Текст книги "Haunting Adeline"

Автор книги: H W Carlton

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

Chapter 6

The Shadow

T he crackle from the small device indicates my directions are about to come in. I shake out my fists, restlessness binding my nerves into tight knots.

“Five bodies in the main area, all of them armed. Three more on their six and four on their twelve.”

I crack my neck, enjoying the feeling of my bones popping. Tension releases and my shoulders relax.

Twelve men won’t be too hard to take down, but I’m going to have to be quick and stealthy. It was easier to pick off the guards surrounding the decrepit warehouse.

The sun has long since fallen, providing ample coverage. It took two seconds to find a spot hidden in the shadows, giving me the perfect angle for a sniper shot.

Their mistake was relying on their limited eyesight for intruders. My ability to hide in the shadows is what ultimately got them killed.

Should’ve had night vision goggles like me.

Maybe then I would’ve had a bit of entertainment.

I lick my lips, anticipation sharp on my tongue.

“Be careful, Z,” says my righthand man, Jay. His hacking skills are nearly as good as mine—and only because I was his teacher.

I created an entire organization built solely around ending human trafficking. I started out as a hacker exposing the truths of our corrupt government. And then, as I became more aware of their true nature—the depravity of their sickness, it turned into personally snuffing out every single one of these sick bastards, starting from the bottom up.

Terminate all the worker bees, and the queen is left vulnerable and weak.

But I couldn’t be both a hacker and a mercenary, and what I really enjoy doing is being the one to put the bullet in their heads myself.

So, I created my org, Z, from the ground up, recruiting a team of hackers to help the mercenaries with their job—get into the rings, kill them all, and get the victims out safely. I stationed my mercenaries in high-rate trafficking areas and assigned them their own team of hackers. Now, Z has become so big that there are teams in every state, and several outside of the country as well.

Jay is the only mouth I need in my ear—his skill levels out to the equivalent of what three hackers could do. And he’s the only one I trust with my life.

I don’t acknowledge Jay’s sentiment.

I don’t fucking need luck. Just skill and patience. And I have both in spades.

Slinking up to the door, I keep my body close to the wall and my footsteps undetectable.

When I reach the door, I hear the subtle click of the door unlocking.

Jay’s doing.

Despite the decay of the building, it’s still equipped with the latest technology where needed.

The ring leaders want to keep the appearance of a rundown, abandoned building to remain under the radar. But completely impenetrable for squatters and graffiti artists.

“It’s clear. Systems are down for ten seconds, get in now.”

Quickly, I turn the handle and slip through in a matter of seconds, opening the door just enough to fit my body through. The metal door shuts behind me soundlessly.

The old building is mostly an open concept. I came through the back door that leads into a dimly lit hallway. Straight ahead and to the left will open up to where the machinery used to be when this was a rubber factory.

That is where the girls are being held.

Muffled screams reach my ears—the sounds of girls crying and in pain. White-hot rage blinds my vision, but I don’t rush in or lose my shit.

No one can do this job and lose their fucking shit, otherwise, these girls would never be saved.

It’s hard not to, though. These assholes bring out the worst in me.

“Overrode the cameras. You have one hour before the system resets, and I’m kicked out,” Jay informs.

I only need ten minutes.

Keeping to the shadows, I make my way through the hallway and peek around the corner. There are thin cots scattered across about a thousand square feet of space. Each cot is accompanied by a metal pole installed from the ground up. Each girl is chained to the poles by a metal collar that prevents them from moving only a couple of feet from their cots.

I flex my fists, tightening them until my hands go numb.

I pull my gun out of the back of my jeans.

Once they notice the first man is down, the rest will open fire, which is why I need to be careful and quick.

Whether they’re going to be careless about the girls is impossible to say. The men know the risk if their leaders find out a virgin girl was killed. That means money taken out of someone’s pockets and their head on a stake to set an example.

But some of these men care more about their own lives, even if it means they’re walking around with a hit on their head.

Just as Jay said, three men stand guard in front of me, completely unaware of my presence.

Stupid fucks.

I’ll never understand how people can’t sense danger when it’s right up their assholes.

Shit boggles me.

In one quick succession, I take out all three men. Their bodies drop, and a few of the girls jump. Some cry and hunker down, while others stay deathly silent. A normal reaction for a little girl would be to scream, but these girls have already been desensitized to murder.

The five men in the pit of girls turn their heads in tandem, their faces morphing from surprise to alarm to anger in a matter of seconds. Immediately, they scramble for their guns.

My body is still concealed by the wall I’m hiding behind. Two of them open fire, forcing me to back away. One bullet skids across the corner of the wall, right past my face. Chunks of concrete fly into my eyes as more bullets ping around me. I grunt, rubbing at my lids to clear my vision.

Right as I ready up again, one guy comes barreling around the corner. He’s dead before he even spots me, a nice little hole right between his brows.

He was an ugly motherfucker anyway. World will do just fine without him.

Before his body can topple over, I grip him by the collar of his shirt and bring him in close. Wincing at the bad breath emanating from the rotting hole in his face, I step out of the hallway, using the dead man as a shield against the flying bullets still hurdling my way.

The dead body takes a few hits while I fire off two single shots. Two more bodies go down, and I step back inside the hallway, pushing away the bloodied man who’s now riddled with bullets.

His head smacks off the concrete floor with a sickening thud.

I used his body as a shield for five seconds, but I still got lucky. It’s not like the movies. Bullets can easily fly through bodies. Entry and exit point. Just to enter right back into my body.

I don’t use other people for shields unless I have to, and it’s only for a few seconds at a time.

A chorus of noises arise in the warehouse in the form of terrified screams from the girls, shouts of panic from the men, orders to “kill the puta,” and yells of outrage for the girls to stop crying.

There are still six men left, and I can feel the panic crawling off them.

“Come out, with your hands raised and gun on the floor, or I’ll start killing these bitches!” one of them shouts, his voice echoing.

I sigh, roll my shoulders, and do as he says. I drop my gun on the floor and step out with my hands raised. The six men stand before the group of girls, keeping them safe from stray bullets. The knowledge that they’re only doing so to ensure the product isn’t damaged rather than giving a shit about hurting them burns hot in my chest.

“Come on, the fun was just starting,” I croon, a smirk pulling my lips up.

“Shut up!” the man spits. He’s a Mexican man with a shaved head, tattoos covering him from head to toe, and wearing clothes that look like they haven’t been washed in weeks.

And look at that—quite the gnarly scar on his forehead.

Goddamn. It looks like someone took a bread knife and just sawed at his head.

This must be dear ol’ Fernando. Just who I was looking for.

Fernando’s eyes are wide with fear and based on the crack pipes sitting on the table behind him, I’d say most of them are high off their rockers.

Not so good.

They get trigger-happy when they’re tripping on whatever substance they injected into their tired veins.

And I got six of those happy fingers on triggers.

“Who sent you?” Fernando shouts, emphasizing his question with a wave of his gun.

“I sent myself,” I answer dryly.

Why do they always think I’m working for someone else? I don’t work for anyone but myself.

The man holds his gun above my head and shoots it off, attempting to scare me.

See?

Trigger happy.

I don’t flinch. Instead, I take the time to look at my surroundings better. There’s a table to my left, littered with guns, ashtrays, empty beer cans, and another crack pipe.

Perfect.

“Don’t make me ask again, cabrón,” the man says, his finger caressing the trigger.

“You Fernando?” I ask, keeping my body as still as ice. The man’s brows jump in surprise, and I see the paranoia leaking into his eyes from here.

He’s not going to be much help like I had hoped. He’s buzzing too hard.

“How you know that, huh? You following me?”

I smile, baring all my teeth. “It’s what I do best after all. I heard you’re the main man around here. Running the show and all that.”

He shifts. The asshole can’t help but feel a little pride, I just know it. Like he’s doing something good in the world, when all he’s doing is plaguing hundreds of little boys’ and girls’ nightmares.

“I was hoping you could help me out, man.”

“Yeah?” he patronizes. “You think so? You think I’m going to tell you shit, man?”

He fires off another shot, this time next to me. Too close for comfort. Enough to feel the heat of the bullet. I still don’t flinch, and if anything, that pisses him off more.

I sigh. With his current state of mind, he’s useless to me. Just gonna have to kidnap his ass and wait till he comes down from his high.

A quick sweep of my eyes proves that I have about two seconds before the rest of the men start shooting, regardless of what comes out of my mouth.

Two seconds—that’s all it takes to stick my hand in my hoodie pocket and fire off a shot through the material, downing one of the men to my left.

The surprise of that move gives me a small window of time to upend the table and roll behind it.

Glass shatters from the ashtrays, and a gun falls off the table and discharges, eliciting shocked screams from the girls.

Fuck. If that bullet ricochets and lands within an inch of those girls, I’m going to let them stab me for sure.

No cries of pain follow, so I blow out a deep breath. Relieved, but no less pissed at myself.

Like clockwork, a stream of bullets impales the thick, wooden table. Lucky for me, most don’t make it through.

It’s too dangerous for me to return fire. I won’t be able to peek my pinky toe out without it getting shot off, and I refuse to endanger these girls even more and fire blindly. I don’t take shots unless I’m positive they’ll hit true.

The only thing I can do is wait.

It doesn’t take long for them to empty their clips.

I hear the rustling of clothing and muttered curses as they scramble to reload.

It takes even less time for me to shoot the remaining four dead, sans Fernando. I’m going to save him for later.

The bullets rip through their brains in such quick succession that their bodies drop at the same time.

“You see that?” I ask aloud, already knowing Jay is watching through the cameras.

“Fuck, it only took you eight minutes,” Jay groans through my earpiece.

“Five hundred bucks, fucker,” is my smug answer. A string of curses leaves his mouth, but I tune him out.

Fernando is spitting out his own colorful tirade as he scrambles to find another gun. I shoot him in the knee, the angry man collapsing instantly. Screams of raw pain and anger fill the warehouse, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was a little girl himself.

No—the girls in this warehouse are far tougher than he could ever hope to be. He's just a whiny bitch trapped in a man’s body.

I stand and saunter over to Fernando, enjoying the sight of him clutching his knee, blood bubbling from the wound and onto the floor. His face is red, full of murderous intent as he glares at me.

I ignore the look, instead surveying the copious amounts of blood streaking the cement floor. I don’t want the girls to have to step through it.

“Jay, have Ruby make a pathway for these girls.” Ruby is one member of the crew who comes in, explicitly assigned to handle the survivors and get them to safety. She’s a redheaded spitfire but turns to mush when she’s around any of the women or children we save.

“A pathway?”

“Yeah, I don’t want a drop of blood on their toes.”

The warehouse is full of about fifty girls, all deeply traumatized and broken. They will never have to wash blood from their bodies again if I have anything to do with it.

One of the girls stands, a fierce expression on her face. She can’t be more than fifteen years old, but a pedophile ring will age anyone significantly.

“Are you going to hurt us, too?” she asks loudly. Her dirty brown hair is tangled around her face. She’s filthy—they all are.

The extensive amount of skin showing is smudged with dirt and blood. She looks the oldest, and by her protective stance, she’s pronounced herself the mother of the group.

All of the girls here were kidnapped within the past six days. Six days of unspeakable torture and assault that will stay with them for the rest of their lives. Six days of dirty men sexualizing, beating, and molesting them. The young girls would not have been deflowered, but that doesn’t mean the monsters didn’t find other ways to get pleasure out of them.

Jay and I have been watching this location for the past twelve hours, identifying both the girls and the men. Each second that ticked by felt like an eternity—knowing that they were enduring something horrific.

While Jay kept tabs, I allowed myself five hours of sleep before I came here, enough time to keep my mind sharp. I have to be at my absolute best if I’m going to get them out alive.

“I’m here to get you girls home,” I respond, tucking my gun back in my boot.

She looks at me warily, as do some of the other girls.

None of them are going to trust me.

I get it.

I’m scarred from head to toe, have two different colored eyes—both on the dramatic spectrum—and I’m not a small guy. Not to mention, I just murdered a bunch of men in front of their faces.

“Backup is coming in,” Jay informs, right before I hear the back door open and several people rush in.

“Young man, it’s a bloodbath in here. These poor girls! Shame on you, Z.” I wince at the sound of Ruby's voice. Can’t make me flinch from firing off a bullet two inches from my head but Ruby… God help me.

“It couldn’t be avoided, Ruby. I—"

“Not another word from you. If your mother were here, she’d have your ass.”

I grunt but don’t respond, letting her hem and haw over the survivors while still muttering reprimands under her breath. Ruby was a good friend of my mom’s and likes to remind me—and the rest of the crew—that she used to wipe my ass when I was a baby.

If I could’ve killed the traffickers in private, I would’ve, and I hate that I added to their trauma. But when you have a warehouse full of armed men, there’s no calling them back to your office one at a time like they’re being fired from their job. They need to be taken down swiftly where they stand. Otherwise, there’s room for error, potentially resulting in one of the survivors getting hurt or killed.

Necessary means to get the girls out.

The other two that came in with Ruby, Michael and Steve, take care of the bodies. Michael is dragging a struggling Fernando out, tossing me the keys to the girls' chains as he passes by. Ruby already found another set on one of the dead bodies and is currently unchaining the others.

I approach the mother hen of the group and unchain her collar, my hand nearly shaking from the fury of having to unhook a fucking collar from a little girl’s neck. Welts and a large bruise encircle her throat, but I don’t let her see the rage simmering beneath the surface. She stares at me silently, suspicion and tentative hope warring in her pretty light brown eyes.

Her eyes remind me of my little mouse, and something protective flares inside my chest.

“What’s your name, kid?” I ask, keeping my eyes trained to hers. She’s probably waiting for my leery gaze to travel the expanse of her body, but she won’t ever get that shit from me.

“Sicily,” she answers. I quirk a brow.

“Is that where your parents come from?” I question, noting her tanned skin peeking from beneath the grime on her face.

She nods her head tentatively. “Ma and Pa were born there, but they haven’t been able to go back since they were in their teens. They said they named me after the island because even though they’re homesick, I provide them with the only home they need.”

I nod, eyeing her face. Purple blooms from her right eye, and another spark of anger ignites.

“You ready to give them a home again?”

She pauses, and then a small smile forms. “Yes,” she whispers.

Tears flood her eyes, but I don’t let her know that I noticed. I can tell she wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Let’s go then, kid.”

This little girl will go back home, and though she has a long journey ahead of her, she’ll heal.

We keep tabs on all the girls we extract to ensure they don’t go missing again. If it can happen once, it can happen twice.

She huddles in close to me as we walk out of the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a girl step in blood. I pause, pointing at her but glaring at Ruby.

“Ruby! What’d I say? Not a drop of blood on the girls.”

Ruby startles, roles reversing as she rushes towards the girl with shame.

“I’m sorry, honey bunny, let me clean you up,” she coos to the little girl with way more than just a fucking drop on her foot. “Watch your step, okay?”

I turn, satisfied that she won’t let it happen again.

I help Sicily navigate through the carnage, keeping one eye firmly on her feet and where she walks. When she’s in the clear, I lead her to the van where they’ll transport her safely to the hospital. There, her family will be notified.

I whistle an unnamed tune as I let my crew take care of the rest and head to my Mustang, hidden in another parking lot across the street. I’m eager to get the fuck out of here.

My hunt isn’t over yet. I have to play with my little mouse now.

Chapter 7

The Manipulator

“Y ou need to get out of the house," Daya concludes, staring at me with fear and distress swirling in her sage eyes. I just told her about my mom’s visit yesterday.

By the look on her face, I can tell that she’s well and truly scared for me.

"I need to finish this manuscript," I argue, my thoughts straying to the massive plot hole I’ve fallen into. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I press the proverbial Life Alert—I can’t get up. I’m going to have to roll out my whiteboard and sticky notes to map out the plot tonight, so I can figure out how to solve the issue once and for all.

Sometimes I wish I could just simplify my books and call it a day, but then I wouldn't have the readership I have.

"Uh uh," Daya snipes, shaking her head at me. "Get ready. We're having a girls night."

I slump, the whiteboard and sticky notes going poof. But I don't argue. I'm an indie author, so I publish when I'm ready to. I hardly set deadlines for myself because the pressure suppresses my creativity. I can’t write when I’m too ridden with anxiety to get the book done by a specific time. And as great as my readers are, there’s always that pressure to get the next book out.

Of course, Daya knows this and now wields this knowledge as a weapon.

Dick.

Groaning, I let her hurdle me up the stairs and into my bedroom, my eyes immediately finding the mirror and chest—they always seem to do that now after finding out what really happened in here.

Those two pieces feel like beacons in the room now, glaring at me as if to say I know who killed her.

It doesn’t matter that I slapped some black paint on them. The bones are still the same.

The walls and floor are smooth black rock now, with white ceilings and large white rugs to lighten up the room. I also installed a heating system in the floors. Otherwise, getting up in the middle of the night to pee and stepping on ice-cold floors would just be cruel and unusual punishment.

I decided I love the sconces in the hallway so much that I wanted a few in my room, too. Placed artfully on the wall my bed is against, surrounding a massive, beautiful art piece of a woman.

Straight ahead of the bedroom door is my favorite part—the balcony. Black double doors open up to a terrace that overlooks the cliffside. It has a way of making you feel small and insignificant when you’re standing before a sight as beautiful as that.

The entire house has now been modernized, though I kept most of the original style. The sconces, checkered floors, black stone fireplace, and black cabinets, just to name a few. Most importantly, I kept Gigi’s red velvet rocking chair.

I'm living in a Victorian gothic dreamhouse.

"We're going to make you look hot and find you a delicious man to take home tonight. And if the stalker comes around, he can kill him, too."

I roll my eyes. "Daya, it's hard to find a man these days that can even fuck right. You think I'm going to find a man that will kill in my honor, too? That's cute."

"You never know, baby girl. Crazier things have happened."

The bass pumping through the speakers vibrates throughout my body. My black, ripped skinny jeans cling to my curves, and the plunging low cut red tank shows off my ample cleavage along with the small glistening beads of sweat between my breasts.

It’s fucking hotter than Hades’s ballsack, and the alcohol pumping through my veins doesn’t help matters.

For a solid hour, Daya and I stick close to each other and dance. We both briefly separate to dance with a few men, but I tend to tire of the groping hands quickly and always find my way back to my best friend.

Suddenly, a heavy presence crowds into my back, his hands sliding around my waist and pressing in close. A whiff of spearmint and whiskey invades my senses right before I feel his breath on my ear.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his spearmint gum stinging my nose now that he’s closer. I wrinkle my nose and turn my head to see a tall, attractive man leaning over me.

He has strawberry blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, and a killer smile.

Just my type.

I grin. “Why, thank you,” I respond sweetly. Social situations nearly send me into hibernation, but I’ve always been skilled at flirting. Too bad most times, I can’t stand to do it.

Men have a unique way of killing my mood every time I come within ten feet of them.

“Come upstairs with me,” he yells over the music. His voice isn’t aggressive by any means, but it’s not a question either. It’s a demand that leaves little room for argument.

I like that.

I cock a brow. “And if I don’t?” I ask.

His smile widens. “You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

The other brow joins its twin, hiking halfway up my forehead.

“Really,” I say demurely. “What kind of plans do you have for me that I’d regret missing out on for the rest of my life?”

“The kind that leaves you naked and sated in my bed.”

“Bitch, let’s go already,” Daya cuts in. My head turns to her, but I feel the man’s eyes linger on my face, caressing my cheek like a feather tracing across skin.

Daya is standing in front of us, impatiently waving her hand towards the stairs that lead to the second floor. She must've been eavesdropping, and she doesn't look the least bit ashamed.

When we both just stare at her, she huffs and rolls her eyes.

“We get it, you’re hot for each other. And she doesn’t go anywhere without me. So, let’s go already.” She waves her hands at us more urgently, shooing us towards the stairs.

The man laughs and seizes the opportunity provided by my dear best friend. Grabbing my hand, he leads me towards the black metal stairs at the back of the club.

But not before I shoot Daya a narrow-eyed look. One which she dutifully cackles at.

Upstairs is for VIP members only. The stairs lead up to a balcony that overlooks the entirety of the club. It’s where the rich, important people drink, staring out at us like a bunch of bugs trapped in a science experiment.

The atmosphere up here is darker, denser, and has a vibe that has my instincts flaring red. Walking up here feels like sticking my head into a hornet’s nest. And the bastards won’t stop stinging until they tire of you, or you’re dead.

Four men are draped across a black leather booth formed in a half-moon. In the center is a black marble table occupied by several glasses of amber liquid, along with a few crystal ashtrays. There’s barely a hint of color in here, the décor reminding me of Parsons Manor.

A man eyes the both of us with a predatory and calculated gleam. He looks eerily similar to the man who has his hand wrapped around mine. Same strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes, though this one appears younger and a tad more wicked.

The other three men are equally handsome, all sporting the same dark and dangerous type. One man appears European with white-blonde hair, fair, pale skin, and sharp angular features. His hooded icy blue eyes are locked on Daya as hers sweep across the small, intimate room. His gaze is already tracing the dips and curves of her body hungrily. My instincts spike again, telling me to pop the man’s eyes out of their sockets and throw them over the balcony.

The remaining two men are twins with tanned skin, dark hair and eyes and killer bodies. Their suits can barely contain the muscles threatening to rip the expensive fabric at the seams.

One twin has long hair tied back in a bun and several rings adorning his fingers, while the other has his hair cropped close to his head and a diamond nose ring.

All four of them could easily ruin my life. And I would be hesitant to stop them.

“So, you finally grew the balls and got her,” the blonde man says, grinning devilishly at me. He’s the only one out of the four that isn’t eye-fucking us. Honestly, he looks like he’d be far more interested in eating babies for dinner.

There’s a dark aura around him. If I could guess, the unsettling atmosphere up here derives directly from him. His energy sprouts and festers until it makes you feel like you’re trapped in a room breathing in black smoke.

“Quiet, Connor,” the man says from beside me, his tone low and full of warning.

I nearly roll my eyes. He looks like a Connor. The frat boy that hangs around unoccupied drinks and sneaks his phone under girls’ skirts to take pictures.

“Ladies, sorry for his rude behavior,” my new friend says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “That’s my brother, Connor. The twins, Landon and Luke. And then Max.”

He points to each man respectively. Landon being the twin with the man bun, and Luke the one with a nose ring. I train my gaze on my companion with an expectant brow raised.

“And your name?”

“I’m Archibald Talaverra III. You can call me Arch.”

“Sounds pretentious,” I muse, smiling at the fact that he gave me his full name.

Who actually introduces themselves to a stranger that way? Archibald Talaverra, the third. Just call me your Royal Highn-ass.

His brother, Connor, laughs in response, seeming to agree.

Arch opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “I’m Addie. And this is Daya,” I introduce, pointing towards my best friend. She offers a smile, but her stare is sharp and assessing. She’s too keen and intelligent to get sucked into danger like I tend to do.

“Nice to meet you, ladies,” Max murmurs, his attention still glued to Daya. Matter of fact, the twins have hardly looked away from her since the moment she walked into the room, either.

Every bit of me wants to step in front of her and protect her from the prying, feral eyes. But Daya can handle her own, so I stay beside her. Ready to attack if needed.

“Sit, please,” Arch urges. There’s plenty of room on the booth but the two of us decide to sit on the end, closest to Max.

My phone buzzes as soon as my ass hits the soft leather. Noticing that Daya has been immediately sucked into a conversation with Max, and Arch is filling up a glass of expensive bourbon, I sneak a peek at the text.

UNKNOWN: Sneaking off with random men, little mouse? If I catch his hands anywhere near you, they’ll end up in your mailbox by morning.

My heart stills in my chest. This is the first time he has actually communicated with me outside of an ominous note.

My eyes snap up towards the balcony. No one can see us from here. We’re too far back from the railing. But yet, someone is clearly watching me.

But how?

And how the hell did he get my number? Scratch that, that was a stupid question. He’s a fucking stalker, for god’s sake. Of course, he has my number.

Arch walks over and hands me a drink, a smile on his face. He thinks he’s getting laid tonight.

Normally, he might have. But it looks like I might have to save his life instead and get the hell away from him.

An hour passes, and I grow more nervous as each minute ticks by. I haven’t received another text, but it’s sitting there, weighing down the back of my brain. I fear my brain stem will snap from the tension.

Arch’s hands definitely touch me. One currently rests on my thigh, dangerously close to my center. I stare down at the star tattooed on his thumb, my mind conjuring images of holding it—without his body attached.

Yet, I let it happen, even though I shouldn’t. And because I shouldn’t, I can’t stop staring at them, imagining them chopped off at the wrist and bloody. Sitting in my mailbox.

I don’t even have a mailbox.

My house is too far back from the road, so my mail is just left on my front step.

Shouldn’t a stalker know that?

What a shitty little shadow.

“You having fun?” Arch asks, nudging me with his shoulders. I nod absently as I continue to abuse my lip trapped beneath my teeth.

I should run. I should tell this man to get his hand off of me if only it means it’ll never be severed from his body and left in my nonexistent mailbox.

“You’re tense,” Arch observes quietly. I clear my throat and open my mouth, but another buzz from my back pocket interrupts me.

I can feel the color leech from my face. Arch’s brows dip with concern, and it reminds me of the poor man that I nearly gave a heart attack by the cliff’s edge.