5. Nell
Boomerang’s purrs jolt me awake—soft, insistent, his whiskers brushing my cheek as if to say, rise and conquer, woman. The dream I was clinging to vanishes instantly, but I feel… different. Lighter.
Today, I have a name.
And a plan.
I’m calling in sick.
Yes, Mick might fire me. But can he really argue if I blame it on a period so horrific I need bed rest, chocolate, and solitude? Doubtful. It’s worth it. This is the most alive I’ve felt in months.
I’m practically roaring ‘This Is Me’ in the shower, steam curling around me like victory smoke, when my phone starts buzzing.
Now, if my phone buzzes this early it’s usually one of two things—a notification from my grocery order, lovingly telling me all the decent brands have been substituted for knock-offs… or Adam.
I haven’t ordered anything.
Dread pools in my stomach.
Still dripping, I snatch the phone from the counter—instantly regretting it.
Messages flood in like a tidal wave.
Threats. Apologies. Insults. More threats. A few pathetic ‘I miss you’ lines buried between them like candy in poison.
A storm of desperation. Probably sent during a signal blackout and now crashing through all at once.
And just like that, the fire in me flickers.
Not out. But wary.
Because Adam may be a ghost of my past—but today, I’m the one doing the haunting.
But either way the words hurt.
Bitch… Worthless cunt… Pathetic excuse of a human.
Each worse than the last.
Just knowing that this isn’t going to end anytime soon is gut wrenching. But not responding is my safest bet—don’t engage and hope he goes away. Like a wasp.
But then I remember I have a purpose today.
Today I’m hunting the hunter.
My pathetic attempt at sounding ill on the phone to Mick doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Little convenient that you’re ill the morning after you went out last night, isn’t it?”
I offer him no response, just silence.
“I’m not going to keep standing for this Nell. This is your last chance. You should really take your job more seriously than this.”
I’m humming along, half-listening to Mick ramble through his usual nonsense, but my attention’s nailed to my laptop. Cameron Reed. Still elusive. Still frustratingly low on digital crumbs.
At some point Mick hangs up, but I barely notice—my brain’s two steps ahead.
Operation Stakeout is officially underway.
The plan’s simple; hover near Cameron’s house, scope the area, and if the universe is kind, gain entry. Legally-ish.
I’ve studied the local broadband providers, narrowed it down to two. It’s a coin flip, but if it lands my way, I’ve got just enough credibility to bluff a visit.
I’ve already whipped up a fake lanyard, complete with my very serious face and a glossy title; Nell, Technical Engineer for NimbusNet. Far cry from Nell in admin. Today, I’m someone else entirely.
I print the official-sounding letter I drafted—detailing vague broadband issues in the area and the urgent need to check household routers. Total fiction. But it looks convincing enough.
Smart blouse. Tailored trousers. Shoes I only wear when trying to intimidate printers into working. Hair pulled back into a tight bun.
Professional. Precise. Deceptively capable.
Boomerang weaves between my legs, tail flicking like he’s part of the mission.
“Not today, fluff monster,”
I mutter, sidestepping the impending cat-hair sabotage.
This is it.
Today I infiltrate.
Today I hunt.
“I’ve got this,”
I mutter, and Boomerang meows like he’s already fed up with me.
“Yeah, alright, drama king. Breakfast coming up.”
He’s more punctual than my phone alarm—if he didn’t yell at me every mealtime, I’d forget to eat entirely.
I start the walk like it’s any ordinary weekday; past the coffee shop, the local Tesco, the scaffolding that’s been up for six months with no sign of progress. But when I reach the usual right turn to work, I hesitate… and veer left.
Clipboard in one hand, fake lanyard strangling me like a bad decision, my heart thuds harder with every step toward Cameron’s house.
This is not safe.
Not even close.
I’m walking into a stalker’s territory with a made-up identity and a grin held together by sheer nerve.
Who does that?
Me, apparently.
Darcy would absolutely lose it if she knew what I was doing today. She’d either scream or cry, or both—and frankly, I wouldn’t blame her.
But I’m too far in now. And I don’t do halfway.
Then it hits me—he lives eerily close to work.
Coincidence? Doubt it.
My pulse pounds as I reach the edge of his driveway.
This is it. Showtime.
I scan my reflection in a nearby car window—blouse crisp, hair smooth, clipboard at the ready.
I look the part. Now I just have to act it. Because the second I hesitate, the second he sees through me…
It’s over.
Quick in, quick out.
That’s the plan.
My little spy camera—the one I dashed out to buy right before the shops shut—is prepped and primed, a discreet gadget no bigger than a thumbprint. All I need now is the perfect spot to tuck it away.
And nerves of steel.
Which, at the moment, I do not possess.
I’m shaking, lips cracked and dry, stomach pitching sideways as I press the doorbell.
There’s no camera or intercom. Weird. Everyone has a recording doorbell these days—even my neighbour who barely understands how Netflix works.
Coincidence?
I wait.
One minute.
Two.
Just as I’m about to turn and bolt, mentally berating myself for indulging this wild, criminally insane plan… the door opens.
And there he is.
Hand tattoos on full display, the intricate lines trailing up his arms—black snakes and bone fragments etched into his skin like stories no one else gets to read. He wears a fitted black T-shirt, tight enough to hint at muscle, loose enough to hide intent.
But his face is a mystery.
A bike helmet masks everything but his eyes—deep, dark, almost black—intense enough to make me step back without realising I’ve moved.
Brows furrowed.
Posture unreadable.
Silent.
God help me.
Even with half his face hidden, I can tell that he’s handsome—the dangerously charismatic kind that ruins you slowly.
And part of me aches to yank that helmet off just to see the rest.
But I’m not here to admire.
I’m here to spy.
“Can I help you?”
His voice hits like gravel—deep, unbothered, the kind that could make reading aloud from a washing machine manual sound seductive.
I have to physically reel my jaw back into place before I answer, attempting not to look like a stunned idiot.
“Uh… yes. Yes.”
Brilliant. Already fumbling.
“I’m from NimbusNet.”
I flash the lanyard like a badge of honour, praying he doesn’t examine it too closely.
So far, so good, I think, as I rattle off the script I’ve rehearsed.
“We’ve been tracking some connection issues in the area, and I just need to run a quick diagnostic on your router to make sure you’re still getting full coverage.”
I hold my breath.
One wrong word, one wrong flicker of suspicion in his eyes, and I’m toast.
“I didn’t realise there were any issues,”
he says, vaguely. His tone isn’t defensive—just passive, like it doesn’t really matter.
I keep the momentum.
“I’ve got a letter if you’d like the details?”
No one wants to read pages of jargon and legal fluff.
Reverse psychology 101.
Thankfully, he doesn’t take the bait—doesn’t even glance at the paper. Instead, he clips his helmet’s strap shut under his chin, his eyes unreadable beneath the shadowed visor.
And I can’t help noticing the way his arms shift, biceps coiling under that black T-shirt like rope pulled taut.
Whatever he is, he’s built for something.
Fuck. If he was my stalker, I would be more than happy.
No. What am I thinking?
He’s a creep. He’s a predator.
But a hot one…
“Yeah sure, carry on.”
He holds the door like a gatekeeper to hell, eyes flicking over me with quiet scrutiny as I step into the lion’s den.
I did it!
Holy fuck.
I’m in.
Now all I need to do is act like I’ve done this a hundred times and didn’t spend last night googling ‘how to pretend to be a broadband engineer.’
He lingers just long enough to point out the router—tucked neatly in the hallway, like it’s posing for a showroom ad—then his biker boots thump off down the corridor, leaving me a pocket of air to breathe in.
“How long have you guys been having issues?”
he calls from somewhere deeper in the house. The words slice through my mental fog, and I scramble to respond with something vaguely convincing.
“Not long,”
I say, carefully modulated.
“About a week or so—we’re just running routine diagnostics for anyone who hasn’t flagged it, just to make sure coverage is still stable.”
Plausible.
Casual.
Technically full of shit.
I’m trembling now, fingers fumbling inside my jacket for the camera.
Breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
The little black dot is slick between my hands. I tuck it into the artificial fruit bowl—a crime against both taste and realism—and angle it toward the hallway just as I hear his boots returning.
My mouth is dry as sandpaper, heart battering its way up my throat, but I drop down beside the router like I’ve found my calling in tangled cables.
I poke at wires with all the purposeful finesse of someone definitely qualified.
He reappears, silent, watching, but I keep my head down.
Just another day in the field.
“All sorted?”
“Yes, you’re all set. If you have any issues, feel free to get in touch,”
I chirp, channelling peak customer-service professionalism.
Honestly? I sound like I belong here.
He grunts—barely a sound—but steps in behind me like a shadow filling the hallway, guiding me back to the front door without a word.
And I did it.
Camera placed. Cover intact. No suspicion. No questions.
Holy shit, I actually did it.
A breeze catches as the door opens, and his aftershave hits me square in the senses—sharp, woodsy, rich enough to make my mouth water on reflex, but I shut it down fast.
This is still a stalker, not some misunderstood heartthrob.
Focus, Nell.
Still, that little glimpse of his world—the ink, the silence, the curated minimalism—it’s more than I had before. And now the real work begins.
Honestly, I should start charging for this. I’m a private investigator by accident, but apparently impressively good at it.
He waits until I’ve cleared the heavy iron gates before reaching for a remote clipped to his belt. With a soft whir, the garage door lifts, revealing a sleek black motorbike—polished, precise, gorgeous in that ‘he probably knows how to take a corner at 90mph’ way.
And then he climbs on.
Jesus.
Of course, Darcy managed to attract a stalker who looks like this—rugged, brooding, objectively sexy in all the worst ways.
Jammy cow.
Me? Let’s be real.
If I ever got stalked, it’d be by someone with questionable hygiene and a permanent spot on the sex offenders register.
I don’t think she’d even believe me if I told her.
Not the part where I infiltrated his house. Not the part where he stood inches from me, eyes unreadable, arms inked like warning signs.
I’m only a few steps from his gate when I hear it—the low growl of his engine firing to life, snarling through the stillness.
A moment later, he blurs past me, bike slicing through the air like a black bullet. No glance. No hesitation. Just gone.
Off to… what? A shift? Another ‘routine’ stalking session?
I spin slowly in his wake, adrenaline fizzing beneath my skin.
Note to self: Find a way to slap a tracker on that bike.
Because if he’s keeping secrets, I plan to follow every last one.