Page 22 of Rules

Noisy, wide, bright streets slowly narrow down, growing darker and quieter as we move. Lights are dimmer, placed further apart. People here hang out in smaller crowds, all looking around wearily.

Buildings are rundown. What were once stores are either closed or in such bad condition they should be. Houses are smaller, built so close you can probably peek in your neighbor’s living room if you look through the window. Yards neglected.

I swallow hard, feeling out of place. And although it doesn’t change a thing, I understand why Brook didn’t want me to bring her home.

Even though my clothes are neutral—black jeans and shirt, leather jacket and Doc Martens—I stand out. My black Ducati wouldn’t help much to blend in. Not on the streets where rusty, fifteen-plus-year-old beatdown cars predominate.

Finally, after more than half an hour walking, Brook stops in front of a building. Just another one in a row of once-upon-a-time white that is now a gray building with color peeling down. Balcony railings are rusted, and I’m sure I can see more than a couple of broken windows repaired with duct tape.

She tilts her head to the side, and I take a moment to get my fill. The mass of light brown hair pulled in a high ponytail with bangs covering her forehead. Slightly wavy and natural with a few strands falling out and cupping her oblong face. Her green eyes are deep set, surrounded by thick, dark eyelashes. Her skin is pale, and there is a dust of barely visible freckles covering her nose and cheeks. And then there are her lips, pouty and pink. Lips that beg to be kissed.

Devoured.

Whatever she wanted to do or say, she thinks better of it. Turning her back to me, she walks into the building without a word.

Leaning against the nearby tree, I wait for a while to see if maybe she comes back, but when she doesn’t, I call it a night and go back.

Through the narrow, dark streets with creepy people lingering, I walk back into the light of what I know.

Away from Brook’s world and back into mine.

But even though I’m away, I can’t stop thinking, can’t stop wondering…

How does she do it?

How does she survive treading on the line between darkness and light and still stay sane?

Chapter Eight

BROOK

NOW

My heart beats faster inside my chest, my skin tingling in awareness, as I walk down the quiet, dark roads, my head burrowed in the thick wool scarf around my neck.

He’s following me. Again. I’ve known it for a while but haven’t done anything to address it. Haven’t shown in any way that I know.

I probably should have done something as soon as I realized what he was doing, but I guess I’m a sucker for punishment.

I’m not even sure how long he’s been doing it. Since the beginning? I knew it was a bad idea to let him follow me home after we finished our first study session, but it was either that or let him drive me—I’m not fooling myself into thinking I ever stood a chance to go home by myself. When Max puts something into that thick head of his, he sticks with it—and at the time, having him follow behind me seemed like the lesser of two evils. Right now though? I’m not so sure.

Then, one night when I was getting back home from work, I felt somebody watching me. It’s a strange sensation, just a prickle of awareness at the base of your neck. So I started paying more attention to my surroundings while trying to seem as unfazed as possible so as not to give it away. When you live in my part of town, you get used to keeping all your senses open. Always looking over your shoulder, but careful enough so that other people don’t notice you doing it.

He was good; I’ll give him that. It took me a while to realize it was him, but when I did, I was furious. I was so close to turning around and letting him know what I thought of him and his stalker ways, but at the last moment, I changed my mind. I wanted to see how long he’d pull it off.

And now, weeks later, here we are.

I thought he’d give it up by now. That he’d get me home safely a few times and placate his hero complex or whatever the hell he needed to placate and then he’d stop doing it. Obviously, I underestimated him because he still follows me. And lately more than usual.

Slowing my steps as I near my building, I debate on what to do. I couldn’t continue this way, not after everything that has happened. That’s one of the main reasons I stay away in school, keeping to the library or art studio when I’m not in class. I can’t be next to him.

Yet, here I am.

Letting him follow me. Pretending I don’t know so I can have at least one tiny part of him for myself.

Glutton for punishment, that’s what I am.

But there is only so much one can take before it all becomes too much.

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