Page 33 of Painted Scars
I press my forehead and palm to the wood, waiting for any sound.Stillness. Not footsteps. No voices. No rough hands on my wrists or neck. Burt’s gone. I’m safe. I peer through the peephole just to be safe. Empty porch. No helmet, bike, or tall stranger wrapped in shadow. Strength waning, I sag against the door, the cool wood grounding me. My lungs won’t expand properly, and I let out a brittle breath.
Josh barrels around the corner, his tail a blur of frantic enthusiasm, paws skidding on the floor. He launches up mylegs, and I crouch to scoop him into my arms. Snuffles puff in my neck.
“I’m okay, buddy,” I whisper into his fur, trying to convince myself that I’m holding on.
Home is safety. It’s also where the crash sets in, and my brain scrambles to process what my body’s ignored, and I unravel.
A shadow stretches across the foyer. Harper, backlit by kitchen lights, a pissed-off goddess in black satin and lace down her arms and across the top of her chest. Her gaze flicks over me, and her jaw tightens. She always knows when I’m not okay.
“Who’s going to die?” she asks calmly.
I let out a shaky laugh. “I’m fine.” The biggest lie I’ve told all year.
“Come here, cupcake.” She lets me clutch my terrier and steers me into a bench seat like I’m breakable. And, hell, I am.
Composed, lethal steps carry her to the fridge, and she yanks open the door, pulling out a fancy bottle I reserved for a fictional date with a man similar to the one who rescued me.
“Say the word, cupcake.” She twists the lid and lets the red wine breathe, grabs two glasses, and sets them on the bench. “I’ll make sure he cries every time he takes a piss.”
God, I love her. She’s vengeance in berry lipstick and boots. Safety and comfort, just like Josh. I can’t hide behind her forever.
I tell Harper everything. The unwanted touches. The car alarm. When the festival biker emerges from the shadows and chases away Burt. My neck tightens when I speak his name. My bestie’s expression doesn’t crack. A-level poker face. Behind her eyes, I catch the brewing storm, the mental list calculating which of Burt’s body parts to dismember first.
The fear’s still there, but I choose to be louder and shine brighter as I recount my rescue. My emotional breakdown isbooked for next Tuesday. Right now, I’m sipping wine and toasting my masked menace like the unhinged book heroine I am. Celebration is due when the gods answered my prayers for a morally gray cinnamon roll. It’s only taken them two years!
One drink in, I’m so juiced up on adrenaline, and excitement that I cope with it the only way I know how. Meme the hell out of it.Lord of the Rings, here I come.One does not simply read stalker romances and not develop a mask kink.
Helmets are sexy, mysterious, and secretive, just like the body behind all the riding gear and the face beneath the helmet. Hot bikers are a thing, and one has taken an interest in me.
I just hope I’m in for the danger, obsession, and devotion from the romance menu. Not the kind that ends with my obituary on page fifty-three.
CHAPTER 10 - AUGUST
Operation Befriend a Potential Enemy is on. I need to get to the bottom of whether she’s Team Roman or Team Shadow Lake. Indications this far suggest the latter, but I must be sure. And if she is, I want her on my team.
Clad in my riding gear, I settle in outside her window, watching her from the porch this time. I tell myself this is strictly surveillance to confirm her loyalties. Not to make sure she’s okay, and that her bastard boss didn’t leave more than bruises.
PJ3 knows I’m here and is sniffing around the front door.
I whisper to him through the window before he launches into a barking spree. “I have a bone to pick with you.”
He groans and tilts his head, listening.
“What’s with the bug and giving me away? That wasn’t a game of hide and seek,” I scold, and he plops to his belly and folds a paw over his eye. “I want you to think hard about your actions. Snitches don’t get jerky.”
He lowers his head and looks away.
“And don’t bark and give me up,” I tack on the end.
He lets out a hard sigh, and I shake my head.
Grayson’s on police radio detail to listen for any dispatched patrols to her house. I won’t let them near her.
Kate’s inside, reliving the incident with her boss to her housemate. I study every micro expression, her pauses speaking louder than words. The drag of her fingers along her arm. Her hand shaking when she lifts the glass to her lips. The purge of adrenaline every victim makes once the danger’s passed.
“I’ll teach that son of a bitch a lesson for touching my cupcake!” Murder Spice reaches for a knife strapped in her boot, tapping it on her thigh like a nervous tic. Laser-focused, like Katar.
Kate nudges the knife back into place, forcing her smile to stick. “No flaying my boss. Not yet.”
