Chapter 3 Riley #2
I kept walking, but my pace quickened. I shifted my grocery bags to one arm, freeing the other to dig for my keys.
The weight of the ice cream suddenly felt like a liability.
Could you use a pint of mint chocolate chip as a weapon?
Probably not effectively. Maybe if I threw it really hard, aimed for the face, got lucky. Fuck.
I was going to die holding a pint of ice cream. That was going to be in my obituary. “Riley Hawkins, age 28, struck down in her prime while carrying frozen dairy products. She is survived by her houseplants, most of which she also killed.”
I glanced over my shoulder, trying to be subtle…
Nothing. The sidewalk was empty, and there was only a cat on a fence, staring at me with the quiet judgment only felines could muster.
Fine. I was being paranoid. Damien’s threat was echoing in my head, making me see danger in shadows.
I turned the corner onto my street and heard footsteps behind me.
Okay. That wasn’t paranoia. That was definitely footsteps. Heavy ones, moving faster than a casual stroll, the rhythm wrong for someone just walking home. Too steady for a jogger, too deliberate for a coincidence.
My heart rate spiked. My apartment was half a block away, and the tattoo shop would still be open. Dom and Marco and Vinnie would be there, closing up for the night, and they’d help me.
The footsteps were getting closer. I abandoned all pretense and ran.
My grocery bags swung wildly. I heard the eggs crack inside the bag, yolk spreading everywhere, and I mentally said goodbye to my breakfast plans. The ice cream was probably getting destroyed too. RIP mint chocolate chip. You deserved better.
I sprinted the last hundred feet, yanked open the door to Ink & Iron, and practically threw myself inside.
The bell above the entrance jangled violently. Three massive men looked up from what appeared to be a very serious game of poker.
Dom, six-foot-four with a shaved head and more tattoos than visible skin, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Marco, slightly shorter with a beard that could house a family of birds, was already standing and reaching for what was definitely not a tattoo gun behind the counter. I didn’t ask what it was. I didn’t want to know.
Vinnie, the youngest with puppy-dog eyes that didn’t match his intimidating sleeve tattoos, looked genuinely alarmed. “Riley? What happened?”
“Someone...” I gasped, chest heaving, grocery bags dangling pathetically from my arms. “Someone was following me. Footsteps. Getting closer.”
All three men exchanged the kind of look that said they were about to commit a crime and feel righteous about it.
Dom moved toward the door with the calm purpose of a man who had done this before. He stepped outside, scanning the street with ease.
A long moment passed.
I stood there catching my breath, very aware that I probably looked like a disaster. Hair escaping from my bun, cheek still slightly red, grocery bags leaking what I hoped was just egg and not the ice cream too. My hands were shaking and my heart was still pounding.
Dom came back inside, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and baffled.
“There’s nobody out there, sweetheart.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Street’s empty. Just a blonde, tall guy inspecting his mailbox across the street, Mrs. Patterson walking her dog and that fat orange cat from the alley.” He paused. “The cat did look suspicious, though. Very shifty eyes.”
I stood in the middle of the tattoo shop, bags still clutched to my chest, feeling like an absolute idiot. But the fear was real. The footsteps were real.
Weren’t they?
Marco snorted, setting down whatever weapon he’d grabbed from behind the counter. “You got spooked by Mr. Whiskers?”
“I didn’t get spooked by a cat,” I protested, but my voice lacked conviction. “There were footsteps. Human footsteps. Heavy ones.”
Vinnie tilted his head thoughtfully. “Mr. Whiskers is pretty heavy. He’s like twenty pounds. Vet says he needs to go on a diet.”
“A cat doesn’t sound like a grown man walking.”
“You’d be surprised,” Dom said, settling back into his chair at the poker table. “That cat sounds like a linebacker when he’s chasing a squirrel.”
I wanted to argue, but honestly? I was too tired. The adrenaline was crashing, leaving me shaky and exhausted, and I was standing in a tattoo shop at nine PM holding a bag of ruined groceries. This was my life now. This was the glamorous existence of a published author.
“I’ll just...” I gestured vaguely at the stairs in the back that led to my apartment. “I need to put my groceries away.”
“You need to sit down,” Dom corrected. “You’re pale as hell and you’re shaking.”
“I’m not...” I looked at my hands. They were definitely shaking. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Marco pulled out a chair at the poker table. “Sit. We’ll deal you in.”
“I don’t know how to play poker.”
“Perfect. Easy money for us.”
Vinnie was already taking my grocery bags, peering inside with concern. “Your eggs are definitely broken. Like, destroyed. There’s yolk everywhere.” He winced sympathetically. “And this ice cream is getting soft. I’ll put it in the freezer upstairs, okay? You stay calm.”
“You don’t have to...”
“Too late, already doing it.” He disappeared up the stairs with my groceries, and I was left standing there feeling oddly touched by the gesture.
I appreciated that. I really did. These men barely knew me, but they’d taken me in like a stray cat the moment I moved into the apartment upstairs. They checked on me when I worked too late, they scared off Damien when he came around drunk, they made me feel safe in a world that often didn’t.
So I ended up staying for two hours.
The poker game was a disaster. I lost approximately forty dollars in chips before they took pity on me and switched to a “teaching round” that involved a lot of cheating on my behalf.
Marco kept “accidentally” showing me his cards.
Vinnie would cough loudly whenever I was about to make a bad call.
Dom just grunted and dealt the cards with the patience of a man who had accepted that teaching me poker was a lost cause.
“You have the worst poker face I’ve ever seen,” Marco informed me after I lost another hand. “You smile when you have good cards. Every time.”
“I do not.”
“You literally just did it.”
“That was a different smile. A decoy smile.”
“There’s no such thing as a decoy smile.”
“There is now. I invented it.” I shrugged.
Marco told a story about a client who wanted a tattoo of his ex-wife’s face on his ass so he could “fart on her forever.” The wife had cheated on him with his brother. They spent twenty minutes debating whether the revenge was justified or just sad.
“And you did it?” I asked.
“Hell yeah I did it. Charged him double though. Hazard pay.”
Vinnie showed me pictures of his new puppy, a tiny Pomeranian named Brutus who weighed three pounds and had already destroyed two pairs of shoes, a couch cushion, and Vinnie’s will to live.
“He’s got a lot of anger for such a small body,” Vinnie said proudly.
“The vet says he needs behavioral training. I say he’s just expressing himself. ”
“He bit the mailman,” Marco said.
“The mailman was on our property.”
“He was delivering mail. That’s his job.”
“Brutus doesn’t know that. He doesn’t understand capitalism.”
Dom ordered Chinese food at some point, declaring he “couldn’t watch her survive on grocery store ice cream and broken eggs like some kind of disaster goblin.” I would have been offended if he wasn’t completely right.
By the time I finally headed upstairs, I’d almost forgotten about the footsteps. Almost.
The guys insisted on walking me to my door, even though it was literally just up a flight of stairs attached to their building.
Dom made a big show of checking the hallway for “dangerous felines.” Marco grunted and told me to lock my damn door.
Vinnie hugged me, which was awkward because he was built like a refrigerator but also very sweet.
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. “For not making me feel stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” Dom said. “You’re careful. That’s smart. Better to run from nothing than not run from something.”
“That’s surprisingly philosophical.”
“I have depths.”
I laughed, said goodnight, and finally closed myself inside my apartment.
I leaned against the door for a moment, letting out a long breath. I was safe. I was home. Everything was fine.
But I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there had been more than a cat out there, watching from the shadows, even if Dom didn’t find anyone on the street.
***
I lay in bed, freshly showered, stomach full of Chinese food.
The window was cracked to let in the cool night air, and the familiar sounds of Lysmont drifted up. Distant traffic, someone’s music playing too loud, a dog barking at shadows. The occasional rumble of a car passing by.
I should sleep. I was exhausted. Tomorrow I had to work on my book, avoid Damien’s calls, and somehow pretend my life wasn’t a slow-motion dumpster fire.
But every time I closed my eyes, I saw gray eyes flashing amber.
What the hell was that about?
Thessa’s explanation made sense. Australian slang, weird habit, cultural difference. I’d watched enough international reality TV to know that different countries had different expressions. It was totally normal. So why was I still thinking about it? Why did it feel…Differently?
Nobody had ever called me mate before. I was projecting. I had to be. I wrote werewolf romance for a living, and my brain was pattern-matching, seeing book boyfriends in random tourists who happened to have intense stares.
He was probably just weird. Rich people were weird. I punched my pillow into submission and forced my eyes closed.
Sleep came eventually, and I dreamed of forests and moonlight and a voice calling my name.
I woke at dawn with my heart racing, and when I looked out my window, just to check, the street below was empty. But on the other side of the street, a shadow moved. I squinted to get a better look, but it was gone.
And for some reason, a sleepy brain or zero survival instincts (maybe I’d used them all earlier), I wasn’t scared. Not like I should’ve been.