25. Presley
Presley
By six thirty, Hollow Creek has been transformed into a Halloween paradise.
Festive lights glow from every storefront along the square, orange and purple strands wrapped around lampposts and stretched between buildings. Costumed families move along the sidewalks, and music drifts inside every time someone opens the door to The Crooked Spine.
Somewhere out there, my dog is having a better social life than I am.
I glance at the picture Gracie sent twenty minutes ago.
Penny is wearing her new orange sweater, black bats covering her tiny body, while Walter sits beside her in what appears to be a hot dog costume.
I zoom in, a laugh spilling out. “Oh my God.”
Margaret looks over from where she's shoving things into her purse. “What?”
“Walter's a wiener.”
She stares at me.
I turn my phone around.
Margaret snorts. “That's inappropriate.”
“He's a dachshund.”
“Still inappropriate.”
I laugh harder and send Gracie three heart emojis.
She immediately responds.
Gracie: Penny has already entered the costume contest.
I look at the picture again.
Me: She's wearing a sweater.
Gracie: DON'T CRUSH HER DREAMS.
I grin.
At least someone around here has her life together.
Mine currently involves two men.
Except I'm not actually involved with either of them.
One is terrifyingly attractive, reads dark romance, makes my ovaries behave like they're experiencing a medical emergency, and now has my phone number.
The other wears a mask, watches me through windows, follows me around town, and may or may not have left a present on my porch.
Completely normal.
I shove my phone into my back pocket.
Margaret pulls on her coat. “I'm heading to the bank, then I'm getting my oil changed before they close.”
I glance toward the front windows. “Tonight?”
“This appointment was the only one they had. I'll be back before eight.”
“You don't have to rush. I can close.”
She pauses and gives me a skeptical look.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Margaret.”
She points at me. “No getting locked in the storage room.”
“I did that already.”
“Once was more than enough.” She laughs. “You still avoid that room.”
“It's your homicidal door.”
“I'll get it fixed.”
“You've been saying that for seven years.”
“Exactly. Any day now.”
I laugh.
She reaches for the doorknob before turning around again. “And don't burn anything.”
“That was your suggestion!”
“I said a bush. Not the bookstore.”
“You and Gracie are terrible influences.”
Margaret wiggles her eyebrows. “That’s what makes us so fun.”
The bell jingles behind her, then she's gone.
I look around the bookstore. It’s quiet and warm. We were busy most of the day, but now, people seem to be enjoying the festivities outside. Screams and laughter filter inside.
I glance toward the front window. Nobody is there.
Of course, no one’s there.
The masked man has more sense than that with all these people around.
I haven't seen him since the alley.
Not that I’m looking for him.
I also haven't spent an unreasonable amount of time staring at the note that came with the package.
Even though there’s no signature, I know it has to be either Hades or the masked man.
Hades seems the likely suspect.
He knows Penny. And the book inside was the special edition I recommended.
The only problem?
Hades doesn't know where I live.
The masked man definitely knows where I live. He saw Penny the night he was standing outside my bedroom window. He may have seen her through the living room window as well.
But how the hell would he know which book I recommended to Hades?
Unless he was watching us at the bookstore. Which is entirely possible.
“Great.” I rub my temples. “I’m getting a headache. Back to not thinking about that.”
By seven fifteen, I've sold three books. Two were to the same woman.
It's not exactly a rush, given that most of Hollow Creek is outside enjoying Halloween Week, and I can't blame them.
I wander into the staff room and pour the last of the coffee into my mug. It's terrible, but I drink it anyway.
My phone sits on the table.
I stare at it.
Specifically, at one name.
Hades.
He hasn't texted me.
I haven't texted him.
Apparently, exchanging phone numbers was merely a ceremonial ritual where we have the other’s number but don’t contact each other.
I pick up my phone.
Put it down.
Pick it up again.
“This is pathetic.”
I click on his name, deciding to text him.
Hey.
No. All wrong.
Delete.
So I found another book for you.
That’s better.
Except that sounds like I'm trying to lure him here with pornography.
Which I kinda am.
A crash comes from somewhere beyond the staff room.
I freeze.
“What the hell?”
My ears strain, but everything’s silent.
I wait.
Nothing.
Maybe some books fell. We've already established books randomly throw themselves off shelves in this place. Apparently even the inventory is dramatic.
I slide my phone into my back pocket and step into the hallway.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I walk toward the front of the store. The music outside sounds strangely distant now.
The bookstore feels different. Too empty and quiet.
I pass the counter. Nothing seems disturbed.
Then I spot it.
A book lies face down in the middle of one of the aisles.
My stomach tightens.
“Lovely.” I stare at it. “This is how women die in horror movies.”
The book remains unimpressed.
I glance toward the front of the store.
Still empty.
“Margaret is going to blame me if someone steps on you.”
I walk down the aisle and crouch. My fingers close around the book.
I straighten, turn...
And scream.
He's standing by the front door in his signature black hoodie and jeans.
He stares at me from behind the bone-white mask. The black hollows around his eyes make them impossible to see from here, but I can feel his gaze slicing through me.
Every muscle in my body locks.
For one insane second, one thought crashes through the terror.
There you are.
Then my survival instincts finally show up for work.
I run.
My shoes slam against the wooden floor as I race toward the staff room.
His footsteps thud behind me, steady and even.
I don't look back.
I reach the end of the aisle and turn.
He's there.
I skid to a stop. “What the fuck?”
He doesn't move.
My lungs heave as the realization washes over me. He's blocking the hallway that leads to the staff room and the bathroom.
My pulse pounds so violently I can feel it in my throat.
“Who the hell are you?”
Why am I asking that?
His head tilts.
“What do you want from me?”
He remains silent.
I spin and run in the other direction.
The front door is ahead.
I can get outside. There are people everywhere.
I race between the shelves—and stop.
He's there again, standing between me and the door.
My breath catches.
How the hell did he—
My thoughts cut off as he steps closer.
“You're not fucking funny.”
His head tilts again.
“Oh my God. I hate when you do that.”
I back away.
He takes another step forward.
My gaze darts around the store.
He’s blocking the front door. The staff room is too far away.
Upstairs it is.
Even though I’ve only been up there once, maybe there’s another way out.
I turn and bolt for the staircase.
Behind me, his boots hit the floor.
I take the stairs two at a time. My hand grips the railing as I nearly stumble.
I reach the landing and look back.
He's halfway up the stairs.
His pace is steady and constant, one heavy step at a time. Like he already knows how this ends.
My stomach drops. “You fucking asshole.”
His head tilts.
Even from here, I swear he's smiling beneath that mask.
I turn and run.
Margaret’s office sits at the back. Used inventory fills several shelves, and beyond them is a cozy little reading area with two oversized chairs, an ancient loveseat, and a wide window overlooking the square.
The window.
People.
I race toward it.
Halloween Week glows beneath me. Orange and purple lights brighten the night. People in costumes roam around the streets. Halloween music blares from speakers running downtown. I see the dog festivities farther down the square.
Gracie is somewhere out there with Penny and Walter.
I reach for the window—
Right as an arm wraps around my waist.
A scream tears from my throat as I'm yanked backward.
My back slams into a hard chest.
“No!”
I drive my elbow behind me.
He grunts.
Good.
I do it again.
His arm tightens around me.
I stomp on his boot. “Let me go!”
He does.
The sudden freedom throws me off balance. His hands catch my upper arms before I fall, then release me again.
I spin around.
He's standing directly in front of me.
I stumble backward until my hips hit the edge of the window seat.
He remains still, staring at me.
My chest heaves.
His doesn't.
Bastard.
I stare at that horrible bone-white mask.
Then my gaze drops to the black clothing covering every inch of him. His hands hang loosely by his sides.
“You chased me.”
Silence.
“You blocked the doors.”
Nothing.
My brain catches up.
He could’ve grabbed me downstairs.
But he didn’t.
He could’ve stopped me before I reached the stairs.
He didn't.
Instead, he slowly followed.
My eyes narrow. “You wanted me to run.”
His head tilts.
“Oh my God.” I point at him. “You did.”
Nothing.
“You sick bastard.”
His shoulders move.
My mouth falls open. “Are you laughing at me?”
They shake a little harder.
“You are!”
A distorted sound comes through the device beneath the mask. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
“You're an asshole.”
He takes one step toward me.
My anger disappears.
Shit. Not a good idea to call a hulking masked man names.
Heat replaces it as he gets closer.
I hate it.
I hate it even more when I realize I'm not moving.
He takes another step.
My pulse races, just like before. Except now I know fear isn't the only thing causing it.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tip my head back.
Close enough that I catch something beneath the autumn air clinging to his clothes.
Cedar.
Smoke.
Something clean.
My brow furrows.
I've smelled that before.
Haven't I?
He shifts closer, and the thought disappears beneath the sudden inability to breathe.
I stare into the dark hollows surrounding his eyes.
“You scare the shit out of me.”
His distorted voice comes out quietly. “I know.”
A shiver rolls down my spine.
But it’s not fear.
Not this time.
Fuck.
I swallow hard. “You like scaring me.”
His head tilts.
My heart pounds harder. “You're seriously fucked up.”
“I know.”
My lips part. That's the most he's ever said to me. Granted, it's four words spread across two answers, but we're making progress.
“Why me?”
He doesn't answer.
“Why are you watching me?”
Nothing.
“Were you the one who left the package?”
He goes still.
My pulse jumps. “That was you?”
No answer.
“But how did you know about the book?”
Nothing.
“Hades is the only person I recommended it to.”
Still nothing.
Something flickers through my mind.
Smoky eyes.
Cedar.
Smoke.
A deep voice telling me I've got you.
I stare at the mask.
No. That's ridiculous.
Hades doesn't know where I live.
I shake the thought away. “You're driving me fucking insane.”
“Yes.”
I gape at him. “You're enjoying this?”
He doesn't answer.
He doesn't have to.
The bastard is probably grinning beneath that mask.
I should move. There are people right outside. All I have to do is get to the window and scream. Pound on the glass. Do something.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am.
His hand rises.
I flinch.
He immediately stops. His hand remains suspended between us. Waiting.
My breath catches.
He doesn't move again.
Slowly, I relax.
His hand continues toward me.
One gloved finger brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek.
My entire body lights up.
Oh.
Oh, this is bad.
He could grab me, pin me, and do whatever he wants.
Instead, his hand falls back to his side.
I stare at him.
Then, before my brain can stop me, I lift my hand.
His entire body goes still.
My fingertips touch the mask. It’s cold. Hard. I trace the weathered edge along his cheek.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't even seem to breathe.
“What are you hiding?”
He doesn’t speak.
My fingers slide toward the bottom edge.
His hand closes around my wrist, stopping me.
My eyes lift to his. “You won't let me see you.”
His thumb moves once against the inside of my wrist.
My pulse jumps beneath it.
He feels it. I know he does.
His head dips.
The mask comes closer.
My breathing turns shallow.
I should pull my hand away.
But I don't.
I should tell him to back up.
I don't do that either.
Outside, someone laughs. Music drifts up from the square. Dozens of people are right there.
And I'm standing in a darkened bookstore, letting a masked man hold my wrist while I touch his face.
I need therapy.
So much fucking therapy.
He releases me.
My hand remains against the mask.
His head turns slightly into my palm.
Fuck.
Something low in my stomach clenches.
Fear isn't the only thing I feel. Not even close.
And he knows it.
I see it in the way his body changes. The slight shift closer. The tension rolling through him.
His hand slowly settles on my waist, giving me every opportunity to stop him.
I don't.
Instead, my fingers curl against the side of his mask.
His other hand finds the window seat beside my hip, caging me in.
His masked face lowers toward mine.
My heart nearly stops.
Is he going to kiss me?
How the hell would that even work?
More importantly, why am I not stopping him?
The realization hits me so hard my stomach drops.
I want him to.
Oh my God.
I want my stalker to kiss me.
His face stops inches from mine.
I can feel his breath escaping beneath the mask.
My lips part.
His thumb presses lightly into my waist.
Then he steps away.
Cold air rushes into the space between us.
I blink.
What?
He takes another step backward.
My body immediately protests.
And apparently my mouth has severed all communication with my brain.
“That's it?”
He freezes.
Oh. Fuck.
Why did I say that?
He stares at me.
I want the floor to open and swallow me. “Forget I said that.”
He takes a step closer.
“Nope. We're done here.” I point toward the stairs. “You can go stalk someone else now.”
He doesn't move.
“Go.”
Nothing.
I fold my arms.
His distorted voice finally breaks the silence. “What were you expecting?”
My vagina immediately resigns from active duty.
I stare at him. “I—”
Can’t find the words.
Apparently my entire vocabulary has abandoned me.
His head tilts.
“Stop doing that.”
His shoulders move again.
“Stop laughing at me!”
He stops and just stares at me.
I drop my arms. “Was the package from you?”
He doesn’t say a word.
“Just tell me that.”
Nothing.
“Please?”
He stares at me for another long second.
“You are infuriating!”
He chuckles. A low, dark chuckle that makes my legs shake and my panties damp.
He moves closer, his hand closing around my neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just shows me who’s in control.
Newsflash: it’s not me.
Before I can process what he’s doing, he spins me around so I’m staring out the window.
“Don’t say another word.”
I hear him shifting behind me, and then a blindfold covers my eyes.
He makes a tsking sound.
Then his distorted voice is beside my ear.
“We aren’t done, Presley. Not even close.”