Chapter One
Austin
I t's ironic, really. None of the crazy shit that I've done in my life has prepared me for this moment.
In my arrogance—or perhaps naivety—I don't see this coming.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The day starts like many life-changing days: a little off.
I wake up as furious as I was yesterday and the day before that, if I'm being honest. And as if trying to mock my internal struggle, Seattle blazes with a burst of glorious sunshine so unfamiliar to the typical cloud coverage that it just pisses me off even more.
Truthfully, I could do with a gray day and a light drizzle that clings to my clothes for hours, but the universe chooses otherwise.
For many, it would be a lucky day. However, my foul mood singes, seeping through my fingertips, so everything I touch bears the brunt of my frustration.
The stomach acid burning its way up my throat for the last few days has been attempting to spray out like venom, and I know just the person I want to aim at.
But then, like a cruel trick, I realize why the sun has been shining, the universe’s pathetic fallacy incarnate.
Olivia Daniels sways over to me, smiling—no, beaming down at me—as I dribble god-awful coffee from my gaping mouth.
Not the image I want her to keep. As I dab the coffee stain on my shirt, the girl I’ve been watching for two long, long years asks me for help, and of course, I don’t suspect her.
This must be why the sun is shining. The universe is providing me with a perfect backdrop for my fantasy coming to life. One door closes, and another one opens, if you believe in that kind of thing.
So now that I’m handed a cloth with the sickly, sweet smell of chloroform and instructed to hold it to my mouth, I pause and wonder how I could have been so stupid.
You know those docuseries that women seem to be fascinated with? The ones with the serial killers? And despite women being their primary victims, they can’t seem to stop watching with some morbid fascination. They’re the shows that are as much a warning as they are informative.
Watch out, these bad men will get you, and you’ll let them. Because before you know you’re in any real danger, it’ll be too late. You’re trapped, caught, snared .
This is that moment.
Except, I’m not a damsel in distress. I am a six-foot-four man, lift weights four times a week, and have the muscle memory of a man who used to do terrible things.
The onus on used to do terrible things. I’m a good boy now.
And being good when you’re so used to being bad is tricky.
If you start letting the bad in certain aspects of your life, it becomes very easy to justify it in others.
So, despite being a good-looking boy, I’ve never made a move on Olivia Daniels.
Although, even if I had, it wouldn’t have worked on this goddess.
Up until her swaying hips this morning, she’s been completely uninterested in the likes of me.
Again, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m still confused about how I’m in this situation.
Still unsure of what it is I’m doing here.
All I can think is: do you know what doesn’t happen to six-foot-four ex-Enforcers?
They don’t get Ted Bundy’d. They don’t get outmaneuvered by women in crop tops and matching leggings with a fake sling.
There’s no warning for men. No warning against sweet eyes and full hips.
The worst we could come to expect is a honey trap and subsequently lighter wallet.
The former is not an issue for me, as good boys always wrap up.
And despite what you may have heard about me, I’ve always been good in that regard.
I’ve been out of the game for a few years with help from TV personality and therapist, Dr. Angel, real name Alfie Adams. He’s helped me overcome a lifetime of bad behavior inherited from my father.
Anyone else part of the Shit Dad Club? We’ve had a lot to unpack.
Of course, given his celebrity status and all-round panty-melting charm, you’d wonder how he got involved with the likes of me. But don’t worry, we’ll get to that.
For now, I really must focus on Olivia. She is attempting to chloroform me, after all.
Dr. Alfie has heard of her. Hell, we’ve talked for hours about her to the point he’s remarked on my unhealthy obsession.
When I tell him about this, I’m sure he’ll think I’ve had a complete breakdown of reality.
Dr. Alfie thinks I put her on a pedestal, and perhaps he’s right.
I’ve never believed that my future held a conversation with her.
She’s too good, too pure. And yet, it seems even in my wildest dreams, I didn’t imagine her being bad.
How the tables have turned, sweet Olivia.
Despite the buzz of excitement I feel at being the focus of her attention, it does leave me in somewhat of a predicament.
My first problem is a five-foot-six, blonde-haired pocket rocket who has successfully duped me into helping her to her car with the use of a fake sling and the promise of another smile that she’s denied me for the last few years.
Of course, I had been thinking with the wrong head, so I followed her, lapping up her attention and light giggles.
Yes, angel, find me funny.
Laugh at my jokes.
I’ll be the clown for you every day of the fucking week.
With the dribbled coffee on my shirt mostly dry, I held her books, helped her with the door, and held the luminous green matcha fucking whatever smoothie that she gets from this juice bar three times a week.
My heart thumped so hard that I felt it against my ribs.
I was uncharacteristically quiet, waiting for her to make the next move.
Not once has she spoken to me before. Most times we see each other, she purposely avoids any kind of interaction.
On days I am graced with eye contact, it is accompanied by scowls, eye rolls, and a click of her tongue that I could find a much better use for.
I’ve tried to work it out for months, but finding nothing online to connect us, I accepted that all I would ever receive from her was a look of disgust, or worse, indifference .
But this morning, she looked nervous as she approached my table.
Like she was deciding whether she could make a move or not.
Like she is finally tired of waiting, and for the dumbest second of my life, I thought maybe that is why she's been so angry.
Because she feels like I've snubbed her.
Maybe I've read her wrong this whole time, and really, she is annoyed that I haven't asked her out that first day I saw her like I'd wanted to.
She struggled up from the wingback chair at the window where she always sits on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Her Kindle hooked on her little finger as her thumb brushed over the screen at the rate of a professional speed reader.
She isn’t her usual put-together self this morning. Her hair is thrown up into a loose bun, her usual styled braids or sleek ponytail nowhere to be seen. And I assumed it was the injury to her arm that’s caused her dishevelment. A sling wrapping her left hand protectively.
And standing here now, it reminds me of a conversation with Dr. Alfie about lessons I’ve learned from my father. The most prominent being those who assume are those who are unprepared. And in our world, those who are unprepared best be ready to die.
Yeah, Alfie’s signature eye roll had suggested he didn’t like that lesson. Although it seems to fit this situation to a tee.
She stumbled and giggled as she attempted to carry her things.
I instinctively reached to help her, fully expecting to be swatted away.
But I was graced with pearly whites and a nervous chuckle.
My raised eyebrows must have shown my surprise because her gaze softened as she looked down at me.
Only a small bite of her lower lip gave any indication of nerves, and in my arrogance, I put that down to her wanting to ask me out.
I had never been so close to her. From a distance, she has seemed so ethereal.
Whenever she leaned forward to pick up her juice from the low coffee table, never taking her eyes off the book she was reading, the light from the window created a soft glow around her.
She looked angelic, otherworldly. But up close today, I could see a splattering of freckles.
Her usual perfect makeup is rushed, and a small fleck of mascara sits on her cheek.
If I had really thought about it, I would have known something was wrong.
Especially since I’ve seen the video she posted yesterday where her arm was fine.
Sure she could have filmed it weeks ago and spent time editing.
But I know she’s only just cut her hair like this since Wednesday.
Yes...I’m that guy. But I’m not a stalker.
I’m...an admirer. Our time together in this juice bar, horrendously named Squeeze the Day, is the highlight of my week.
A small respite to the otherwise debt-settling that I force myself to endure the remainder of my time.
A punishment, if you will, for who I used to be.
But in another way, this is a torture in itself.
So close to someone so perfect who hates me so vehemently for reasons seemingly unrelated to my past. I’ve been so bad in my past life that even the new me needs to be punished.
So when she stumbled to my table this morning, I thought for a second my debt had been paid. I’ve repented enough, suffered enough, and deprived myself for long enough that, finally, something good might happen.
“Such a gentleman.” She smiled warmly when I helped her pick up her things.
“Only when absolutely necessary,” I quipped and that’s when I saw it, her real smile. Not the poised ones from her fitness videos and not the polite ones she gives other patrons of Squeeze the Day. This one was real, and it was all for me .