Chapter 9 - Kate #2
I cradle the pepper spray under my arm and remove the gift card, waving it at the mysterious biker. “Dog training lessons? Josh is a menace to society who needs to tame his small dog syndrome, pillow humping, and sock guarding habits. Thank you.”
“If humping pillows is your biggest problem, you’re living soft, Glitter Bomb,” he says.
Can I take a moment to adore that nickname that’s totally me?
I let him know my thoughts on it. “Careful. Call me that again, and I might explode a shimmering mess that makes stalkers more grumpy.”
“Your cum is glitter?” He tilts his head. “What planet are you from?”
“I like a man who’s well read in the alien smut department.” Oops. Said it out loud again.
My reporter brain slash amygdala is working overtime in the computing department, trying to assess the threat level.
Since he’s taken an avid interest in pursuing me, I doubt this is the last time we’ll see each other, and I vow to work my wily charm on him for more answers.
Because a girl has to know who express-shipped her tea with a note!
Speaking my love language with Earl Grey and threats earns a kiss.
My dark protector retreats to grab a spare helmet from his bike, and yeah, my gaze drops to that tight ass. “Need a ride?”
I arch a brow. Now he’s pushing it.
Rational me replies, “I don’t ride with strangers.”
Book Girlie me fangirls, leaps on the seat behind him, my palms sparing no inch of his chest.
My biker savior points down the alley. “Then start walking home. I’ll trail behind. Consider it stalking.”
Oh, shit. I think my Book Girlie squealed. In her defense, we’re living out our fantasy of forced proximity and grumpy sunshine tropes.
I cover my accidental thrill by rolling my eyes.
Bad Book Girlie. We don’t know this man, and if he’ll lead us to a different type of darkness.
But… but… she protests, this is exactly the kind of scene from my books we’ve been craving.
Fair point. I’ll take it under consideration.
Rational me chimes in, Remain wary. Scream and run if things take a weird turn. Next time your car is in for repairs, get a lift from Harper, and let her deal with the stalker. Chances are, one confrontation with her, probably involving a scalping trophy, and he’ll run like Burt did.
Hmm. Valid point.
Book Girlie counters with a huff, If he wanted to hurt us, he would have already. Now, let me out. I only get to play in books!
I evaluate both perspectives and decide to accept the invitation. I’m tired of living behind armor and hiding away scared. This scenario is exactly the kind of danger I’ve been longing for, and a part of me feels safe engaging in it.
Tell that to my counselor, whom I’ve spent the better part of eighteen months trying to convince that reading stalking romance is therapeutic—a twisted form of exposure therapy that’s enabled me to change the narrative from scarring to putting me solely in control.
Before I start walking, I take a precautionary measure, stuff the gift card away and swap it for my phone.
“Who are you calling?” Concern sounds weird coming from Grumpy Biker.
Oh, sweetheart. You’re the only danger here.
I hit Harper’s name, and she answers straight away. “Hey, cupcake.”
“I’ll explain why later,” I say, “but I’m walking home with the stalker biker.”
Grumpy Stalker performs a scan of the street.
My internal Yoda voice recites, The green energy is strong with this one. Shame. I only wear green on my eyeliner, hair, and wardrobe.
“He’s there with you?” Harper’s tone sharpens into protective murder mode.
“Yeah,” I reply. “So if I don’t come home within thirty minutes, call the police and report me missing.”
He curses under his breath and shakes his head. Moral stalker disapproval. Kind of rich, coming from a guy lurking in alley shadows. Time to analyze that later.
I position the camera to capture an image of him and the bike before he objects. “Sending you his mug,” I tell Harper. “Don’t get stuck on his legs and ass in those pants.”
“What the hell?” Grumpy Stalker takes a step, then halts when I use my pepper spray as a shield.
“Bike sex! Bike sex!” Harper chants.
“Love you, bye.” I hang up before she gets her gun and handcuffs and drives down here.
And so we walk, side by side. Grumpy Stalker rolling his bike like it’s no effort at all. Me clutching my pepper spray in one hand and my kubaton in the other.
Common sense says I should be scared and catch the bus instead. Weirdly, I feel empowered and brave, a woman who doesn’t need saving. The broody bodyguard by my side is a morally questionable book fantasy come to life. Nobody’s going to harm me on his watch.
The night has lost its sharp edge, and the shadows don’t lean across the sidewalk, their fangs lean into velvet and wrap me in comfort.
Streetlights flicker gold halos on the pavement, softening the edges of the world.
My boots don’t echo without the dread they held when I left the office.
This feels dreamy, soft, safe, even. I’m not spiraling, not searching for a way out, and certainly not helpless.
Secretly, I feel like a queen with her dark knight by her side.
It’s too quiet, and I don’t like the alarming and sensual thoughts suddenly competing in my head.
“Save girls like this often?” That may have come out flirtier than intended.
“Don’t try your reporter charm on me.” Oh, is that a hint of amusement I hear from him?
The thrill of making him smile overrides that he’s onto me, and I’ll have to be cleverer next time.
We don’t talk again, and he stops three blocks from my house.
“Don’t work a minute past five,” he warns, circling his bike in the opposite direction.
“Why? Will you smash up more car windows?” Oh, yeah, I’m smiling.
“Don’t get used to it.” I try not to drool as he throws a leg over his Kawasaki Ninja bike and sits on it.
Oh, yeah, I’ve mentally recorded the make, model, and license plate, and I’ll be doing some research later tonight.
“Memorizing my plate, Glitter Bomb?” he asks, part cocky, part smug, and I warm all over. “It won’t be the same tomorrow, and you won’t track me.” Oh, he wants to play this game. Bring it on.
“Challenge accepted.” Before he leaves, I get in one final question. “What shall I call you, my avenging hero?”
He starts his engine and drowns me out, taking off, and in seconds is gone, merging with the shadows he belongs to. My Book Girlie pouts. Reality never measures up to fantasy.
But sometimes it’s better.
The darkness deepens and snakes out from the trees and cars. I hug my middle and feel vulnerable without him by my side. Picking up into a jog, I hurry back home.
I sink my key into my lock, tumble inside and close the door, heart tripping like a trapped rabbit. Hands fumbling, I triple-check the locks, top, middle, bottom. Then again. Three times a charm. My hand lingers on the deadbolt, afraid to let go.
I press my forehead and palm to the wood, waiting for any sound.
Stillness. Not footsteps. No voices. No rough hands on my wrists or neck.
Burt’s gone. I’m safe. I peer through the peephole just to be safe.
Empty porch. No helmet, bike, or tall stranger wrapped in shadow.
Strength waning, I sag against the door, the cool wood grounding me.
My lungs won’t expand properly, and I let out a brittle breath.
Josh barrels around the corner, his tail a blur of frantic enthusiasm, paws skidding on the floor. He launches up my legs, and I crouch to scoop him into my arms. Snuffles puff in my neck.
“I’m okay, buddy,” I whisper into his fur, trying to convince myself that I’m holding on.
Home is safety. It’s also where the crash sets in, and my brain scrambles to process what my body’s ignored, and I unravel.
A shadow stretches across the foyer. Harper, backlit by kitchen lights, a pissed-off goddess in black satin and lace down her arms and across the top of her chest. Her gaze flicks over me, and her jaw tightens. She always knows when I’m not okay.
“Who’s going to die?” she asks calmly.
I let out a shaky laugh. “I’m fine.” The biggest lie I’ve told all year.
“Come here, cupcake.” She lets me clutch my terrier and steers me into a bench seat like I’m breakable. And, hell, I am.
Composed, lethal steps carry her to the fridge, and she yanks open the door, pulling out a fancy bottle I reserved for a fictional date with a man similar to the one who rescued me.
“Say the word, cupcake.” She twists the lid and lets the red wine breathe, grabs two glasses, and sets them on the bench. “I’ll make sure he cries every time he takes a piss.”
God, I love her. She’s vengeance in berry lipstick and boots. Safety and comfort, just like Josh. I can’t hide behind her forever.
I tell Harper everything. The unwanted touches.
The car alarm. When the festival biker emerges from the shadows and chases away Burt.
My neck tightens when I speak his name. My bestie’s expression doesn’t crack.
A-level poker face. Behind her eyes, I catch the brewing storm, the mental list calculating which of Burt’s body parts to dismember first.
The fear’s still there, but I choose to be louder and shine brighter as I recount my rescue.
My emotional breakdown is booked for next Tuesday.
Right now, I’m sipping wine and toasting my masked menace like the unhinged book heroine I am.
Celebration is due when the gods answered my prayers for a morally gray cinnamon roll. It’s only taken them two years!
One drink in, I’m so juiced up on adrenaline, and excitement that I cope with it the only way I know how. Meme the hell out of it. Lord of the Rings, here I come. One does not simply read stalker romances and not develop a mask kink.
Helmets are sexy, mysterious, and secretive, just like the body behind all the riding gear and the face beneath the helmet. Hot bikers are a thing, and one has taken an interest in me.
I just hope I’m in for the danger, obsession, and devotion from the romance menu. Not the kind that ends with my obituary on page fifty-three.