Page 50 of X Marks the Stalker
“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” she says, her voice carrying on the wind.
“I always keep my appointments.” Her lips part, just enough to have me imagining what they’d feel like trailing down my chest and wrapping around my cock as I thrust into her mouth.
Christ, I’m a walking cliché of male depravity. Next, I’ll be sending unsolicited dick pics and calling her “baby.”
Stop. Thinking. About. That.
I shift my weight, the movement doing nothing to relieve the pressure building in my pants. The mask I wear feels suffocating, not because it covers my face, but because it doesn’t cover enough. She can see my mouth. My jaw. The way my throat tightens when I swallow. She’s watching me too closely, and it’s unraveling every ounce of control I have left.
“Nice mask,” she says, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Is it for anonymity or for drama?”
“The mask serves multiple purposes,” I say, tilting my head as though I have my shit together instead of calculating how many steps it would take to pin her against the nearest wall. “Identity protection, dramatic effect, and it maintains the mystique.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Some things are better left to the imagination.”
What I don’t tell her is how grateful I am for the concealment. How the mask hides the way my cheeks flush. Let her think there’s something dangerous lurking beneath, not an awkward stalker who’s memorized her daily schedule down to her preferred bathroom breaks.
She laughs, and the sound ricochets through me like a bullet finding its target. Having that laughter directed at me, because of me, is like someone switched on a circuit I didn’t know existed.
“You’re weird,” she says, studying me like I’m an exotic animal that just did something fascinating.
“I’m aware,” I reply dryly. “It’s part of my charm.”
“Yes, it is.”
She steps closer, the heels of her boots clicking against the concrete. Her movements are calculated, deliberate, butnot predatory. It’s more like she’s testing the water, seeing how close she can get before I bolt. Spoiler: I don’t bolt.
“Why did you want to meet again?” she asks, tilting her head. “Your message was vague.”
Because I can’t stop watching you. Because I’m starting to wonder if you’re the only person on this godforsaken planet who might understand me. Because I’m dangerously close to breaking every rule I’ve ever followed just to keep you in my orbit.
“You’re investigating something interesting. I’m investigating something interesting. Thought we might compare notes,” I say, as if I haven’t been obsessively tracking her movements for weeks. “I have more information for you.”
“The file you gave me on Blackwell was amazing,” Oakley says, leaning against the rooftop railing with casual confidence. “Not something a hobbyist puts together.”
I allow myself a small nod of acknowledgment. “I have certain skills. Mostly useless ones like memorizing pi to a hundred digits and knowing how long it takes you to walk from your apartment to the coffee shop on Tremont Street, but occasionally something practical slips in.”
“Like killing people who’ve escaped justice?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It’s a trap. It has to be. Nobody walks into a conversation like this without an angle. But Oakley Novak isn’t asking a question. She’s making a statement, like she knows it’s true.
Somehow, my face remains perfectly still. My expression doesn’t change, my body doesn’t tense, my breathing stays even. Inside, every alarm system I’ve ever installed is blaring simultaneously.
How could she possibly know? I’ve been meticulous.Perfect. No connections, no patterns, no evidence. We’re ghosts—invisible, untraceable. We’re the Fight Club of murder. The first rule is you don’t talk about it. Ever.
The second rule is you don’t fall for nosy journalists with a death wish and legs that make you forget your own name.
I laugh. “That’s quite an accusation,” I say, making my voice light, amused. “What’s next? Am I secretly Superman? The Tooth Fairy? The person who designs plastic packaging that’s impossible to open without industrial scissors?”
“I know I’m right.”
“I told you I’m not The Gallery Killer,” I say.
She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint sweetness of whatever she last ate. Definitely those sour gummy worms she keeps in her desk drawer, third compartment on the right. The ones she stress-eats when working against a deadline, twisting them between her fingers before biting their heads off first.
Not that I’ve been watching her that closely. That would be creepy. And I’m not a creep. I’m just...detail-oriented.
“Oh, I believe you,” she says, her voice dropping to something between a whisper and a dare. “You’re not The Gallery Killer. But you never told me you aren’takiller.”
