Chapter 21
Bees and Murder
brIGIT
My phone pings with a text almost immediately after I walk in the door from lunch with Janet, only seconds after I kick my boots off.
unknown:
You looked beautiful last night.
What the fuck?
Who is this?
A sharp thrill runs up my spine. I haven’t seen or heard from him since I returned his jacket.
Not that I was hoping to or anything.
Wait.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since I returned his jacket.
…
We didn’t see each other last night.
Well…
You may not have seen me, but I definitely saw you.
Before I have a chance to respond to whatever the fuck that means, another message comes through, this one a dark picture, taken through some kind of horizontal hole.
And— that’s my bedroom. That’s me lying in my bed, facing away from the camera, barely fucking dressed in a soft nightgown that leaves quite literally nothing to the imagination.
This motherfucker.
You didn’t actually think you could keep me out, did you?
Come outside.
No.
Come outside… please?
NO
Fine.
Come outside or I’ll climb up there and fucking make you.
I can't decide if I want to refuse and see if he'll make good on that threat, or if I'm curious enough about whatever he wants to do as he says.
What am I thinking? Of course, I shouldn't do as he says.
He just sent me undeniable proof that he not only broke in, but spent god knows how long watching me last night.
Only by luck was it yesterday he broke in and not the day before, when he might have caught me in a vulnerable moment, leaving me in an incredibly awkward position of having to explain to him that no, I did not call out his name when I made myself come.
My cheeks warm at the thought of how he might respond to that little revelation.
It wasn't even the first time it happened, either. Since that night at Mingle, I haven't been able to get there at all without thinking of him, and it's become a real fucking problem.
I’ll give you two more minutes, Brig. And if you’re not down here, I’m coming up.
He wouldn’t fucking dare.
Of course, he would.
I need five.
See you soon.
That isn't an agreement.
But it's also not a denial of my terms.
So I either get my shoes on and run out the door in the next 90 seconds, or I risk him coming up to drag me outside.
How long does it take him to get in?
How did he get in?
Almost my entire apartment is covered in cameras. The only room that doesn't is my bedroom, and that's because I'm not worried about someone climbing through a window with absolutely nothing beneath it to grab hold of and a long, hard fall if they fail.
Even the camera on my patio is wide enough to capture my bedroom window.
No wonder people are so afraid of Cormac. He's a fucking ghost.
Tossing my flat, knee-high boots on, I quickly grab my purse, all but running out the door to get there fast enough that I don't have to learn if Cormac would follow through.
Waiting for my elevator, I count down the seconds, my heart pounding out of my chest as I get closer and closer to seeing him again. Not exactly willingly, but that doesn't seem to matter to the butterflies taking up real estate in my stomach.
Finally, it opens, blissfully empty, and I dart in, noting that I have 30 seconds until the two-minute mark.
As soon as the ding of the elevator hitting the lobby reaches my ears, I nearly break into a sprint, ready to run out the door to make it on time.
And there, standing just outside, waiting with a wicked smirk on his face, is Cormac. Wearing another t-shirt and black jeans, with his hair starting to grow out a bit, he looks just like anyone I might see on the street.
If everyone else on the street looked like they should have been an underwear model. Or a hand model. Or face model.
"Hi," he beams, golden eyes alight with mischief. Checking his watch, he tsks, "You missed it by a few seconds. Good thing I have plans for us today, or you'd be in trouble."
"Plans?"
He nods, "Yeah, as it turns out, I'm not welcome back at Mingle for a bit. So you and I are going to go do something fun."
"I don't think I agreed to that," I argue.
He leans forward, lowering his voice to just above a whisper, "I don't think I asked."
My brows raise in surprise, but he just grins, those sharp canines drawing my attention to his perfectly sculpted mouth.
"Come on," he wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me with him. "You're going to have fun. Promise."
I'm not sure if I should believe him. "Our ideas of fun are very different. Yours seems to be sneaking around and taking photos of unsuspecting, sleeping women."
He laughs, looking at me from the corner of his eye as we pass my doorman. "Nah. That's a habit I reserve for you and only you."
"You can't park there," I tell him as his car appears, parked literally right in front of my building.
He shrugs, "Sure, I can. Clark likes me. And my money. He was willing to look the other way for 90 seconds while I waited for you."
"How thoughtful,” I mutter.
"I think so," he agrees, ignoring my sarcasm.
He opens up the passenger door for me, ever the picture-perfect gentleman, if his true nature wasn't hidden just beneath the beautiful surface.
His hand on my lower back, gently guiding me into the car, sends wild signals through my body.
The protective gesture warms me from the inside out, and there's no longer any denying that his touch creates a visceral reaction between my thighs that's closer to animal than it is human.
As I settle into my seat and try to catch my breath, he closes the door, jogging around to his own and sliding into the driver's seat.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" I ask as he fiddles with the music, some kind of rock gently adding to the symphony of the car and the sounds of the city around us.
"No," he smirks. "But you knew that already."
I did.
But a girl can still hope.
"It'll take us maybe 20 minutes to get there," he explains, looking over his shoulder for oncoming traffic before pulling smoothly onto the road. "So you can just lay your head back, relax. I'll even let you change the music if you want to."
"Wow. You're really laying the gentleman thing on thick today, you must be feeling guilty for being such a creep," I reach for the dial, slightly amused by the old style of radio, the lack of a bright screen making it feel somehow cozier in here, more private.
"Sorry, Brig, my conscience is clear."
"Really?"
He grins, "When it comes to you? Yes. I'm sure there are a lot of things I should feel guilty for, annoying you isn't one of them."
"Annoying is a funny word for stalking," I mumble, and he grins wider, suddenly grabbing my hand when the radio lands on a station.
"Wait," he blinks a few times, "I like this song."
Releasing my hand, he rubs his temple, groaning in pain.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he looks back at the radio strangely, "I don't even know this song. I've never heard it before."
"Have you been out in public over the last three years?" I ask.
His brows furrow in thought, "Yeah."
"Then you've definitely heard it. Last summer they wouldn't stop playing it," I wonder if somewhere in his subconscious, even though he doesn't remember it, this song is familiar somehow.
"Huh."
His index and middle fingers rub slow circles on his temple, and I feel the weight of what he's been through settle on me once again.
Years gone. Not just of memories, but the context of everything that happens around us.
Art, music, movies, all of it just missing from his mind like it never happened.
I can't imagine what it's been like relearning the world the way he's had to. Technology has made leaps and bounds over the last few years. It must have been hard to wake up and not know how any of it works.
And all the tattoos. Jesus.
"It's funny," he mutters. "Can't remember a thing, but somehow my body does."
It doesn't sound funny. It sounds horrible.
Especially when some of the things his body knows are exceptionally unhinged.
"I can't believe you still managed to get inside," I comment, closing my eyes and leaning against the seat.
A quiet chuckle rumbles between us, "I just love a challenge."
"How did you do it?"
He tsks me, "I'm not telling you. Come on, it's more fun that you don't know, huh?"
"No, it's not." It's not.
"Liar," he grins. "Hey, by the way, I haven't had a chance to talk to you about the other day."
"That's fine,” I say with overtly fake pleasantness, “because I was really looking forward to not telling you about it at all."
He goes silent, as he tends to do, so eerily quiet I can't even hear him breathing. I peek through a barely open eye just to find him tapping impatiently on the steering wheel.
"I meant," he says finally, "I wanted to thank you. You didn't have to step in, but you did, and I really appreciate it. But now you have to tell me what Skyler said."
"Nothing really," I tap my toe. "I mean, it's not like he said anything that wasn't true. He just made a point of telling me that he knows a lot more about my past than I'm comfortable with anyone knowing.
"Like what?"
Ugh.
There's not a chance in hell I'm going to dive into why I got fired at my last job. Of the truths Skyler revealed he knew, one seems easier to tell Cormac: "He said I have mommy issues."
"Do you?" He chuckles quietly. "Weren't you just at lunch with her?"
My head snaps towards him, "How did you know that?"
"You must have mentioned it to me, maybe when I was over the other night," he explains, but I'm positive I didn't tell him about that because talking about Janet is something I avoid even with my closest friends.
I was already suspicious when he texted me as soon as I got home, but that can be explained by his waiting outside. Creepy? Definitely. But waiting for me at home is far less invasive than following me wherever I go.
Isn't it?
When did I start thinking in levels of stalking and trying to justify it in my head?