Page 13 of Savage Stalkers
As I pass my phone, it buzzes with a text from Mom.
MOM
Your attendance is expected at the annual gala I’m hosting next month, Skye.
I delete the message without responding and shove my phone into my bag, right next to the black card Harrison gave me for emergencies that I’ve never used. The bag’s fraying at the edges, but I bought it with my tip money from last month. It looks ridiculous next to my Tesla key fob, but I earned it.
Macey and Adrian had an early class this morning, so I know they won’t be home. The hot water takes forever to heat in this old building, so I brush my teeth while I wait. Once steam fills the room, I strip out of my clothes and get into the shower. I miss the shower at my mom’s. It’s probably the only thing I miss, if I am honest.
There is an upside to putting my foot down and moving out of my mother’s house and not accepting her bribery to stay in the dorms—it’s how I ended up here, a place my mom won’t step foot inside. This place is beneath her—Mother’s words, not mine—but I am not a snob like her. I have everything I need. I have a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, and clothes on my back.
Once I wash my hair and shave, I turn the shower off and push back the shower curtain. I reach for my towel and freeze.
Smile for the camera.
The words drip down my bathroom mirror. My towel slips from my grip and silently hits the tiles. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller, the steam thicker, making it harder to breathe.
My gaze darts to the corners of the ceiling, scans the light fixture, then shifts to the small window above the toilet.
Nothing.
But someone was here. Someone was watching me strip down, step into the shower, and wash my hair while humming that stupid song under my breath.
My hand goes to reach for my phone before I remember I put it in my bag, out of anger at my mom. Instead of rushing to grab it and dialing 9-1-1, I step closer to the mirror and trace the edge of where the words are written. The glass is warm from the steam, and I press my palm flat against it. My reflection stares back at me, my pupils dilated and my cheeks flushed. At the very least, I should call campus security. Breaking into my home goes beyond so many boundaries, even for a fantasy, yet instead... I’m smiling.
It’s the same way I smiled when I climbed out of my bedroom window at seventeen, out onto the roof. Then with my heart hammering, I dropped into the garden just so I could see a boy Mom had forbidden me to see. Or the way I grinned when I signed the lease for this apartment, knowing Mom would lose her mind.
I lean closer to the mirror and whisper, “I’m not calling anyone,” all the while hoping they can see me. Then I wipe the words away, erasing the evidence. I can’t have Macey and Adrian asking questions I’m not ready to answer.
Dressing quickly, my fingers fumbling with the buttons on my uniform shirt, I finally feel alive and in control of my life. I pack a bag with a change of clothes for my afternoon class, and head down to the parking garage. As I get into my car, a motorbike engine revs and I look over my shoulder. I watch the guy pull out of his spot and zoom off as I flick on my playlist, then make my way out onto the main road at a more respectable speed. Pulling up to a set of traffic lights, I belt out the tune about it being a beautiful night as if I’m at Coachella living my best life.
“Hey, baby,” a voice singsongs, cutting through my off-key singing.
My mouth snaps shut mid-note.
A motorbike idles beside my passenger window, and the rider flips his visor up. His ice-blue eyes are very familiar. I realize it’s motorbike guy, and he’s singing along to my playlist. How can he even hear it over his engine?
“We should get married,” he calls out, his voice carrying a teasing tone. “You’ve got the voice of an angel.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I fumble for the window button, but the light turns green, so I slam the gas pedal. My car lurches forward without me even checking for oncoming traffic.
Of course, the next light is red, as is the one after that. Each time I pull up, I make sure my windows are sealed tight. At the fourth red light, he maneuvers his bike close enough to tap his knuckle against my window. I try to stare straight ahead, but his laughter is infectious, the sound bubbling through the glass.
“Hey, pumpkin,” he calls, loud enough I can hear every word. “I’m wounded. I propose marriage, and you speed away like I’ve got the plague.”
When I glance over, I see he’s now leaning against my car, one elbow propped on my roof like we’re friends.
“So what do you say?” he asks, pushing back from my car, and he spreads his arms wide, nearly losing his balance. “Wanna get married?”
“No.”
He clutches his chest with both hands, swaying dramatically. “Why not?”
“You’re a stranger.”
His shoulders lift in an easy shrug. “That’s how the best adventures start.” The light changes, and he winks at me. “I’ll see you around, pumpkin.”
He speeds off, and some asshat toots their horn behind me as they yell something obnoxious out their window. When I get to work, the damn motorbike is parked out front like a trophy to my humiliation. He is leaning against it, his arms crossed, watching me circle the parking lot twice before admitting the only free space is right beside him.
