Page 9 of Painted Scars
“Just heading out.” Spine stiff and breath shallow, I snatch my camera bag from my drawer and push out of my seat. I’m out of there without setting my seat under my desk.
“We’ll catch up later, sweetheart!” Burt calls out.
Not if I can help it. I don’t look back, too busy pretending my spine doesn’t crawl.
Thirty minutes and a hot chocolate later, I’m striding through the crowds in the city’s gardens, where the festival is in full swing. I scan the crowd, camera raised and capturing shots, but my soul is on autopilot. I’m here to report on lanterns and dragon dancers. A real Pulitzer contender. This isn’t the career I envisioned when I graduated. Softball stories come with perks and flexible hours to chase stories that no one else dares touch. Ones that Mercury will burn rather than print.
For now, this pays the bills while I ramp up my independent reporting blog, chase sponsors, and juggle my bookish merch business.
Every step is a struggle to shake the prickle from Burt’s inappropriate touch. I thought the worst was behind me, but creeps don’t disappear because you survive them once. Some of them stick around. Some don’t understand what no means until someone shows up to enforce it.
The hiss of firecrackers, the crowd, and crush of bodies don’t help my agitation. I tell myself it’s just caffeine jitters and crowded space nerves. Reflex clocks every movement like I’m waiting for someone to grab me again. Despite my reservations, I’ve got a job to do, a meeting to uphold, and I force myself to continue.
The city pulses with the vibrancy of red and gold that symbolize good fortune, happiness, and prosperity to the Chinese. While I’m jotting notes about firecrackers and dumplings, pretending to care what the Year of the Lunar Snake means to strangers, my mind wanders to the future I lost, buried behind boardroom doors and locked in filing cabinets. I know I should be grateful for the job, but I didn’t survive what I did to end up writing fluff pieces.
I’m wrapping up community quotes for my article when I feel the icy burn of being watched. It’s not the first time I’ve had this feeling tonight. I can’t blame it on low blood sugar for not grabbing a snack on the way over. Burt’s conduct is enough to leave me nauseous. I flick my hair and tilt my head, disguising the scan I sweep over the crowd.
A man wearing biker leathers and a helmet stands at the end of the stalls. Tall, solid, with a gorgeous body that demands a once-over. My heart stumbles a few beats. He cracks his knuckles and slips into the crowd, swallowed by firecracker smoke, silk banners, and streams of food stalls. Shame. That’s a man I’ll watch all night. Probably stalk. Ask him for an autograph like a BookTok feral with no shame.
Damn. Duty calls. I’ve got to meet with the mayor at 7PM. A flash and smile later, I’ve got my soundbite, and she’s gone to schmooze community business leaders. Third term, and she’s still oozing charm.
I exhale. One more item ticked off my to-do list.
Now I’m free to stalk the sexy biker. I’m a box of dumplings away from freedom when the universe hands me a plot twist hotter than a wok. The biker’s back, fifty feet away. Watching. Same visor. Same leathers. Same stance. What’s that saying? Once is chance. Twice is a coincidence.
My lungs clench at the way my past bleeds into my present.
Closed doors. Mirrors. No escape.
Words bubble in my mind. Therapy tricks. My safety net. I square my shoulders and hike my bag higher up my shoulder, forcing logic to override instinct.
He’s not looking at you.
It’s just a helmet, not a threat.
He’s just security or staff.
That’s when my Book Girlie enters the chat.
Seriously? Who wears a helmet in a crowd? Is he a vampire? Oh, I hope so. I’ll risk a bite for vampire sex and bragging rights.
Nope. Focus, Kate.
There’s one way to know. Ask him. Interview him. Maybe get his number. Totally professional.
But I’m too slow. He’s slipped away again, faster than a hot guy in my dream, and only his scent lingers. Cedar and cinnamon. Woodsy and intoxicating.
Nothing that a juicy dumpling can’t console. Stomach grumbling, I head for the food stalls, buy a tray, eat them, and watch the dancing dragon procession.
Across the crowd, I spot him again. This feels calculated. Is he following me? What does he want? Questions that splinter me open.
Flashes of a police station hurtle me back to the past. My voice trembling when I gave my statement. The cop’s promise to investigate. His sheepish return days later to apologize. Case closed. Pressure from higher up. We dug and found out why.
Preston Blackthorn.
The monster who torched my career and stalks my dreams. He sent enforcers to scare and silence me before. And now, he’s sent another.
My brain lurches. Oily, slick fear coats my gut. I need to leave. Get somewhere safe. Home with Josh and Harper’s knives, my mom’s, Charlie’s couch. Anywhere but here. Bodiesclose in as I shoulder through the crowd. Lanterns strobe between red and shadow. Movement blurs and tilts. Panic claws at my throat.
