Chapter Seven
Harlow
The Man In The Park
Mateo: Good morning, beautiful. Please don’t be mad. I’m sending a gift your way. It’s to help you take care of your ankle. And it’s a gift, so no repayment necessary. Have a good day at work.
Beneath Mateo’s unexpected morning text is a screenshot of what appears to be a confirmation for services ordered. The logo on the screenshot matches the logo on a shiny, polished silver sedan that has pulled to a stop outside my apartment building.
Not only did Mateo arrange transportation for me—without talking to me first—but he had to have spent some money in the effort, because the car downstairs is no Uber. That is a privately owned transportation company, if ever I’ve seen one.
I look again at his message, even though I’ve memorized it at this point.
I should be mad. At the very least, I ought to be frightened.
Him carrying me back to my apartment and tending my ankle the night before, when we were supposed to be going to dinner, had been startling but maybe also the most gentlemanly and tender experience I’ve ever had.
I nearly cried. I probably would have, if I had not also spent most of the rest of the evening struggling against the desire to throw myself at him.
But this? This feels like more. This feels like one of those warning signs women are warned to watch out for. Except...
Except it makes my heart flutter, just the same way my heart fluttered when he inspected my ankle. The same way it fluttered when Mateo insisted I not walk him to the door when he took his leave, well after dinner, and bade his goodnight with a lingering kiss to my forehead.
I release a breath, grab my purse, and make my way to the door.
My ankle is wrapped with an ace bandage, and I took some more pain medicine with my breakfast, so walking is somewhat easier than the last time I stepped out of the apartment.
And for as possibly concerning, certainly frustrating as the transport downstairs is ...
I decide I am also grateful. I don’t know how I would have made it to work if I’d stubbornly persisted on foot.
Once the car is in motion, I pull out my phone and type a quick text back. I’ve learned that Mateo is often too busy during the day to respond promptly, so I know not to wait for one now. That’s fine. I still feel like I should thank him.
****
Mateo sends me a car for two more days, morning and night. The guilt of whatever these cars must be costing—which he’s refused to disclose—is eating away at me. So I’m sure to tell him when my ankle starts feeling better.
And during all of this, we keep texting. We text until late, until I’ve tucked myself into bed. His words have become the last I read for the day.
Falling asleep to thoughts of Mateo and hearing his voice in my mind is the best kind of torture.
I want to see him again. And I do still owe him a dinner.
It’s Saturday, and I know I need to work up the nerve to ask him properly if I want to get some of his time before the week starts again.
But I’m overwhelmed by the entire prospect, and my body tends to distract my brain every time I think of him landing his lips on mine instead of my forehead. I need fresh air.
This is how I’ve never managed a serious relationship.
It’s been years since I escaped my prison.
It isn’t like I’ve never interacted with people, touched or been touched, or any of that.
But I have problems opening up, difficulties with trust, and I become rather easily overwhelmed.
As a result, I have no one I would call a friend and no history of lengthy romantic relationships.
It’s a vicious cycle in a lot of ways. I feel alone, and so I isolate myself.
I pause at the bottom step of the landing and look up to the sky. There’s no radiating pain in my ankle, and the sky is a pretty shade of powder blue overhead. I take a cleansing breath.
I’m not going to push Mateo away.
I’m going to let this happen. I want to see what happens between us.
My chest grows heavy, and I have to flex my hands at my sides as familiar anxiety spikes.
I’m not afraid of Mateo. I’m only afraid of the pain he—or anyone—could bring to me if I let them too close.
I know that, in my mind. I still struggle with overcoming it in reality.
But I am determined to fight my usual flight response.
Because I want more—from Mateo, yes, but also from the existence I call life.
I breathe out slowly, consciously unclench my fists, and step forward. I’m going to take a stroll to the park, or perhaps the local marketplace, and enjoy having the freedom to do so. And while I am out, I’m going to keep my eyes open for a good place to invite Mateo for dinner.
It’s a wanderer’s plan, probably. I window-shop for a while, find a delicious-smelling food stand and grab a small, late lunch, then make my way to a bench just inside the park.
Sangre has luscious greenery throughout the town, and its park is no exception. The public park backs up to protected forest land because Sangre is built right along the edge of the forest. And that just makes it more beautiful.
“Still alive, I see.” The voice, male and distantly familiar, comes from directly behind me.
The sudden declaration startles me enough that I lurch forward, twisting sharply on the bench and crunching the wrapper of my barely finished meal beneath my hand in the process.
And my eyes widen. I remember this man. It’s hard to forget a man who radiates such menace, let alone one who carries the ghosts of three viciously departed souls on their shoulders. My stomach churns.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t make a scene, whore. I need—”
I shove to my feet, nearly dropping the small purse I’d let rest in my lap, and glare at him with the bench between us. “Whoever you are, you have no right to speak to me like that.”
His lips bend in a deeper scowl. “I’ve seen the company you keep.
You’re still alive, so obviously you’re providing a service.
” When he pulls his hands from the pockets of his lightweight coat, I catch what can only be the glint of sunlight on steel with the movement.
And as my heart stops, fear pouring through me, he holds that arm outward in a way that lets me see for myself the confirmation of the blade in his palm.
Yet I am sure, to passersby, it would look only like he was offering his hand for a handshake.
I slide a foot backward on the grass. I doubt my ankle is well enough for a sprint, but I’m about to find out.
“Try and run, and I switch to bullets,” he says low. He barely waits for his words to reach me. “Tell me where I can find your monster lover, and I’ll leave you alone.”
My gaze finally rips from the perfectly pointed, gleaming dagger in his grip so I can properly balk at him.
I open my mouth to question him before thinking better of it—there’s no arguing with this type of personality.
Instead, I narrow my eyes and raise my chin.
“The only monster I’ve seen lately is you. ”
The twitch to his eye is all I need to know he isn’t going to tolerate my response.
I don’t wait to watch the knife slide lower in his grip before casting my gaze beyond him, and in a split second, I realize my biggest problem.
The best way past this terrifying man and back into the heart of Sangre, where people are, is to veer wide and run straight at the sturdy, objectively pretty, stone barrier wall that defines the park.
The barrier wall has openings in specific places, but none are here.
And I am not so athletic that I can leap over a four-foot-tall wall in that kind of haste. I know all of that in a heartbeat.
So I do the only other thing I can do.
I spin, and I run, sprinting into the park, and aimed straight at the mystery of the forest which lies beyond.
Whatever dangers Mother Nature hides inside, they can’t be worse than this lunatic, I’m now convinced, has already killed at least three people.
And I have my phone, so once I’m sure I’ve lost him, hopefully I can call for help.
A bullet—what I instinctively assume to be a bullet, anyway—whizzes past me, close enough to ruffle my hair.
It gouges into the trunk of a nearby tree, and I let out a shriek, nearly falling on my face as I adjust course in a sloppy attempt not to run in a straight line.
The sooner I can disappear into the foliage, the better.
I think he clips my arm with a second shot, but by then the adrenaline is coursing, and I barely feel it.
I will later. I know I will. But I’ve reached the boundary, and it’s easier than it should be to slip between the wide-planked slats.
Then I dive behind a pair of thick trees and bolt in a different direction, praying to the spirits that haunt the bastard that I can get away.
I’m not going to stop running until I’m safe. That, at least, I know I can do. I’ve done it before.