Chapter 3
Chapter Three
A bell tinkles lightly as I push open the door at Murphy’s Men’s Wear.
Behind the counter, a young blonde looks up and smiles widely, giving me her best flirty grin.
She bounces quickly across the floor, her tan stiletto heels clicking against the linoleum.
Her eyes are wide and sparkling when she stops, barely six inches away from me.
“How can I help you?” she coos sweetly.
“I’m fine. I’m just here for some shirts.” My words are hushed, pushed out between my gritted teeth.
She blinks at my reply and her lips press together in a tight line.
I set my eyes on a circular rack of shirts a few feet behind her, then back to her before raising an eyebrow questioningly.
Catching my meaning, she hastily moves out of my way, eyes cast downward, as if she’s admiring her shoes.
Her cheeks pinken with embarrassment as I step past her.
I thumb through the items on the rack. A couple of thermal shirts to replace the one that got trashed tonight and two black button-ups end up hanging over my arm. I don't need to ask the still red-faced clerk where the dressing room is, I've been here before.
Her eyes burn against my back as I make my way to the far end of the store and step into the small booth, pulling the thick, polyester curtain shut behind me.
As I peel off my spent shirt, crusted blood sticks and pulls at my bandaged forearm.
Dropping it to the floor, the sound of a small gasp catches my attention.
Around the edges of the dressing room curtain, the shop girl is watching.
Her eyes rake up and down my torso, filled with awe and hunger.
I’m not a nice looking man. I'm hard and scarred with hardly an inch of me that isn’t tattooed.
Some women go for that, like her, if the way she's looking at me is anything to go by. Her attraction to me, the ravenous look on her face, makes my lip curl and a pit form deep in my gut. I don’t have time for this.
I don’t want her. I’m not enticed by her bottled-blonde hair, her pink, plastic fingernails, or her beige, suburban beauty.
Frankly, if she knew anything about me, she wouldn’t want me, either. If she knew there was a body in the trunk of my car right now, she’d run as far and fast as her skinny legs could take her.
I pull a black, button-up shirt over my broad shoulders and rip the tag from the sleeve. I can’t wear my old shirt out without drawing some attention, and with Barry still in my car, that’s not ideal. Throwing the remaining shirts over my arm, I push the curtain aside and head for the counter.
The hungry clerk seems to be putting in effort to make this transaction last a painfully long time, delicately folding and bagging my purchase, giving me my change along with a small piece of paper.
I unfold the paper to find her name and phone number scribbled on it.
I grab the change and drop the paper back on the counter.
I look up at her face, which is drawn with disappointment, before whirling around to leave the building.
A surge of white hot anger pumps through me, like fire. I fucking hate her desperation, her want for me. I find her interest intolerable, like her eyes on me should burn holes through my skin. She doesn't know who I am, what I am. She doesn’t know that I’m a broken thing, a monster.
As I step out onto the sidewalk, the cool air calms the fire inside me, pulling me back to myself.
It’s dark outside, but it’s city dark. Light pours from street lamps and shop windows, setting the streets ablaze.
The familiar buzz of the city hums around me, dazing me as I make my way down the sidewalk toward the parking garage.
About a block in, something stops me. Through the window of a coffee shop, I catch sight of a woman.
If I had a heart, I think it would have stopped at that moment.
Her hair is the color of earth after rain.
It flows by her face, the silken waves stopping just above her collarbones.
Her orange sweater is pulled low below her shoulders, revealing milky, pale skin that gleams under the shop’s harsh fluorescent bulbs.
She looks like a sunrise, like the place where warm earth and cool skies meet.
The curve of her full hips press tightly against her jeans, while her short heel boots lift her perfectly round ass.
I watch as she shifts impatiently and her delicate fingers fidget with the straps of her purse.
Behind the small cafe tables that line the perimeter of the shop, hang large window-shaped mirrors, giving me the perfect view of her face from multiple angles.
She’s fucking gorgeous. Her wide, moss-green eyes shine sweetly amid her perfectly round face.
Her lips sit full and pink below her narrow nose.
There’s a quiet seductiveness about her.
She’s beautiful, but I doubt that she knows it.
There’s something sad about her, too. Something that lingers behind her eyes that calls to me.
It feels like it’s asking, are you broken, too?
My spine tingles; I need to get closer to her.
I slip into the shop through the partially opened door, careful not to make any noise that would draw her attention.
My shoulders tense as I step into the line, directly behind her, keenly aware that my body is only inches from hers.
Fuck, she smells like strawberries. Does she taste as sweet?
The thought sends lightning through my veins straight to my cock.
“A pumpkin spice latte, please.” Her feathery voice is suddenly the only thing I can hear amongst the sounds of the busy shop. She fumbles clumsily through her purse for a moment. The sight of her credit card appearing in her hand thrills me. She’s making it so easy for me to find out who she is.
Without pause, I wave my hand forward just enough to bump her elbow, and we watch as the card falls to the floor.
She has no time to retrieve it, it’s already in my hand.
Her eyes go round as I straighten myself, towering over her small frame.
Holding it out for her, I read the name embossed across the front:
Ava Moore.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, staring directly ahead at my chest. She’s shy.
Fuck, I love it when they’re shy. The smile forming on my face is unavoidable.
After she pays, I order the quickest thing on the menu—a black coffee.
The barista hands me the small travel cup just as my new interest walks out the front door.
I trail behind her, leaving enough space to not draw her attention, but not enough to lose sight of her.
She's anxious now, walking in the dark. The sound of her heels clacking quicken as she moves further from the busy storefronts.
She clutches her purse tightly under her armpit and glances warily at men who walk past. She doesn't know it, but she doesn't need to worry about them. I won't let anyone touch her.
After a few minutes, she turns off the sidewalk and enters the parking garage.
It's a convenient coincidence that we're parked in the same place.
She pauses at the entrance of the stairwell, eyeing the near-vacant lot cautiously before walking up the stairs.
I watch her plump ass swing from side to side as she moves, her heels slowing her considerably.
Slowly and quietly, I ascend the staircase behind her.
When she reaches the second floor landing, she looks around anxiously as she continuously presses the button on her key fob.
It’s not until a familiar beep sounds and headlights flash that she moves.
Shit, she doesn’t even know where she parked her car.
Why do I find her absentmindedness so enthralling?
I watch from the dark corner of the lot as she gets into an unremarkable, dark blue Honda Civic.
The few minutes before she pulls away gives me ample time to memorize her license plate.
I’ll come find you later, Ava. For now, I have to deal with the corpse that’s waiting in my trunk.