Chapter Eleven
I shuffle through the envelopes as I head back to the house, thumbing each one with a practiced flick.
Bill.
Bill.
Junk.
More junk.
Blah. Boring. The postal service owes me a little excitement, just once.
Oh. Wait.
A plain white envelope sits between my fingers. My name is printed on the front. No return address.
Interesting. Very interesting.
The club and the diner are my only real connections, so this mystery sender comes from a pretty shallow pool. My brain leaps into detective mode, the kind of eager energy it usually saves for things that will probably end badly.
What if it's Tomcat? What if he figured out I needed space and decided to do something about it? What if there's an apology folded up in here, something thoughtful and specific and…
I'm already hurrying inside before I finish the thought, tossing the rest of the mail onto the coffee table and dropping onto the couch. I slide my finger under the flap, not even properly sealed, rude, and lift it open.
A picture slides out.
Tomcat's face looks up at me. He's laughing at something, caught mid-moment between Munch and Giblet, completely unaware of the camera. Unguarded. I drag my fingertip across his face and feel my chest do that traitorous squeezing thing it does when I'm not paying close enough attention to stop it.
I haven't seen him since the family dinner. He's called multiple times. And every single time I've watched his name light up my screen and sent him straight to voicemail, because I know exactly what will happen the second I hear his voice. I'll fold. Completely and without dignity.
He hurt me. With words he doesn't even know he aimed at me, but still.
Pathetic. Some obsessed chick.
I was so sure he would love that gift. I'd thought about it, chosen it carefully, imagined his face when he saw it. Instead, those two words took up residence in my skull and have been paying rent there ever since.
Looks like I've landed my own personal stalker. Only mine prefers ugly words over anything remotely thrilling.
Who sent this?
I love this picture. Whoever sent it deserves a thank you and maybe a medal.
Turning it over, anticipation prickles beneath my skin.
The chill moves down my spine before my brain fully processes what I'm reading.
Stay away from him.
My throat does a slow convulsion. I read it again. Block print, deliberate, no personality bleeding through the letters. Could be anyone. Man, woman, ghost, disgruntled houseplant. Nothing about it gives me anything to work with.
My first instinct is Damon. He’s a connoisseur of the mind-fuck before he moves in for the kill. But Tomcat? With the trail of discarded women he leaves in his wake, this could be from any scorned heart in Coral Cay.
This threat could be coming from any direction.
I probably should feel something about that. Fear, maybe. A reasonable person would feel fear.
I feel nothing. Just the same grey static that's been running through me for two days now.
I toss it onto the pile with the rest of the mail.
Stay away from him.
As if.
Sure, I’ve lasted two days. But a girl deserves a little recovery time after getting hurt. That’s not distance. Nope. It’s merely self-preservation. I’ll be back to keeping tabs on him before the sender of this threat even gets a chance to gloat.
Can't have him forgetting about me.
That would just be tragic.
Getting ready and locking up takes no time at all, and soon I’m heading toward town on foot.
Walking has its own quiet magic. The world spins on, indifferent, while you drift through it.
Nature has a particular talent for quieting chaos.
She's generous with it, mostly, right up until you've pissed her off enough that she burns everything down.
But today, even she can't do much about the words still chasing me through the morning air.
Pathetic. Some obsessed chick.
It wouldn't be so strange to try to outrun them, would it? People run through this town all the time, lungs burning and faces red. Seems like a lot of work, though. The words would just be waiting for me at the finish line, fresh and ready to bite.
Becca’s already got the diner open when I arrive, thank god. In my current fog, I’d probably forget something crucial. The lock. Maybe even the door itself.
The bell jingles as I step inside. Snow is at the counter, hands moving quickly as she fills the pastry case with treats that smell like sugar and solace.
Becca’s rolling silverware and brewing coffee, while Pierre’s kitchen prep hums through the pass.
The jukebox in the corner tries its best with something upbeat, a song that would usually have my hips moving before I even notice.
Today, it’s just noise.
I watch Snow for a moment. She glances up and gives me that smile of hers—bright and genuine and completely unperformed.
I've thought about that smile before. Studied it, even.
I know enough about her background to know the dark that lives in it, and yet she walks around lit up like she made a different deal with it than the rest of us.
Like the trauma didn't make her harder. It made her lighter somehow.
I've never understood how that works.
After Damon, I tried. I searched for the light, stretched toward it, convinced it had to exist. But the world kept handing me the same answer, again and again.
Then I found Tomcat.
And for a while, he was the answer. My own flicker of light in a darkness tailored just for me.
Look how that's going.
"You okay, Marigold?" Snow asks, her voice doing that lyrical thing it does.
“I’m fine. Thank you for coming in today,” I say. My voice sounds polite. Distant. Like I’m listening to a recording of myself from another room.
Her brows furrow, but she keeps the smile pinned on. “Of course. I love working here.”
This is where I should toss out a tease. Maybe a sly jab about that biker, the one guaranteed to turn her ears rosy. She’s practically waiting for it, hope flickering in her eyes. But I only offer a curt nod, and watch her expression crumble.
Her face dips, disappointment settling in like a fairytale princess denied her happy ending.
Most people might feel a pang of guilt, maybe even a touch of sorrow. But normal and I parted ways a long time ago.
It’s the same with Pierre and Becca. They reach out with our usual shorthand, and I shut them down with a nod and a thin, rehearsed smile. They’re all looking at me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces.
Why? It’s not like I’ve never had a bad day.
I think.
Honestly, I can't remember having one. But surely I have.
The morning routine ghost-walk. Smile. Take the order. Serve the plate. Wave them out. Wipe the table. I could do this blindfolded, my hands moving while my mind is miles away.
Today, customers keep interrupting the rhythm to ask if I'm alright, giving me these soft, worried looks when I answer yes, thank you, and move on to the next thing. It's inefficient, all this checking on me.
I’m stacking dishes when the bell rings again.
The electricity moves over my skin before I've even turned around. That specific voltage that my body has always reserved exclusively for him. The one that usually fires up every nerve ending I have and sends my better judgment on an extended vacation.
I force my lips into a cheerful curve and call out a greeting, treating him with the same bland enthusiasm I’d give a tourist, before turning back to my guest.
I pull his mug from under the counter without thinking about it. Silverware. Carry it to the club's usual booth on autopilot. He brushes against me when he slides in, and I wait for the full-body betrayal my nervous system usually serves up without asking permission.
There's a flicker. Just a small lick of heat at the edges.
The ice holds.
Huh.
So that’s the secret. Months of my body betraying me, and the fix is this easy. Let him shatter something inside me, and suddenly nothing can touch me.
Fantastic. Just perfect. Couldn’t ask for more.
“Do you want your normal?” I ask, pouring the coffee with a steady hand.
"What I want is for you to talk to me." The frustration running under his voice is quiet, but it's there.
Poor baby.
I give him that plastic, high-gloss smile. "Sorry, sir. That's not what I get paid for. I'm sure there are plenty of locals who'd be happy to keep you company."
He doesn’t even have to move two feet. I could throw a spoon in any direction and hit a woman he’s already been inside who would jump at a second round.
His fingers snap around my wrist—an anchor of rough, familiar heat. The sudden temperature spike under my skin makes me freeze. It’s a glitch in my system. I don’t want to look, but he’s not giving me a choice. He wants my eyes, and Tomcat usually gets what he wants.
Pathetic. Obsessed chick.
The words are a rhythmic pulse in my head. I wait him out, keeping my face as flat and unreadable as a blank screen.
“What’s going on, Goldie?”
His voice is low, cautious. The kind of tone you use when you’re trying to talk a feral animal out of a corner. He’s not wrong. I am feral. But right now, the animal is just… tired.
I tilt my head, studying the scars on his knuckles. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“This. You’re acting differently. You aren't yourself.”
I want to scream. Why does everyone in this town think they’re entitled to my sunshine? People are allowed bad days. It's practically a human right. Sheesh.
A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. “God forbid a girl have an off day, huh.”
“Is that what this is? The entire diner can feel your off day, Goldie.”
Hm. Mask must be slipping then.
“Well, then. Let me just smile and make everyone else happy, shall I?” I pull my wrist free. I can't stand his touch right now, which is its own specific tragedy. “I’ll get your order in.”
He leans back and crosses his arms. I can see it in his eyes before he even opens his mouth.
Too bad. So sad.
There's something almost peaceful about not being able to feel things.