Page 36 of Killer Confections
Oh, fuck me. Now is not the time and place to think my stalker is sexy. I can’t even see the bottom half of his face! Get your mind out of the gutter, Loxley!
There’s a long pause in the air, ocean eyes roaming over me in a far too sensual caress. Something about them seems so familiar to me, yet utterly unnerving. My pulse is pounding in my ears, blood rushing and my whole body feeling as if it’s buzzing and charged.
I swallow, my throat feeling thick. “Who are you?” My voice cracks, the whisper piercing through the tension in the charged air.
His head tilts to the side, eyes narrowing as his hand moves to his pants pocket.
I stop breathing as I take a step back, my shoes squelching over the wet ingredients on the floor. My ass hits the metal table behind me and the man stops, lifting a thick brow as he cautiously pulls his phone out and holds it up as if to say, ‘I was only reaching for this.’
I frown, my gaze shifting from him to the device in his hands. “Are you not going to speak?”
Slowly, he shakes his head as he points a thick finger at his phone, then at me.
I narrow my eyes before pulling my device out of my pocket and opening our message thread. I read the last three messages he sent me, my blood running cold at his threat to Chance.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, my teeth grinding as white-hot rage sparks in me. “You think you can stalk me and threaten the people I talk to? I’m calling the police.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he looks around the kitchen patiently.
Shouldn’t he be stopping me?
My fingers stall midway to the keypad as I remember his threat.
No.
He wants me to do it.
My head darts up and his eyes crease. This fucker issmiling! To hell with the fear. I’m raging now.
If this guy really wanted to hurt me, he’s had every chance. I still don’t understand his motives, but this is getting old.
I go to my contacts, clicking the saved number and lifting the phone to my ear. My stalker raises a brow, watching me.
“Columbus police department,” a woman on the other end answers.
“Hello, my name is Loxley Bennett, and I would like to file a report,” I answer.
My stalker’s gaze narrows before he shrugs and lumbers over to one of the metal tables. I watch him closely as he cuts off my speaker before leaning back against the counter, his tattooed hands gripping the edge as he waits for me to finish my call.
The woman on the line connects me with records and the man in my kitchen listens intently as I rattle off his description to the officer.
“He’s about six-foot-four—”
My stalker shakes his head, pointing a thumb up at the ceiling.
“Sorry, six-foot-five?” It comes across as more of a question, but I continue when my stalker nods. “Black hair, blue eyes,” my gaze darts down to the veiny hands gripping the table, “a skull tattoo on the right hand and a spider on the left.”
“And what’s his build look like, ma’am?” The officer asks.
Oh, that’s a loaded question. Is ‘sex god’ a reasonable answer? Of course, it isn’t.
“Muscular? He’s big,” I mumble.
My stalker winks,actually winks, at me! The fucking audacity!
My teeth grind as I turn away from him, feeling safer now that I’m on the phone with an officer. If he tries anything, it’ll be recorded.
“And where have you seen this man?”
