Page 18 of Painted Scars
I fire up my Amazon app and place an order. “Shoot. It’s not arriving until next week. Bestie, I won’t cope without caffeine for that long.”
Me without tea equals cranky. Feral cranky. Stabby cranky. Texas Chainsaw Massacre stabby. This requires supernatural intervention.
I clasp my hands together for the second time this morning and send up a tea-based SOS. “Please. Gods. Goddesses. Demons. Anyone listening. I need some divine intervention to get my tea here tomorrow. It’s not for me. It’s for public safety.”
Harper snorts a second time. “You just summoned the Prince of Hell to do our grocery shopping.”
“Hell Princes are worth selling my soul for.” I jam two pieces of bread into the toaster like it’s a blood offering to him and my best friend in lieu of running out of caffeine.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Harper’s smirk tells me she’s starting to defrost.
See? This is why we’re ride-or-die. She gets me.
The toaster spits out Harper’s bread, lightly golden and just the way she likes it. I flourish it with peanut butter and plate it in front of her.
“You’re welcome,” I sing and prepare my cereal.
“Stop. You know I’m allergic to happiness.” She lifts the food to her mouth.
I laugh and finish my breakfast, toss on my tan coat with fake fur trim and glitter buttons over my dress.
I blow Josh a kiss goodbye. “Don’t let Harper recruit you into an assassin cult while I’m gone.”
He yawns like he’s already considered it.
One hour later, one deadline, and a mildly cursed latte later, I slam the last sentence of my article on the festival into place.
I read it under my breath. “The Year of the Snake promises courage, luck, and good fortune.”
I glance at the ceiling and mentally remind God about my prayer for good fortune… and not just for the tea. I’m banking on the stalker fantasy coming true. I want to feel like I’m living in one of my romance novels.
With a hopeful smile, I hit send before I second-guess myself and rewrite the damn thing. It’ll do for the Shadow Lake Reporter.
My cursor blinks. And so does the memory of the helmeted biker from three nights ago, cloaked in shadows and secrets.
Who is he?
Why is he watching me?
Why do I want him to do it again?
I shut down my laptop before I get carried away. This is not the time to write a stalker romance in my head based on my top three tropes.
I have a meeting. One I promised not to be late for.
CHAPTER 6 - AUGUST
The second Grayson kills the feed he’s reviewing, I know something’s wrong.
“Audio went silent two hours ago,” he informs, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Monitors glow blue in the darkened bunker, casting harsh shadows over his face. Camera footage loads, and he runs through it.
My gut hardens. “Devices fail all the time. Dead batteries. Malfunctions from temperature, dust, moisture, software glitches. Electromagnetic interference.” I reel them off like I’m trying to convince myself this operation hasn’t gone to S.H.I.T., and the Romans aren’t onto us already.
I leave my desk to stand beside his and wait for the verdict. “You think someone saw us break in and tipped them off? Swept the place?”
“Let’s review footage right before the first mic went dead.” He types in something, and the cam planted in Kate’s bookcase loads.
6:55AM. She and the dog are curled up sleeping. The alarm goes off at seven sharp, and she slams her palm on it. The dog rouses, gets up and sniffs. Grayson fast forwards to where thedog dances around on the bedside table and knocks over the damn lamp and scratches off our mic.
