Page 4 of Marked By my Stalker
My fists curl at the idea, but I stay steady a moment longer, watching Kera closely as she fake laughs at another terriblejoke. The boy turns toward her, his voice low as he whispers something in her ear.
She doesn’t laugh this time. She just nods slowly and deliberately, like the wind has been taken out of her sails.
My hand tightens around the beer bottle.
I hate this fucking kid. I really fucking hate him. Who the fuck does he think he is? He should’ve smiled at her, pulled her in, whispered something that made a tickle go up her spine, but he doesn’t have the capacity.
Kera turns her head just a fraction, barely noticeable. Her gaze sweeps the room, skimming past the noise, past everyone else, and lands on me.
It’s fast, barely a second, but I catch it, and my chest tightens. Not because she sees me. Hell, I expect to be seen. My size isn’t subtle, but it’s the way she does it, like she knows I’m built for whatever’s coming, like a part of her needs me.
It’s been a while since anyone’s needed me for more than a job.
The noise in the room fades to static, and everything slows. I feel it then, something shifting. Not in her,butin me.Something that feels like more than protection. Something feral and selfish. Something primal, deep, and illogical.
Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure the mission just changed.
Chapter Three
Kera
I drag in a deep breath and exhale hard. The air is thick with someone’s vanilla body spray and warm sweat. It’s nauseating, and I’m reminded why I hate parties.
Not really sure how I feel about Brick either. I know I’m supposed to like guys like him. He’s all sharp angles and sleepless eyes, like one of those vampires from that movie back in the day. The one where they sparkle. He remembers to say please and thank you, he smiles at everyone, and he’d drop everything he’s doing to help someone in need. On paper, the guy is great.
In reality, I feel hollow around him, like he’s sucked every drop of blood in my system. When people are watching, he says all the right things, but when it’s just us, there’s a subtle shift. He whispers backwards compliments and watches women dance online. And still, I laugh when he jokes, I nod when he talks, I ignore the stupid things he says… because it’s easier than trying to understand myself.
‘You’ve got something in your teeth.’It’s what he whispered to me before I ran off to the bathroom embarrassed.
It must have come off on my way here, because my teeth are fine as I look in the mirror. I drag in a deep breath and let it out slowly as I fix my hair and attempt another swipe at the eyeliner I’m not so great at applying.
It’s useless.My eyes are puffy, and I should probably just go home. I’ve got two exams tomorrow, and I could use a refresher before I head to bed. Math has always been a tough subject for me. I mean, word problems. Like, why did Mary haul forty buckets up a hill by herself, anyway? Where’s Paul? What’s he doing? Is he just watching from a lawn chair with iced tea?
I swing open the bathroom door, the sound of some horrid rock band playing in the background. I’m not sure who picks the music around here, but this is bad. Really, really bad. Penny was smart to skip tonight for a nap. I sort of wish I was already tucked in with the light off as well.
I’ve only taken a few steps when I slam right into a wall of thick, rough muscle. Muscle that smells like Christmas back home in Nebraska.
It’s disarming, familiar, and for some reason, a chill rushes through my entire body. I step back quickly, but not quick enough to hide the way my breath catches.
It’s the closest I’ve been to my stalker since my mother hired him. I wonder if he’s embarrassed that he’s given up his position.
“Wow,” my eyes widen, “you’re not as good at hiding tonight. Everything okay, or did my mom pay you an extra twenty to follow me into the ladies’ room?”
He doesn’t step back. He doesn’t smile. He just watches me like he’s debating how much to say.
“You alright?” His voice is very low and graveled.
I glance toward him and push away the thoughts about him being hot. He’s not hot! He’s built, and he clearly takes care of his body. That’s all! That doesn’t make him hot. He’s old. Old, built, and covered in tattoos, but definitely not hot.
I tilt my head to the side in defiance. “If I wasn’t, what would you do about it?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. No smirk, no overcorrection, just a beat of quiet sparks behind his eyes like he’s making decisions silently or maybe holding himself back. I can’t tell. The man is unreadable.
“I’d handle it,” he says, low and clear.
I straighten up. I’m not sure if it’s defiance or curiosity pulling at my spine, but I hold his stare longer than I should, noticing how dark and stormy his eyes are, how broad his shoulders are, and how thick his biceps must be to show so clearly through his shirt.
Okay, he’s hot! Can we stop with the lies, girl?
