Page 30 of Painted Scars
Relief rushes through my taut muscles. One threat down, one more to go.
The biker turns to me, addressing me with tenderness. “You okay?”
I crush my weapons to my stomach. “Fine. Thanks for intervening. I’ve got to get home.”
I step left. Fuck, which way is home? Where is the bus stop? Is the biker alone? Are there more? I can’t stop shaking.
“Get on. I’ll take you home. I don’t want you alone with him again or walking at night.” His voice rings with authority.
The two halves of my persona split.
Book Girlie me assesses him against the book boyfriend scale and purrs, “Yes, Daddy.”
Rational me shouts,“Pepper spray won’t work on a helmet!”
I bitch slap myself out of my daze and bring myself back to his command. “I don’t plan on it. And for the record, my car’s in the shop.”
Another signal from him for me to get on his bike.
Yeah, no. We need to get a few things straight first, and the adrenaline firing in my chest gives me the courage to confront it.
“Okay, I’ll bite.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Are you following me? Or am I blessed with the world’s most overqualified guardian angel who redecorates my boss’ window?”
No confession, just smug silence.
My reporter brain takes over. “The festival wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”
“I wasn’t following,” he mutters. “I was… nearby.”
Under the bravado, something in me softens. I sense a gruff cinnamon roll behind the helmet. That said, I remain on guard just in case that changes, because he is a stranger and following me, after all.
“Nearby, like a creepy neighbor or an obsessed stalker from my book club reads?” What? A girl has to know! Reporter privilege.
He tilts his head. Annoyed? Amused? I’m going insane with curiosity to know what’s beneath that visor. Scars running across his cheek, turquoise eyes, stubble, raven hair to compliment the tattoos peeking out of the neck of his jacket?
I’m still shaken and on edge, but he hasn’t made a move, and I feel confident he won’t betray that. “And the bugs in my room?”
Silence. Smart. Same move I’d make if the roles were reversed. Unfortunately for him, the interview is in session, and I havea lotof questions.
Eyes locked on him, I run a finger over a kitty ear to show him I’m not messing around if he tries anything. “Because if you’re here to gut my enemies and sweep me off my feet, I might be into it. Just saying.”
Oops. That one slipped out. Bad Book Girlie.
I glance away, unsure if I’ve said too much. My heart lurches at the joke.
He glances left and right. “Is that how it works? You flirt with the guy who watches you from the shadows.”
Duh.Being saved by a muscled, helmeted stalker is the fantasy of ninety percent of BookTok’s dark romance crowd.
“Depends. Are you dangerous?” Not asking for a friend.
“Yes.” His response has my thirsty Book Girlie going wild, while my poor rational brain screams,“Stranger, kidnap, run!”
My fingers flex around my weapon. “Good. So am I.”
I can work with danger. I just need to define the type of danger with my next question. “Do you work for Blackthorn?” If he does, I’m in deeper than I thought, and it might be time to take Harper up on the offer to carry a gun.
“I don’t work for him or any of his associates,” he replies.
