Page 7 of Can't Stop Watching
"I can handle myself," she says, and I believe her.
I watch her for a moment, standing there under the flickering streetlight. She looks small, but there's steel in her spine. Reminds me of some of the toughest soldiers I knew, the ones who'd seen too much, too young.
"Fair enough," I say, putting the Charger in drive. "Stay safe, Lila."
As I pull away, I can't help but glance in the rearview. She's still there, arms wrapped tight around herself, eyes scanning the street.
I tell myself I'm going home, but who the hell am I kidding? I can't take my eyes off her. Something about Lila's got me hooked, and I'm not talking about her looks, though those green eyes could make a man do stupid things.
I circle the block, parking where I can see her without being obvious. Her Uber pulls up, and I watch her slide into the backseat. The car takes off, and I follow at a discreet distance. Just making sure she gets home safe, right? Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Wolfe.
This city's a goddamn labyrinth at night. Neon signs bleed into the darkness, casting shadows that could hide a thousand sins. I've seen what lurks in those shadows. Hell, I've been what lurks in those shadows.
The Uber winds through the streets, and I trail behind like a phantom. Part of me knows this is crossing a line. I'm not her guardian angel, and she's not some damsel in distress. But another part—the part that's seen too much shit to ever truly sleep easy—can't let it go.
Finally, the car stops in front of a run-down apartment building. Lila steps out, and I feel a twinge of... something. Relief? Disappointment that the ride's over? Fuck if I know.
She looks around before heading inside, that same wariness I noticed earlier. Smart. In this city, paranoia isn't a mental illness, it's a survival skill.
I sit there long after she's gone inside, engine idling, lost in thought. What's her story? What put that look in her eyes, like she's always waiting for the other shoe to drop? It's a look I know too well.
I know I should leave. Hell, every instinct honed from years in the Corps, as a PI, as a fucking man is screaming at me to get out of here. But there's something about Lila I can't shake off.
Which apartment is hers? Does she live alone? Questions I have no business asking, but here I am, a moth drawn to a flame that wasn't lit for me.
I slip out of the Charger, moving like a shadow. Years of training make it second nature. The door's locked, of course. I wait in the darkness, patient as a sniper on overwatch.
It doesn't take long. Some bleary-eyed guy walks up and punches in a code. I time it perfectly, catching the door just before it closes. Smooth as silk, quiet as death. Unnoticed.
The lobby's all peeling paint and flickering fluorescents. Reminds me of some shitholes I've seen overseas. At least there's no smell of cordite here. The row of mailboxes catches my eye. Shiny brass, out of place in this dump. I scan the names, muscle memory from countless stakeouts kicking in. There it is: "L. Marks, 5A." Bingo. Only L in the bunch. Must be her.
Top floor.
I take the stairs two at a time, quiet as a ghost. Old habits die hard, and some part of me is still that Marine on patrol, listening for tripwires in the dark. But here, it's just the creak of worn wood and the distant thrum of the city outside. A different kind of warzone, with its own kind of landmines.
Moving slowly down the hall when I reach her floor, I listen. No TV sounds, no voices. Just the hum of the city outside and the whisper of my own guilty conscience.
What the fuck am I doing here? This isn't me. I don't stalk women home from bars. I'm not some creep with a hard-on for playing hero.
But that look in her eyes... I just can't unsee it.
I reach 5A and pause. It's the first apartment on the right corner of the building. There's a faint glow under the door. I lean in, ear almost touching the wood.
Silence.
Then, so soft I almost miss it, a sniffle. The kind of sound someone makes when they're trying real hard not to cry.
Shit.
I back away, feeling like the worst kind of asshole. This isn't right. Whatever Lila's story is, it's not mine to uncover. Not like this.
I head back downstairs, moving fast now. Guilt's nipping at my heels like stray bullets.
Outside, the night air hits me like a slap. Good. I deserve worse.
Back in the Charger, I sit for a long moment, staring at nothing. What the hell is wrong with me? Playing white knight for a woman I just met? Or am I just looking for a distraction from my own fucked-up life?
I start the engine, the low rumble matching my mood. As I pull away, I can't help but look back at her building one last time.
