Page 32 of Painted Scars
Oh, sweetheart. You’re the only danger here.
I hit Harper’s name, and she answers straight away. “Hey, cupcake.”
“I’ll explain why later,” I say, “but I’m walking home with the stalker biker.”
Grumpy Stalker performs a scan of the street.
My internal Yoda voice recites,The green energy is strong with this one. Shame. I only wear green on my eyeliner, hair, and wardrobe.
“He’s there with you?” Harper’s tone sharpens into protective murder mode.
“Yeah,” I reply. “So if I don’t come home within thirty minutes, call the police and report me missing.”
He curses under his breath and shakes his head. Moral stalker disapproval. Kind of rich, coming from a guy lurking in alley shadows. Time to analyze that later.
I position the camera to capture an image of him and the bike before he objects. “Sending you his mug,” I tell Harper. “Don’t get stuck on his legs and ass in those pants.”
“What the hell?” Grumpy Stalker takes a step, then halts when I use my pepper spray as a shield.
“Bike sex! Bike sex!” Harper chants.
“Love you, bye.” I hang up before she gets her gun and handcuffs and drives down here.
And so we walk, side by side. Grumpy Stalker rolling his bike like it’s no effort at all. Me clutching my pepper spray in one hand and my kubaton in the other.
Common sense says I should be scared and catch the bus instead. Weirdly, I feel empowered and brave, a woman who doesn’t need saving. The broody bodyguard by my side is a morally questionable book fantasy come to life. Nobody’s going to harm me on his watch.
The night has lost its sharp edge, and the shadows don’t lean across the sidewalk, their fangs lean into velvet and wrap me in comfort. Streetlights flicker gold halos on the pavement, softening the edges of the world. My boots don’t echo without the dread they held when I left the office. This feels dreamy, soft, safe, even. I’m not spiraling, not searching for a way out, and certainly not helpless. Secretly, I feel like a queen with her dark knight by her side.
It’s too quiet, and I don’t like the alarming and sensual thoughts suddenly competing in my head.
“Save girls like this often?” That may have come out flirtier than intended.
“Don’t try your reporter charm on me.” Oh, is that a hint of amusement I hear from him?
The thrill of making him smile overrides that he’s onto me, and I’ll have to be cleverer next time.
We don’t talk again, and he stops three blocks from my house.
“Don’t work a minute past five,” he warns, circling his bike in the opposite direction.
“Why? Will you smash up more car windows?” Oh, yeah, I’m smiling.
“Don’t get used to it.” I try not to drool as he throws a leg over his Kawasaki Ninja bike and sits on it.
Oh, yeah, I’ve mentally recorded the make, model, and license plate, and I’ll be doing some research later tonight.
“Memorizing my plate, Glitter Bomb?” he asks, part cocky, part smug, and I warm all over. “It won’t be the same tomorrow, and you won’t track me.” Oh, he wants to play this game. Bring it on.
“Challenge accepted.” Before he leaves, I get in one final question. “What shall I call you, my avenging hero?”
He starts his engine and drowns me out, taking off, and in seconds is gone, merging with the shadows he belongs to. My Book Girlie pouts. Reality never measures up to fantasy.
But sometimes it’s better.
The darkness deepens and snakes out from the trees and cars. I hug my middle and feel vulnerable without him by my side. Picking up into a jog, I hurry back home.
I sink my key into my lock, tumble inside and close the door, heart tripping like a trapped rabbit. Hands fumbling, I triple-check the locks, top, middle, bottom. Then again. Three times a charm. My hand lingers on the deadbolt, afraid to let go.
