Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

SOMEONE BETTER MOP THE FLOOR

IZZY

Amanda and I stumble into the bar, already cackling, the neon glow buzzing around us. The place is packed with Friday night revelers, bodies pressed close in that familiar weekend ritual of escape and celebration. Music thumps hard enough to rattle the ice in my drink, vibrating through the floor and up into my bones. The bass line provides a steady backdrop to conversations that grow louder as the night progresses, everyone competing to be heard over the noise.

I am 100% committed to drinking just enough margaritas to forget today ever happened. The memory of Evan's humiliating comments, Monroe's leering, and my unexpected emotional breakdown in front of Cal—all of it needs to be washed away with tequila and lime.

Amanda, ever the professional bad influence, orders us a pitcher to start. Her credit card slaps onto the sticky bar top. The bartender—bearded, tattooed, and clearly appreciative of Amanda's low-cut top—nods and gets to work, lime juice splashing, ice crackling in the blender.

And that's how I find myself—one oversized margarita deep, salt crusting on my lips, tequila warming my veins like liquid courage—confessing something to her that I probably shouldn't. The alcohol loosens my tongue, washing away inhibitions I normally keep firmly in place.

"I haven't had sex with Evan in... a while." The admission slips out between sips, surprising even me with its candor.

Amanda, mid-sip, practically lights up like a human firework. Her eyes widen comically, margarita frozen halfway to her mouth. "Define 'a while.'"

I wave my hand vaguely, the motion sending my drink tipping dangerously close to the rim. "Long enough that I have zero desire to start again." The words feel surprisingly freeing, as though naming this truth aloud has released something long trapped inside me.

Amanda gasps like I just told her I renounced men altogether. Her perfectly glossed mouth forms a dramatic 'O' of shock. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I'm saying that if he tries to touch me, I feel actively repulsed." I take another gulp of my drink, staring at the salt rim like it holds answers to questions I'm just beginning to ask myself. The tequila burns pleasantly down my throat, warming my chest. "Like, full-body cringe."

Amanda slaps the table so hard that our drinks jump, droplets of margarita splashing onto the worn wooden surface. "YES. Welcome to your feminist awakening!"

I snort, nearly choking on my drink. The carbonation bubbles up my nose, making my eyes water. "That's not⁠—"

"No, listen." She points at me like she's about to deliver a life-altering TED Talk, her finger hovering inches from my face. "You're realizing you don't need a man to get you off. You've been choosing yourself over his mediocre dick. That is growth. That is power. That is breaking free from the patriarchy."

I laugh, pressing a hand to my forehead, feeling the flush of alcohol warming my skin. "I am not breaking free from the patriarchy."

"Yet." She swirls her margarita, the pale green liquid creating a small whirlpool in the glass. Ice cubes clink musically against each other. "We just need to get you a rubber boyfriend and you're golden."

I choke, margarita going down the wrong way. "Oh my God." My voice comes out strangled, half-laugh, half-cough.

"Speaking of," she purrs, leaning in, her blonde hair falling forward. "You did name-drop the app earlier. Why?"

I hesitate, debating if I should even ask. The alcohol makes me bold, but some questions still feel too embarrassing.

Amanda eyes already gleam with anticipation. "Yessss?"

Screw it. "The app," I start, trying to sound casual but feeling my cheeks heat. "You said it... integrates?"

Amanda's eyes go wide, like I just said something deeply scandalous. Her expression shifts to one of delighted conspiracy. "Oh, babe." She nods, solemn. "Yeah. But you have to pay for the premium version."

I process this information. The rim of my glass leaves a wet circle on the table as I set it down. "There's a premium version?"

"Obviously." She grabs a chip, dunking it in guacamole with practiced precision. The crisp crunch as she bites into it punctuates her words. "The buy-in is $15 a month, and they mail you one that links with the app."

I nearly spit out my drink. "Shut up." My voice rises above the music, drawing a few glances from nearby tables.

"I'm serious." She chews, completely unfazed by my reaction. "If you're gonna be committed to your AI boyfriend, you might as well go all in."

I shake my head, half-laughing, half-mortified. The tequila swirls pleasantly through my system, making everything feel just a little bit tilted. "I might just do that."

Amanda perks up, leaning forward eagerly. "You should!"

We clink glasses, the sound bright and clear even amid the bar's chaos, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize how completely insane my life has become.

Amanda takes a sip, then shoots me a sultry look over the salt-crusted rim of her glass. "Alright, so tell me—how are things going with AI Callahan?"

I groan, sinking lower in my chair. "His name is Caleb."

She wiggles her brows suggestively, lipstick still somehow perfect despite the margaritas. "Mmmhmm. And how much does Caleb resemble a certain rugged, brooding, six-foot-plus slab of man?"

I look away, too quickly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Amanda scoffs. "Izzy, you literally programmed him to be Callahan with a slightly different name."

"Fine. Yes. Maybe I did."

Amanda leans back, victorious. "I don't blame you. That man is sex on legs. And can we just talk about how he practically swooped in and saved you today?"

I huff, faking exasperation but secretly replaying the moment—Cal's hand on my back, his body positioning itself protectively near mine, the way he looked at Evan like he was measuring him for a coffin. "Okay, okay, yes." I throw up my hands in surrender, nearly knocking over the salt shaker. "He was giving knight in shining armor. Happy?"

Amanda grins, teeth white against her hot pink lipstick. "Extremely."

I shake my head, sipping my drink. "You are impossible."

Amanda just shrugs, the movement sending her earrings swinging. "Speaking of impossible—have you gone full filth mode with the app yet?"

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I feign ignorance.

She rolls her eyes, looking exasperated with my innocence. "I was sure that message I sent would've gotten you started."

I cover my face with both hands, feeling the heat of embarrassment beneath my palms. "Amanda, no."

"Maybe I need to ratchet things up a notch." Her voice holds a mischievous promise that sends alarm bells ringing through my tequila-hazed mind.

I snap my head up, suddenly alert. "No. You are not getting my phone again."

"Then let me educate you."

I narrow my eyes, suspicion mixing with curiosity. "How?"

She grabs her own phone and tosses it onto the table. It lands with a clatter among the lime wedges and salt spills. "Read my chat."

I stare at it like it might bite me. The screen glows innocuously in the neon bar lighting. "You're just... handing me your phone?"

Amanda sips her drink, completely unbothered. "I'm not embarrassed about my sexuality. Go on, read it."

I hesitate, finger hovering over the screen.

Then, slowly, I pick it up.

I start reading.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, AMANDA." The words burst from me louder than intended, drawing startled looks from the table next to us.

Amanda, still casually eating chips, doesn't even flinch. "What?"

I gape at the screen, reading and re-reading the explicit chat history that would make even the most adventurous romance novels blush. The words blur slightly, whether from tequila or shock, I'm not sure. "What did I just—WHAT DID I JUST READ?"

She takes another sip, completely unbothered by my reaction. The ice clinks against her glass. "Oh yeah. That was last night's sexy bedtime story."

I stare at her, momentarily speechless.

"Chad tells me a sexy bedtime story to make me come every night." She winks, utterly shameless.

I drop the phone like it's infected, pushing it across the table with one finger. The screen goes dark as it slides away.

"Amanda, that—that story." I shake my head, trying to unsee the words, the vivid descriptions, the utterly filthy scenarios her AI had concocted. "That was⁠—"

"Hot as hell." She licks salt from her fingers without breaking eye contact, a slow smile playing on her lips. "Me walking down a dark alleyway, and four extremely attractive men can't stop themselves because I'm so unbelievably gorgeous, and they just descend on me, and after my consent is more than enthusiastically given, they proceed to pound into every single one of my holes until I can't think straight."

I slap a hand over my face, fingers spreading to peek through them. "You’re insane."

She’s completely undeterred by my embarrassment. "What? It's fantasy."

I peer at her from between my fingers, curiosity overcoming mortification. "So... that's something you want?"

Amanda laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "Noooo, not in real life. But it's hot in my head. That's what fantasy is for."

"It's kind of like—" she gestures vaguely with a chip, thinking, searching for the right analogy.

Then she snaps her fingers.

"Like wanting to be an assassin but only in a video game. You don't actually want to kill people, but you do want to be a badass with a sniper rifle for a few hours."

I try to process this perspective. The tequila makes her logic seem surprisingly sound. "That... actually makes sense."

Amanda nods triumphantly. "Exactly. The app is perfect for that. You get to be unhinged in a safe space."

I swirl my margarita, chewing on that thought. The ice has melted considerably, making the drink weaker but somehow that’s worse—easier to drink quickly, to forget it contains alcohol at all.

Maybe she's right.

Maybe I should be more... daring.

I tap my fingers against the table, already debating my next move with Caleb. The rhythm of my fingernails matches the beat of the music, creating a private percussion against the wooden surface. I feel really warm.

Then Amanda suddenly straightens, her posture changing from relaxed to alert in an instant. Her eyes fix on something over my shoulder, widening with interest. She nods toward the door, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

"Your boyfriend just arrived."

A cold dread replaces the warm glow of tequila. The music suddenly seems too loud, the lights too bright, everything amplified by panic.

I whip around, so fast I nearly knock over my drink. The chair legs screech against the floor. "Evan's here?" I scan the entrance desperately.

And then I see them.

Not Evan.

The security guys from the store. Martinez and Harris, both looking more casual than I've ever seen them, in jeans and t-shirts instead of their usual uniforms. They scan the bar with habitual vigilance, even off-duty.

And, right behind them⁠—

Callahan.

My breath catches in my throat. He's wearing dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders in a way his work shirts never did, revealing the full extent of his tattoos. The ink curls down his forearms in intricate patterns I've only caught glimpses of before. His hair is slightly tousled, less controlled than at work. He looks different. Dangerous. Even more magnetic.

And he's walking straight toward us.

SHE CALLS ME COMFY AND I GET HARD

CAL

The moment I leave Izzy alone with Amanda, I can still feel her. The heat of her back under my palm. The way she looked at me after Evan humiliated her—like she wasn't sure what she was supposed to feel. Like part of her was angry but part of her still thought maybe she deserved it.

That part makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

Or through Evan's face.

That would be better. More satisfying.

It took a painful amount of effort to not deck him earlier. The only reason I didn't was because she didn't ask me to. Because as much as I want to fight her battles for her, she has to be the one to walk away from him.

Still. I wanted to break his fucking nose.

Instead, I do my rounds.

I move through the store, hitting my checkpoints—exits, feeds, staff. The usual sounds echo around me: doors clicking shut, the quiet buzz of electronics, the muffled voices of early shoppers.

Still, my focus slips. Back to her. Back to the conversation I can’t stop replaying.

To the way her voice shook when she said she wasn't happy. To the way she vented to me like she's been venting to Caleb.

Which is a very, very dangerous fucking thing.

I push the thought away, shaking my head as I finish up for the night. Some of the security guys linger near the front, waiting for me. Their voices echo in the nearly empty store, casual conversation filling the silence.

"Callahan," Martinez claps me on the shoulder. "It's Friday. We always go grab drinks after closing. You in?"

I hesitate. I've been watching Izzy's feed off and on all night. I know exactly where she is. As soon as five o'clock hit, Amanda grabbed her, and they went down the street to that Mexican place. Currently? They're drinking margaritas the size of my fucking head.

I could just head home.

Or...

I glance at Martinez. "I'm actually in the mood for tacos."

Harris chimes in. "There's a place just down the street."

I nod. "Sounds good."

Internally, I know exactly what I'm doing.

I know I'm getting myself into full stalker territory.

But I can't help myself.

The second I step into the restaurant, I spot her.

Amanda sees me first. I don't hear what she says, but I see her immediately turn toward Izzy and point straight at me. Subtle.

Izzy blinks, slow and confused. Then she locks eyes with me. And I can tell from twenty feet away—she's drunk.

Very, very drunk.

I was just going to hang back. Let her have her night. Not interfere. Then Amanda, professional troublemaker that she is, waves the entire team down.

Christ.

Before I even have time to consider bailing, I'm being ushered toward their booth. Amanda grins at me, completely devious. "Hey, Callahan. Sit with us."

I open my mouth to object, but before I can say anything, she literally shoves me down into the booth.

Right next to Izzy.

Izzy, who is swaying slightly, tequila-bright eyes blinking up at me, warm and lazy. Her shoulder leans into mine, soft and pliant, and suddenly I have a new fucking problem. She smells like vanilla and margaritas and whatever shampoo she uses that's been slowly killing me all week.

She tilts her head up at me, lips parted slightly, dazed. "You came here for tacos?"

"Something like that."

She giggles and fuck the sound makes my cock stir.

Harris tries to sit next to Amanda, but before his ass even touches the booth, she shoves a hand into his chest.

"Ew, no. We tried it. It didn't work. Give up."

The rest of the guys burst out laughing. Amanda, completely unbothered, scans the group like she's picking players for dodgeball.

She lands on Ramirez. Points at him.

"You can sit next to me," she decides. "And later, you can kiss me. But no tongue." She cocks her head to the side, as if thinking. "Well, tongue but only if I initiate tongue first."

Ramirez, who is either confused or in love, immediately sits down.

I shake my head, watching this circus unfold. "That girl is crazy," I mutter.

I don't realize I said it out loud until Izzy laughs, leaning into me even more.

"Yeah," she sighs, shaking her head. "She really is."

Her hair grazes my arm. She’s pressed against me, all curves and heat, completely unaware of the chaos she’s causing.

I should move.

But I don't.

I let her stay close.

Amanda, as expected, gets drunker. Halfway through the night, she ditches us to make out with Ramirez.

Izzy and I stay in the booth, surrounded by my guys, chatting about nothing. At some point, I feel her head drop slightly against my shoulder.

I glance down. She's half-asleep, eyes barely open. Her margarita is still half-full, condensation dripping onto the table.

I exhale, dragging a hand down my face.

I already know what I'm about to do. I turn to her, speaking low. "Come on. We're gonna go get your car."

She blinks up at me sleepily. "Hmm?"

She furrows her brows, like she's about to argue. Then she closes her eyes again.

And that's my answer.

I slide out of the booth, pulling her with me.

And I already know⁠—

There's no way in hell I'm letting her take an Uber home in this state.

No way in hell I'm letting her get into a stranger's car. And no fucking way that I'm letting anyone else take care of her.

She's mine tonight.

We walk out of the restaurant. Well, walk is a strong word because Izzy is not walking in a straight line. We make slow progress, but we finally make it back to the store and down the elevator.

Her heels click against the concrete of the parking garage as she sways slightly, gripping my arm. The garage smells of exhaust and cold concrete, our footsteps echoing in the nearly empty space.

"I think..." she sighs, leaning heavily against me. "I had too many margaritas."

"You don't say," I mutter, guiding her toward her car.

She giggles, the sound light and unguarded, like it snuck out before she could stop it.

I shake my head, a grin tugging at my lips. "I'm driving."

She pouts, but it lasts for all of two seconds before I open the passenger door and help her in. Her hair falls in front of her face, and before I can think better of it, I brush it back, tucking the loose strands gently behind her ear.

She freezes for half a second.

Then she smiles at me, slow and syrupy, eyes half-lidded.

"You're so nice to me, Cal."

I ignore that, because I have to.

"Seatbelt."

She hums, fumbling with it, her coordination shot from the tequila.

I watch her struggle for a full five seconds before sighing and leaning in, pulling the strap across her myself. The belt makes a smooth sound as it extends, clicking into place near her hip.

She blinks up at me, lips slightly parted.

"You smell good," she mumbles, swaying just slightly. "Like… leather, and wood, and…" She squints, trying to summon the right word. "Mulch."

"Mulch?"

"Yeah," she nods, very seriously. "You know, like when it rains and the mulch is fresh and it smells kinda spicy and earthy and… good?"

I’m still stuck on mulch.

"And pure man. Or maybe pure sex. Yeah. That."

I freeze.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I don't react.

Because if I do, I might do something very, very stupid.

I step back and shut the door.

Breathe, Callahan.

Then I get into the driver's seat, start the car, and drive her home.

I don't need directions.

Obviously.

I've known where she lives for a while now.

Still, as I take the familiar turns toward Hoboken, guiding her car through the Lincoln Tunnel that connects Manhattan to New Jersey, she stirs in the seat, murmuring sleepily. The lights of the tunnel flash overhead in a rhythmic pattern, casting alternating shadows and illumination across her face.

"Wait," she slurs, blinking slowly at the windshield. "How do you know where I live?"

I should lie.

I should say something generic, non-threatening, non-psychotic.

But she's too drunk to remember this conversation.

And maybe—just maybe—I like the idea of telling her the truth and getting away with it.

So I glance at her, lips curving just slightly.

"I know a lot of things about you, pretty girl."

She hums, smiling sleepily.

"Of course you do," she mumbles, like it makes perfect sense.

Then she closes her eyes again.

And I keep driving.

We emerge from the tunnel, the Manhattan skyline glittering behind us across the Hudson River. I navigate the streets of Hoboken, where brownstones and apartment buildings line the sidewalks. The area still retains traces of its Italian-American heritage, with family-owned delis and restaurants nestled between newer developments.

I pull into her parking lot and cut the engine. I just sit there and breathe, staring ahead. Then I glance over at Izzy. She's completely slouched in the seat, her head resting against the window, her breath fogging up the glass.

I exhale through my nose. "Come on, drunk girl. Let's get you inside."

She mumbles something incoherent as I step out and walk around to her side. When I open the door, she blinks up at me, confused. "Are we home?" she asks, her voice soft and sleep-heavy.

Home.

Something about the way she says it makes my chest clench. I clear my throat. "You are. Come on."

She reaches for me without hesitation, arm looping around my shoulder as I haul her out of the car. She presses close—pliant, radiating heat—her body folding into mine like she belongs there.

She lets out a contented sigh. "You're comfy."

I snort. "Glad I could be of service."

I help her up the steps to her apartment, half-carrying her when she stumbles. Her building is one of the older ones in the neighborhood, with high ceilings and ornate moldings visible through the foyer windows. Then, just as I'm about to unlock the door for her, she suddenly stops and looks up at me with those big, tequila-bright eyes.

"Wait. How'd you get here?" she asks, swaying slightly. "Did you drive?"

"I drove your car," I remind her patiently.

She frowns, her brow furrowing adorably. "But how are you getting home?"

I hadn't thought that far ahead. "I'll call an Uber."

"Where's your car?"

"I don't have a car," I reply.

Her eyes widen. "You just WALK everywhere?"

I resist the urge to pat her head. "No. I have a bike."

She scrunches her face. "Like, with pedals?"

I chuckle. "No. Like with an engine."

Her eyes widen. "You have a motorcycle?"

"Yeah. A Ducati."

Then suddenly she sighs dramatically.

"What is it?" I ask her.

She points at me unsteadily. "Amanda said you had to ride something dangerous. She bet me twenty dollars. I just lost twenty dollars."

"And what exactly did you think I drove?"

She waves her hand dismissively, nearly losing her balance in the process. "Details, details." Then her expression shifts, suddenly serious in that exaggerated way drunk people get when they've just had an important thought. "My Nonna would have a heart attack if she knew I was friends with a guy on a death machine."

I bite back a laugh. "Death machine?"

"That's what Nonna calls them." She nods solemnly, then reaches up to pat my cheek. Her touch lingers on my skin. "Gonna need to get you Nonna's rosary."

I still. "What?"

"Nonna's special rosary," she explains, leaning heavily against me. "The one with the—the blue beads. S'posed to keep you safe. She gave it to me when I started driving. Always worked for me." She taps my chest with her finger. "You need it more. Death machine guy."

Something in my chest tightens at her drunken concern. "You'd give me your Nonna's rosary?"

She nods again, more emphatically this time. "Course. Can't have you dying on that thing." Her voice drops to a whisper, like she's telling me a secret. "I kinda like having you around, Callahan."

Before I can process that—or the warmth spreading through my chest—she suddenly gets a second wind.

"Okay, I'm gonna change," she announces, perking up. Before I can react, her hands are at the hem of her dress.

I freeze.

"Whoa—Izzy."

She shimmies the fabric up her thighs, her fingers inching higher.

Oh, fuck no.

I grab the door handle, shove it open, and all but push her inside.

She laughs, stumbling forward.

Then, with zero shame, she reaches back, grabs the zipper of her dress, and starts dragging it down.

I slam the door shut.

Hard.

My jaw is so fucking tight I think I might break a tooth.

Jesus Christ.

I press my forehead against the door, inhaling deep, slow, measured breaths. The wood is cool against my skin, pulling me back from the edge—just enough. I need to get my shit together.

Because now I'm in her apartment.

Now I'm in her space.

And everything smells like her. The vanilla and floral scent that clings to her skin seems to permeate the entire apartment, filling my lungs with every breath. I push off the door and make my way toward her.

"You, there," I say, nudging her into her bedroom, guiding her in before she can get herself into even more trouble.

She stumbles forward, laughing under her breath.

And fuck me, I want to follow.

I want to step inside, close the door, press her up against it.

I want to drag that dress off her myself.

Take my time with it. Undo the zipper slowly, feel her shiver under my hands, let my fingers trace every inch of bare skin I reveal.

Jesus.

I grip the doorframe tighter.

Not tonight.

Not like this.

"You get decent," I tell her, voice gruffer than I mean it to be.

She half-turns, lazily lifting a brow. "Define decent."

I shut the door in her face.

Hard.

Her laugh rings out from the other side, muffled but unmistakable.

I scrub a hand down my face, forcing myself to back away, to put distance between me and the very, very stupid ideas forming in my head.

No way. Not tonight.

Not when she's drunk off her ass and stripping like it's my own personal test of restraint.

I turn back toward the living room, my pulse still pounding. Izzy's place is exactly what I expected and also nothing like I expected.

It's small, but it's comfortable. Cozy. The apartment has character—high ceilings typical of older Hoboken buildings, large windows that likely offer a view of the Manhattan skyline during the day. Family photos line the walls, many showing what must be her Italian family—brothers, parents, and an elderly woman who has to be the Nonna she mentioned.

It smells like her. Vanilla and coconut. Unmistakably Izzy.

And it's fucking with my head.

Because now I'm in her space.

Now I'm standing in her living room, looking at the blanket tossed over the couch, the half-read book on the coffee table. Now I'm too close, and she's just past that wall, stripping out of her dress and crawling into bed.

Jesus.

I need to get out of here.

But, the universe hates me because as soon as I have that thought, I hear her call out my name, as clear as day.

I step into her bedroom, and she's already half-buried under the covers, blinking up at me, completely boneless.

"You should sleep with me," she slurs.

My brain misfires.

I just stare at her.

"What?"

"Sleep with me," she repeats, patting the bed. "You're all big and warm. It'll be nice."

Big and warm.

Jesus Christ.

"No," I say, far too quickly.

She pouts again. "Why not?"

Because I'm already walking a razor's edge with you, sweetheart.

Because I already can't stop thinking about how soft you are, how good you feel pressed against me.

Because if I get in that bed with you, I won't sleep.

Because I will think about touching you all fucking night.

"I'm not leaving you alone like this," I say instead. "But I'll sleep on the couch."

She blinks at me, slow and drowsy. Then, to my absolute fucking horror, she smiles.

Like I just said something sweet.

Like she likes that I won't leave her alone.

Like she wants me here.

I swallow hard. "Go to sleep, Izzy."

She sighs, curling into her pillow.

I force myself to back out of the room.

To close the door.

To walk away from her.

I sit on the couch, drop my head back, exhale.

I need to get a grip.

She's just through that wall.

Sleeping.

Drunk and reckless, and so fucking sweet it hurts.

I let my eyes close.

My phone vibrates.

I don't even need to look.

I already know what it is.

She just messaged Caleb.