Page 83 of Misery
The opposite.
Because I don't, but something in my body does.
Some primitive part of my brain screaming danger before I can process why.
The same instinct that makes deer freeze when wolves are near.
He's handsome in that dangerous way some men are.
Dark hair that's a little too long, falling across his forehead in a way that seems deliberate.
Strong jaw with stubble that's exactly the right length—not lazy, not trying too hard.
Eyes so dark they're almost black, and when they find mine across the bar, something in them makes my stomach drop like I've missed a step going downstairs.
He moves through the crowd like water.
People step aside without realizing they're doing it.
Not from fear exactly, but instinct.
The way schools of fish part for a shark.
Natural. Unconscious.
Prey recognizing predator even when the predator's not hunting.
Yet.
"Evening," he says, sliding onto a stool in my section.
Not Oskar's stool—that would be too obvious.
But close enough that he could reach out and touch it if he wanted.
His voice is smooth. Cultured.
Nothing like the rough bikers I usually serve.
There's education in those vowels, travel in the consonants.
Someone who's been places. Seen things.
"What can I get you?" My voice comes out normal.
A small miracle considering how stressed I am.
"Whiskey. Neat. Whatever's decent."
I pour Jameson, middle shelf.
My hands don't shake.
Another miracle.
But when I set it in front of him, he smiles, and something about that smile is wrong.
Too knowing. Too intimate. Like we're sharing a secret I don't know we have.
