Page 17 of Stalk Me

"And what story do you think I'm telling?" The words come out more vulnerable than I intended, and I immediately want to take them back.

Erik is quiet for a long moment, picking his way carefully over some exposed roots. "I think," he says finally, "that you're telling whatever story keeps people from looking too closely at the real one."

The observation hits too close to home, making my chest tight. I focus on my footing instead of responding, grateful when the path starts to slope upward more steeply. The physical exertion gives me an excuse for my quickened breathing. By the time the trail levels off, I'm surprised to see the main campus at our backs, a sea of ivy-covered buildings framed by the setting sun. Beyond that, the ocean stretches to the horizon in shades of blue and gold.

Erik takes us down a rougher trail, making us climb even higher. We do it in silence; the only sounds are coming from our footsteps and the distant crash of waves. The path gets rockier, requiring more attention to navigate. Erik occasionally reaches back to offer me a hand over particularly tricky spots, but he doesn't push when I ignore the help.

"We're almost there," he promises after I've slipped for the third time. "Just a little farther."

"If I die out here, I'm going to kill you," I mutter, steadying myself on an exposed tree root.

"Noted." He goes up a patch of rock. The path suddenly opens up onto a cliff with a view of the sea that takes my breath away. The ocean and sky are blue all the way to the horizon, and waves are crashing against rough rocks far below. The late afternoon sun turns the water to liquid gold, and a strong breeze carries the scent of salt and freedom.

Erik gestures toward the ground. A flat, smooth expanse of stone is set just above the rest of the precipice, protected by a small wall of rocks and scrubby bushes. "Care to join me for a picnic?" He sits down, letting his long legs hang over the edge, and opens his bag to find a bottle of wine and several appetizer plates inside.

"Are you kidding me?" I groan, taking a seat beside him.

"What?" He takes the bottle and uncorks it with practiced ease. "Too much effort?"

"No." I snatch the bottle from him and take a long sip. "My fucking heel got caught, that's all."

He grabs the wine from my hands and takes a drink. "A terrible predicament."

"I didn't know you were capable of sarcasm." I eye him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

"I didn't know the great Luna Queen couldn't handle a hike." He gives me a grin. "Yet here we are."

"Oh, I can handle anything." My words come out husky and breathless.

His smile deepens, eyes glittering in the last of the sunlight. "It's impressive, right? The view, I mean. I found this spot during my first week here. It's become my favorite escape."

I move toward the end of the cliff and let my toes hang over the edge. The height makes me feel dizzy and excited. "It would be so easy," I murmur, more to myself than him. "Just one step."

"Luna." His voice is sharp, closer than I expected. "Step back."

"Relax." I roll my eyes but take a small step away from the edge. "I'm not actually going to jump. I just like knowing I could."

"That's not as comforting as you think it is." He sits back on a relatively flat patch of ground and starts laying out the rest of the food, including my sandwich. "Sit. Eat something that isn't vodka and regret for once."

The comment startles a genuine laugh out of me. I sink onto the blanket, accepting the plastic wineglass he offers. "Speaking from experience?"

"You could say that." He pours the wine with practiced ease, then settles back on his elbows. "Let's just say you're not the only one who came to Shark Bay with baggage. We're all here for a reason."

"Oh?" I take a sip of wine—it's good, probably worth more than most people's weekly grocery budget. "Do tell. What dark secrets is Erik Stone hiding?"

He tears off a piece of bread, considering. "How about a trade? Story for story?"

I narrow my eyes. "That depends on the story."

"Nothing too heavy." He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Let's start small. Why'd you really come to Shark Bay?"

"You know why. I'm out of control, remember?" I try to keep my tone light, but something must show on my face because his expression softens.

"That's the official story," he says. "I'm more interested in the real one."

I take another sip of wine to buy time, studying him over the rim of my glass. The setting sun paints his profile in gold, softening the sharp edges. He looks almost vulnerable like this, and it makes something in my chest twist painfully.

"I, well…" I struggle to find the right words. How could I make him understand that it's not my fault I'm out of control? That my life is spiraling dangerously out of control despite my best efforts.

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