Page 8 of X Marks the Stalker
I take a step back, my brain finally catching up with my libido.
The Gallery Killer.What if it’s him?
He matches the loose profile I’ve been building. He’s a member, he has the physical strength, access to victims, and most importantly, the ability to move through high society without raising suspicions.
And he’s standing right in front of me, eating my damn gummy worms.
Sexy, murderous killer.
The words float through my mind like a neon warning sign, but they excite as much as they alarm me. What kind of sick person am I?
“You seem to be having an interesting internal debate,” he says, breaking into my thoughts. “Care to share with the class?”
I force a casual smile. “Just wondering if I should break my own rules.”
“Rules are made to be broken,” he says, and the way his voice dips lower sends a shiver down my spine. “Especially self-imposed ones.”
If he is the killer, going to dinner with him is either the stupidest or smartest thing I could do. Stupid because, well, murderer. Smart because it’s an opportunity to investigate up close.
I’ve spent four nights staking out this club. What are the chances that the first member I meet happens to be The Gallery Killer? Pretty damn slim, my rational brain argues.
But what if he is?
“No.” I take a step back, creating some much-needed space between us. “Absolutely not.”
“No?” There’s genuine surprise in his voice, like rejection is a foreign concept to him. Given how he looks, it probably is.
“No,” I confirm, straightening my shoulders. “I appreciate the offer, but no. It’s not personal,” I add, seeing something flicker in his eyes. “I’m just...busy.”
He shrugs, but the casual movement doesn’t match the intensity of his gaze. “Fair enough. Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He holds out the bag of gummy worms. “At least take your snacks back.”
Our fingers brush as I grab the package, and I ignore the spark that zips up my arm.
“If you change your mind about dinner, my card has my number.”
“Thanks, but I won’t.” I tuck the gummy worms back into my pocket with the card. “Change my mind, that is.”
“Never say never, Oakley Novak.” The way he says my name feels too intimate, like he’s tasting each syllable. “Life has a funny way of bringing people back together.”
“Is that a threat?”
His smile is slow and deliberate. “More of a prediction.” He vanishes through the club door.
“Wait!” I call out as he steps back, reaching forward as if I could somehow stop the heavy mahogany door from closing.
But it’s too late. The door clicks shut with a soft finality, leaving me standing alone on the steps of the Boston Gentlemen’s Association like an idiot.
“Shit,” I mutter, my hand still extended toward the door.
I pat my pocket, feeling the outline of his business card. Pulling it out, I stare at the elegant typeface, searching for a name.
There isn’t one.
Just a phone number and a logo. No company name, no job title, no personal identification at all.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I flip the card over, but the back is blank. “Who doesn’t put their name on a business card?”
I stuff the card into my pocket and head back to my car, the evening’s failure settling around my shoulders like a damp coat. His face flashes in my mind—the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how his fingers brushed against my chest as he extracted my gummy worms, the way his tongue...
