Page 15 of Can't Stop Watching
I finish washing up mechanically, mind already circling back to Langford, to his hidden apartment, to the way predators hide in plain sight. To how easily obsession wears different masks.
Sleep will be a long time coming tonight. It always is.
6
LILA
Monday night at The Old Haunt, and I'm wiping down the same spot for the third time. My eyes drift to the corner—his corner—empty again tonight. Two days since Dane let my carefully caged memories loose.
I shouldn't be looking. Shouldn't be counting the nights. Shouldn't feel this odd twist in my stomach—part relief, part disappointment—when that dark corner stays empty. I don't even know the guy!
"You planning to polish a hole through that wood?" Joey asks, limping past with a crate of Heineken.
"Just thorough," I mutter, moving down the bar.
A lie. I'm distracted, and distracted gets you hurt. That's the lesson New Orleans taught me. Mr. Colton started with lingering glances too, with that intensity that made me feel special until it made me feel trapped. Dane could be the same. And even if he's not, intense men… they're fire. Beautiful from a distance, devastating up close. Not for me.
"Manhattan, straight up," calls the businessman at the end of the bar.
I mix his drink, present it with a practiced smile that doesn't reach my eyes. My professor would call it performative authenticity—playing a role that feels true enough to pass. It's what I do best now.
The night crawls on. Monday means finance bros and exhausted grad students. It means good tips if I laugh at the right jokes, terrible ones if I don't. And It means watching the door even when I tell myself not to.
What would I even say if he came back? "Thanks for the violence"? "Sorry I ran"?
My hand rises unconsciously to my ear cuff, fingers fidgeting with the metal curve.
"Another round for that table," Joey points to the NYU law students in the corner—Dane's corner.
I grab bottles, pour shots, deliver them with a quiet efficiency that earns a decent tip. They're safe, these boys with their textbooks and trust funds. Predictable. Unlike ex-Marines with storm-gray eyes and secrets etched into their literal and metaphorical scars.
I turn back toward the counter and freeze. He's there—just sitting at the bar like he materialized from my thoughts. Dane, perched on a stool, those eyes locked on me.
My skin flushes hot from neck to hairline, heart doing a ridiculous stutter-step. Great. Just perfect. My body's decided to throw a welcome party while my brain's screaming evacuation orders.
"Hey," he says, voice gravel-rough. Just one syllable, but it lands with weight.
"Hey yourself," I manage, proud when my voice doesn't betray me as I make my way behind the counter. "Whiskey?"
He nods, watching me with that unnerving focus. Like I'm being lined up in crosshairs.
The glass clinks against the bar top as I slide it over. "Didn't think you'd be back."
"Had a case." His fingers brush mine as he takes the drink, sending another unwelcome wave of heat through me.
"A case? You a lawyer?"
"Private detective." He shakes his head once, muscle ticking in his sharp jaw.
So masculine!
Danger, danger, danger—my internal alarm blares while my pulse decides to go joyriding.
This is how it started with Mr. Colton too. That flutter, that electricity. Mistaking predatory focus for genuine interest. The way he made me feel special, seen, until I realized I was just being hunted. Is that what Dane is doing?
"On the house." I nod at his whiskey. "For the other night."
"Not necessary."
