Page 3 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

The light is still red, and now there's a larger crowd waiting at the curb now. My gaze wanders and I'm not trying to think about anything, only exist in the present moment so my mind stops spiraling out of control. My eyes pause on a bald man at the edge of the crowd. He's wearing a plain blue t-shirt. The late summer heat has caused beads of sweat to gather above his brows. My first thought is about how sweaty he is, then I realize he's staring in my direction. I really don't want to have another freak out, so I wait a few seconds, expecting him to look away.

He doesn't; he's staring at me. This time, I'm sure of it.

I squeeze my eyes shut.Or I'm imagining this.

I'm losing my mind.

Is this real or am I extra paranoid today?

I need to stop being so damn triggered.

When I open my eyes, the man is still there, at the edge of a sea of bland business suits. Staring. At. Me.

It's best not to take chances in this cruel world.

I don't wait for the light to fully change before launching myself into the street. As soon as it's yellow, I dash into the crosswalk, getting plenty of honks from cars that almost hit me. When I'm safely on the other side, I pause to glance around again as I catch my breath.

The man is staring at me from across the street. The light changes to green and the crowd starts to move. But not the bald guy. He's motionless in a wave of undulating bodies. His hands are stuffed in his jean pockets. His dark eyes are locked on me.

I turn, scanning for the subway entrance but it's too far away. I need a quicker escape. Maybe the guy in the coffee shop was an imagined threat, but something about this one feels real.

I swallow hard and back away. He starts to move toward me with determined steps, piercing me with a clouded gaze.

A bus nearby is about to leave, so I race to catch the doors before they close. It's going in the opposite direction of my office building, but it's my quickest escape.

After launching myself up the bus steps, I check my wallet, remembering I used my emergency bus pass last week when I was craving sushi for lunch and didn't want to walk. How could I have forgotten to buy a new one?

Always have an emergency single-ride ticket.

The female bus driver with frizzy hair frowns at me, looking like she's ready to scream because she's sick of all the people wanting free rides.

"I'm sorry," I say, my throat tight around each word. My body is trembling. "I-I'm sorry. A man was chasing me, and I just needed to get on. I don't have a pass. I'm sorry."

Her tense expression relaxes as she studies me. I try to steady my shaking hands by pressing them into my stomach, but they keep quivering like it's winter and I forgot my gloves.

The bus driver's eyes meet mine, gentle now, and an understanding between women passes between us. "Okay, honey. Sit up front with me. You need me to call someone?"

I exhale. "No, but thank you." I sit in the empty seat directly behind her. "Thank you."

After closing the doors, she eases the bus into traffic. I catch sight of the man outside and he wanders to a food truck that's next to where I just was. He was probably looking at the truck this whole time, right? Not looking atme.

I try to convince myself it was all an illusion because I'm safe. For now, again, I'm safe. I focus on what I can see outside the window. Objects. Sensory details. I try not to let the tears flow too steadily, let the flashbacks swallow me.

The memories have been quiet for a while now, months, but bits and pieces are edging in. Flashes of a man from six years ago, a man with inky black hair and dark eyes. Attractive. Fixated on me.

Dangerous.

Chapter 2

SEAN

THIS GALLERY IS PACKED WITH San Francisco art types, and I stick out like a tactical vest at a poetry reading. I've been weaving through the space for twenty minutes, strategically avoiding Sienna and Declan as they wander around with the kind of reverent expressions usually reserved for religious experiences.

Don't think I have an eye for art. Only literature.

Let's see… Three exits. Forty-seven people so far. One security guard at the front who wouldn't know a real threat if it introduced itself with a business card. But I don't think Sienna's art show is an especially high-risk event.

My mind catalogues everything anyway: unconscious habit.

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