4. Ariana
4
ARIANA
I t’s been three days since I last saw him. Three days of dragging myself through the frigid morning air, just to walk into that warm coffee shop and hope he’s there.
No such luck.
Every time I push open that door and see nothing but the usual baristas who pretend not to notice my worn clothes, the same old man who reads the newspaper, the businessman who’s always in a hurry, I feel a stupid pang of disappointment. Why? I shouldn’t care. I don’t even know his name or why I want to see him again. Maybe it’s the danger that lingers in those dark irises of his. Or maybe it’s because, despite how terrifying he looks, I wasn’t scared around him. Or maybe it was his voice, deep and rough, calling me a little thief and daring me to try him. I kind of wanted to. Because the guy definitely seems like he needs someone to challenge him once in a while. I doubt it happens. Ever.
But today, as soon as I walk in, I feel his presence. I don’t even have to look to know he’s here. It sends a shiver down my spine. And it’s not because I’m cold.
When I glance his way, he’s in the same spot as before, stretched out in the worn leather chair in the corner, coffee in hand. He looks different from how I remember. Almost relaxed, though I suspect this man doesn’t actually relax. He seems wound too tight for that. And the dark circles under his eyes make me wonder if he ever sleeps. Maybe he’s a vampire.
The thought makes me grin. Somehow, I can’t imagine this tattooed, bad boy becoming sparkly under the light, so I guess it’s unlikely. It’s just that he’s so intense to even look at. And trying to pull my gaze away is nearly impossible.
His eyes snap to mine as soon as I step deeper into the warmth of the café. I pause for half a second, the breath catching in my lungs. It’s like he’s been waiting for me, even though that’s ridiculous. A guy like him? Waiting for a girl like me? That’s even more laughable than him being a vampire.
“Morning, Little Thief,” he says quietly as I pass him.
I force myself to continue to move, heading straight to the counter, trying to pretend like I don’t feel his eyes tracking me. My fingers dig into the edge of my too-thin sweatshirt, and I keep my chin high.
“Just hot water, please,” I mumble to the barista, passing over one of my last crumpled dollar bills to leave for a tip.
I’m sure that’s the only reason they haven’t told me to stop coming into the café is because, even though they give me the water for free, I always put something into their jar. I’m going to have to go to the pawn shop later today with one of the many expensive watches I have stashed. I lift a watch or a wallet from someone nearly every time I’m out and about, though. It’s a habit. One I’m not overly proud of, but it’s one of the things I excel at. At least I can say my foster parents were proud.
The thought makes me giggle internally. If only people could have been a fly on the wall in my childhood home when Dan and River celebrated what one of their many foster kids brought home from a day of pickpocketing. Then again, they were the most hippie people I’ve ever known, and everything was a celebration for them.
The barista nods without comment, filling the cup while I stare at the counter, trying not to think about the way my ice-cold fingers are shaking. I could sit down. Take the table near the window like I usually do and stay for a while. Warm up, at least.
But I can feel his gaze like a weight between my shoulder blades, and I’m too chicken to turn around. I’ve been dying to see him, and now I can’t face him. There’s something seriously wrong with me.
When the cup is set in front of me, I grab it and hurry out before I do something really stupid. Like look at him again, even though I really want to.
The cold bites at my cheeks as I hurry down the sidewalk, hands wrapped around the paper cup to soak in as much heat as I can.
It’s not a long walk back to where my vintage camper and crappy car are sitting tucked back into a densely treed area, but my toes are numb again by the time I reach it. Fluffy is still curled up on the bed when I come in.
“Hey, Fluffs.”
He lifts his head to look at me and lets out a meow, then tucks himself back into a ball. I lean down to scratch his ears, feeling a little bit of tension leave my body. At least I’ve got him.
The camper creaks as I walk through it. I’ve lived in this thing since I bought my old beat-up Subaru on the day I turned eighteen. The owner offered me five hundred dollars discount if I also took the camper off his hands at the same time. I thought I was getting a great deal. Until I found out he was literally just trying to get the rusty old camper off his property so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. It needed a lot of work, and for the first six months, the roof was covered by a tarp just to keep it from leaking. But now, it’s home, and I’ve done my best to personalize it bit by bit. The only thing that I haven’t figured out yet is how to get rid of the slightly musty smell. No matter how many of those tree-shaped, cherry-scented air fresheners I’ve hung, the old smell doesn’t go away. At first, I didn’t know how I would survive living in a camper, but it hasn’t been so bad. Well, at least until I broke down in a place with no electrical hookups.
I pour some water into Fluffy’s bowl, then sit cross-legged on the threadbare rug, digging around in the plastic crate I keep under the bed. My hand brushes against my plastic ponies, and I pull them out, lining them up in front of me by colors of the rainbow. They’ve always been my favorite toy. Not only are they magical, but they are bright and cheery.
There’s something calming about the familiar ritual—arranging them, brushing a tiny doll’s brush over their manes. I make a little corral out of the leftover wooden blocks and let them “graze” while Fluffy bats at one of them, knocking it onto its side.
I giggle and scoop him up, hugging his furry body to my chest. He nuzzles back, purring loudly, and I can’t help but smile when I set him down and he looks at me like I’ve personally offended him. Silly cat.
Time slips away while I play, making the ponies go on imaginary adventures. The light coming through the window shifts from morning gold to afternoon gray, and I can feel the cold creeping in.
My stomach growls, and I rummage through the small cabinet, pulling out a can of soup that expired last month. I don’t care. I step outside to the small table I have set up with a two-burner propane stove and dump the lumpy soup into a pot. While it heats, the sky grows even darker. I wish I could have gotten a glimpse at the morning paper in the café this morning to read the weather forecast. I’ve heard it’s not uncommon for it to snow ever, even in spring, and with as cold as it is, it feels like it could be a possibility today.
When my soup is warm enough, I turn off the stove and rush inside, shutting the door tightly behind me. Then I take a seat at the tiny fold-out table with Fluffy on my lap and eat straight from the pot. The soup is bland, but it fills my stomach, and it’s hot.
After I’m done, I pile my plastic ponies back into their crate, plump up the thin blankets on the bed, and make sure to grab the extra ones from the passenger seat this time before I crawl under the pile. Fluffy immediately joins and sprawls out like a warm, fuzzy weight, purring softly, and I let my eyes close, letting myself drift. It’s not quite evening, but suddenly my string of sleepless nights is catching up on me, and I can barely keep my eyes open.
Despite my exhaustion, my mind circles back to the café and how his eyes locked onto mine the second I walked in.
My fingers smooth over Fluffy, and I sigh, my mind spinning between thoughts of his deep voice, those piercing eyes, and the way he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t want to see him again. But something about him sticks in my head, and as I drift off to sleep, I wonder if I’ll see him again or if he’ll only live in my mind for the rest of my life.
* * *
T he next morning, I wake up even colder than usual. The wind must’ve picked up overnight, and the old metal sides of the RV creak like it’s protesting the chill. I tuck Fluffy into my sweatshirt, letting his warmth flow into my chest while he purrs softly.
I should stay in bed. Maybe just scavenge for something to eat and spend the day bundled up, keeping as warm as I can. But there’s this itch under my skin. A restless, stubborn need that won’t go away.
I’m not fooling myself. I know exactly why I want to go back to the coffee shop.
Him.
He’s probably not even there today. It’s stupid to keep going back just to feel his eyes on me and then scurry away like a scared little chicken. But I’m not ready to let it go. Not yet.
I wrap up as best as I can, slipping on my worn sneakers and fluffing my hair to hide the fact that I haven’t washed it in a couple of days. I’m going to have to go to the community center this afternoon to take a shower. I’d go every day if my car was still running, but the walk is just a bit too far to make the trek every single day. So I clean myself up the best I can with what I have in between showers. Thank goodness for cheap baby wipes from the dollar store. And every time I use them, I smile because the irony isn’t lost on me.
Fluffy gives me a sleepy look as I leave, but I pat his head and whisper a promise to be back soon.
The walk is colder than yesterday, and my cheeks burn from the wind, but I push through it. There’s no snow on the ground, which is a blessing. I’d been sure I’d wake up to a total white-out this morning.
By the time I reach the coffee shop, though, my hands and lips are already numb. I open the door and step inside, letting the warmth wrap around me.
And there he is.
Same spot. Same posture. Same piercing eyes locked onto me the second I close the door. It’s almost like he knew I was coming.
I hesitate as I stand in line to order. My brain screams at me to leave, to forget about him and go back to my quiet, safe world. But then, after I’ve had my turn and stepped away from the counter, he does something unexpected—he lifts his hand and motions for me to come closer.
I bristle instantly, wanting to defy him on principle. Who does he think he is, summoning me like some obedient little thing? Hmph. Rude.
Narrowing my gaze, I straighten my spine, forcing myself to look unaffected. I could just turn around and leave. I really could.
But I don’t. Because my body is a traitor.
My feet move on their own, and I hate how easily I give in to that silent command. I approach cautiously, keeping a few feet between us, even though the space still feels too small. He’s bigger up close—even taller than I remember, and every bit as imposing. And he’s sitting down, for Pete’s sake.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes still fixed on me, like he’s measuring me up. I tilt my chin defiantly, refusing to look away, and plaster on one of my bright smiles I’ve perfected over the years.
“Morning, Little Thief.”
“Good morning, vampire,” I singsong, smiling brightly. “Nice out today, huh?”
When one of his eyebrows lifts, I shrug innocently and pretend to cough to cover my giggle. I don’t know why it’s so fun to be sassy with him, but it comes to me so easily.
“So,” he drawls, voice low and rough, “you here to steal from more innocent people today?”
I blink, caught off guard. I wasn’t expecting him to be so blunt, though there’s no real heat behind his words. “I don’t take from anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, clearly skeptical. “That right?”
“Yeah.” I tilt my head to one side, pretending I don’t care what he thinks. Maybe I’m a bad person for what I do, but it’s survival and something that’s been ingrained in me for so long, it’s just who I am. “I have standards. I only take from people who won’t be financially impacted by the loss. Rich guys who act like they are God’s gift to earth? They don’t notice when they lose a few dollars. People who walk around acting like they own the world? Like they’re better than everyone else? They deserve to be knocked down a peg. I’m doing the universe a favor.”
His lips quirk up, like he’s amused, but his eyes don’t soften. “Interesting code of ethics. So, why’d you target me?”
The question makes me suck in a breath, and I bite the inside of my cheek, debating whether to answer honestly. Screw it. If he wants to judge me, let him. I smirk, giving him a once-over before I meet his narrowed gaze again. “Because you look like you kill people for fun.”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe—but then he does something unexpected. He laughs. It’s a gruff, rumbling sound that makes me shiver, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him actually look... happy. His smile is breathtaking. Different than what I expected. He’s still intimidating, but there’s a sparkle in his dark eyes that almost makes me think he has a kindness to him under his tough exterior. The scars on his cheeks are less menacing and almost look like dimples. I want to ask where those came from. Fighting, I assume.
He doesn’t deny my observation, and that makes my stomach do a weird flip.
“I don’t look like those other rich assholes, though,” he says with an arched brow. “What makes you think I wouldn’t miss whatever it is you were going to steal from me?”
My gaze roams over him again, and I force myself to ignore the flush that rises to my skin. “Your watch is worth at least fifty thousand, your boots are made to look worn, but they actually cost nearly five hundred dollars, and that chain you’re wearing is pure platinum, roughly worth ten grand. Oh, and all the tattoos you have probably cost hundreds of thousands. So I’d say you’re doing quite well for a murderer.”
Oh my God. I’m being way too bold. Especially if he does kill people. I might as well hand myself over to him so he can start chopping me up into body parts.
His dark gaze travels over my body with obvious disinterest, and now I feel like I’m the one suddenly being knocked down a peg, or five. I’m certainly nowhere close to the attractiveness level of this guy, and it’s pretty dang obvious I don’t have his kind of money. Or any money at all.
My heart pounds against my ribcage, and I can’t tell if it’s fear, excitement, or disappointment. Probably all of the above. Before I can say anything else, the barista calls my name, and I seize the opportunity to break away.
“Guess I’ll see you around,” I say lightly, though my voice wavers a bit.
He doesn’t move, just watches me with that same, assessing look. I grab my cup of hot water, not daring to look back, and practically bolt out the door. The icy air hits me hard, but I welcome it, hoping it’ll calm the heat still simmering under my skin.
I don’t stop moving until I’m halfway back to the camper, my breath puffing out in short bursts. My hands are shaking—whether from the cold or from that brief encounter, I’m not sure.
Who is this guy? And why can’t I stop thinking about him?
By the time I reach the camper, I feel like I’ve run a marathon. Fluffy greets me with a soft meow, and I pick him up, burying my face in his side as I try to steady myself.
“I need to stop going there.”
Fluffy just purrs, completely oblivious to my conflicted thoughts.
I set him down and sit on the edge of the bed, replaying the conversation over and over. I shouldn’t feel... whatever this is. I’m in no position to even like someone, let alone think about being involved with someone. And as if he would ever want someone like me. I’m stupid to even think it could be possible. A silly fantasy. And that’s the problem. I don’t know the difference between reality and fantasy anymore. And I can’t afford to let my guard down. Not with anyone. The last time I did that, I got hurt even though I knew it was coming.
I guess it’s time to find somewhere else to get my hot water and warm up because my terrifying murderer doesn’t seem to be leaving the café anytime soon.