Page 31 of Painted Scars
More mystery, and I love a good puzzle to solve. “Who do you work for?”
“Christ, you really are a reporter, aren’t you?”
Oh, Grumpy, I’m not close to done yet.
He motions to his bike. “We ought to get going before your dick boss calls the cops.”
Fuck the cops. We’re not leaving until I get to the bottom of this. “Did you send me the tea and scare my neighbor? The equine deposit was a nice touch.” I chef kiss my fingers.
“Harry’s an asshole who deserved the lesson. And you’re welcome.” Interesting. He reveals enough details to warn me to stay well away. Crazy as it sounds, that also arouses me.
I cradle the pepper spray under my arm and remove the gift card, waving it at the mysterious biker. “Dog training lessons? Josh is a menace to society who needs to tame his small dog syndrome, pillow humping, and sock guarding habits. Thank you.”
“If humping pillows is your biggest problem, you’re living soft, Glitter Bomb,” he says.
Can I take a moment to adore that nickname that’s totally me?
I let him know my thoughts on it. “Careful. Call me that again, and I might explode a shimmering mess that makes stalkers more grumpy.”
“Your cum is glitter?” He tilts his head. “What planet are you from?”
“I like a man who’s well read in the alien smut department.” Oops. Said it out loud again.
My reporter brain slash amygdala is working overtime in the computing department, trying to assess the threat level. Since he’s taken an avid interest in pursuing me, I doubt this is the last time we’ll see each other, and I vow to work my wily charm on him for more answers. Because a girl has to know who express-shipped her tea with a note! Speaking my love language with Earl Grey and threats earns a kiss.
My dark protector retreats to grab a spare helmet from his bike, and yeah, my gaze drops to that tight ass. “Need a ride?”
I arch a brow. Now he’s pushing it.
Rational me replies, “I don’t ride with strangers.”
Book Girlie me fangirls, leaps on the seat behind him, my palms sparing no inch of his chest.
My biker savior points down the alley. “Then start walking home. I’ll trail behind. Consider it stalking.”
Oh, shit.I think my Book Girlie squealed. In her defense, we’re living out our fantasy of forced proximity and grumpy sunshine tropes.
I cover my accidental thrill by rolling my eyes.
Bad Book Girlie. We don’t know this man, and if he’ll lead us to a different type of darkness.
But… but…she protests,this is exactly the kind of scene from my books we’ve been craving.
Fair point. I’ll take it under consideration.
Rational me chimes in,Remain wary. Scream and run if things take a weird turn. Next time your car is in for repairs, get a lift from Harper, and let her deal with the stalker. Chances are, one confrontation with her, probably involving a scalping trophy, and he’ll run like Burt did.
Hmm. Valid point.
Book Girlie counters with a huff,If he wanted to hurt us, he would have already. Now, let me out. I only get to play in books!
I evaluate both perspectives and decide to accept the invitation. I’m tired of living behind armor and hiding away scared. This scenario is exactly the kind of danger I’ve been longing for, and a part of me feels safe engaging in it.
Tell that to my counselor, whom I’ve spent the better part of eighteen months trying to convince that reading stalking romance is therapeutic—a twisted form of exposure therapy that’s enabled me to change the narrative from scarring to putting me solely in control.
Before I start walking, I take a precautionary measure, stuff the gift card away and swap it for my phone.
“Who are you calling?” Concern sounds weird coming from Grumpy Biker.
