows open, my black-and-pink hair whipping in the wind and aviators perched on my nose.
I check my mirrors for the hundredth time.
Nobody’s following me, but the feeling of being watched continues to crop up like a bad weed.
When I pass a sign that indicates I’m doing almost twice the speed limit, I tap the brakes and slow to a reasonable pace until I take the exit leading to my destination.
Wheeling into the store parking lot, I park Rosie and hop out, shoving my sunglasses into my hair as I make my way inside, grabbing a shopping cart on my way through the sliding front doors.
“Well, hello there,” a man in his sixties chirps, flashing me his signature greeter smile. “Is there anything I can help you find today, young lady?”
I wave my shopping list at him.
“I’ve got it covered. Thanks.”
He tells me his name is Larry and to come find him if I need any help.
I won’t but agree anyway before taking my time perusing the grocery aisles while humming along to the canned music playing from the overhead speakers and ticking items off my list one at a time.
When I’ve loaded up everything I need into my cart, I stroll back up to the front of the store to check out. Just as I’m parking at the till, the icy feeling I’ve been ignoring the last week returns. But this time it’s more potent than ever.
I locate the source immediately.
Across from me at the other checkout is a man. But not just any man.
It’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly. The man whose tire I slashed outside the diner the other night.
Fuck. Does he recognize me?
Narrowing my eyes on him, I shoot him a threatening glare, wondering briefly if he’s going to retaliate.
His lip twitches but he doesn’t speak a word, his oceanic eyes lingering on my face before darting south to my chest.
He reads the words scrawled across my hot pink T-shirt: “Tell your dad I say hi.”
A flicker of amusement lifts his lips, and I have to physically refrain from spewing a string of colorful words in his direction.
He may make me fifty shades of nervous, but I’m not letting him win. Men no longer have that kind of power over me, no matter how big and intimidating this particular one may be.
Refusing to break eye contact, I reach into my cart and begin unloading items onto the checkout lane with more aggression than necessary, irritation rippling through me as he takes inventory of each item.
When I hoist a jug of bleach up, he full on smirks. If he were within reaching distance, I’d slap that arrogant look right off his stupid face.
“Something funny?” I ask with disdain.
His brows lift in surprise but he doesn’t speak.
“That’s what I thought,” I murmur, forcing myself to pay attention to the balding old man who’s mindlessly scanning my purchases, completely unaware of the volcano that’s about to erupt in front of him if he doesn’t hurry the hell up so I can get out of here.
Larry rhymes off the total, and I slip a wad of cash out of my purse and slide it across the counter, trying with all my might to keep my eyes cast downward.
But since I’ve learned to never let a predator out of your sight, I peek back up. It’s a mistake, because now Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly is frowning at me, studying my face as if he’s waiting for me to sprout horns.
With the vicious thoughts running rampant through my brain, I wouldn’t be surprised if I did.
Another store employee steps up to the counter and greets him, effectively blocking me from his view as Larry hands me my change.
Stuffing it into my purse, I use my peripherals to look through the front doors of the store, noticing the big black pickup truck that’s parked beside my Jeep. Too close for comfort.
Larry thanks me for my business, and I make my way out of the store, picking up my pace to get away as fast as my shaky legs will take me and practically hurling everything from my cart into the back of Rosie before slamming the door and pulling my jackknife out of my purse.
I take a step toward the truck, pausing to peer through the windows at the front of the store.
As I suspected, he’s watching me with a daring expression on his face, slowly shaking his head as if warning me that something bad will happen if I slash his tire for a second time.
I wish I could say this feeling I have—this sheer, unfiltered panic—is just a momentary lapse where my veneer of strength and confidence has slipped free.
But since I know better, I do what my instincts are screaming at me to do.
Exhaling a ragged breath, I lunge forward, slash his tire for the second time—daylight and witnesses be damned—and haul ass out of there.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.