His eyes narrow. “Are you sorry we were?”
My stomach flips over. The meth-head’s knife very nearly sliced into my face, and if the three men hadn’t shown up when they did, there’s a decent chance my mugger’s next slash would’ve caught something vital.
“No. But I will mind if you keep following me.”
Ryland just shrugs, as if there’s nothing he can do about that.
“I don’t want you following me,” I repeat more forcefully. My heart is beating harder, rattling in my chest. I’m not sorry I didn’t end up dead in a robbery attempt a week ago, but that doesn’t mean I want any part of whatever this thing is.
The broad-shouldered man crosses his arms over his chest again. “It’s not up to me.”
“Right.” I lick my lips, taking one step closer to him, even though I have to force my feet to obey. “It’s Marcus’s call. Well, in that case, I’ve got a message you can pass along to Marcus, all right? Tell him to fuck off.”
With those words, I turn on my heel and walk quickly back toward my apartment building, unlocking the door before gathering up all my shit one-handed and slipping inside the apartment.
I never once look back across the street to see if Ryland is still there.
I don’t have to.
I can feel his gaze on me even as the front door swings shut behind me.
Chapter 4
The temptation to lock myself in my apartment like I’m trying to survive a zombie apocalypse is strong.
But if I hide, that means they win.
So despite the fact that my skin prickles with nerves every time I step outside my apartment building, I continue to go about my regular routine for the next two days.
I’m off work today, which means I actually could refuse to leave my apartment if I wanted to, but instead, I head to the library. My gaze darts quickly around the street as I head toward the bus stop, my hand unconsciously curling into a fist.
There’s no sign of Ryland or Marcus or their other friend, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t mean shit.
I sit at the back of the bus, which is my usual spot anyway—but today, there’s even more reason for it. I want a wall at my back, and I want to be able to keep an eye on the other passengers.
Shit. For all I know, it’s not just those three men who are watching me. Ryland said something about covering for Marcus because his friend had other shit to do and asked him to.
How many people has that psychopath roped into following me around?
The potential answers to that question do nothing to settle my nerves, so I push them out of my head and dart off the bus quickly when it reaches my stop. Hiking my bag higher on my shoulder, I make a beeline toward the library’s imposing stone steps and take them two at a time.
Only once I step inside the dim, quiet space do my nerves unwind a little. I know I’m not technically any safer here than I would be anywhere else, but the hushed, hallowed atmosphere calms me a little.
Nodding to the librarian at the front desk, I make my way to the worn stairs on one side of the building and head up to the second floor.
Since I can’t afford to go to school yet, the library has become my de facto classroom, the place I go to make sure I won’t be too far behind when I finally save up enough to afford a college education. This branch of the Halston Public Library is old, dingy, and understaffed. But it’s big, and it’s got a decent selection of books.
A while ago, I got my hands on a list of “Fifty Classics You Need to Read” or some shit like that, and I’ve been working my way through the list slowly but surely. I try to make myself focus on math and science books too, but to be honest, the fictional ones interest me more.
Some of them are shit. Catcher in the Rye? Ugh. Go fuck yourself, Holden Caulfield.
But a lot of them are amazing, and when I sit in my favorite spot in the back of the library and get lost between the pages of a book, all of my own problems and worries seem to disappear for a while.
Today, I’m on the hunt for something new by Virginia Woolf. I’ve read a few of her books already, and I’m craving the dark, melancholy atmosphere that seems to pervade her stories.
I’m browsing through the stacks when the fine hairs on the back of my neck suddenly rise on end. My fingers freeze on the spine of a book, my heart lurching in my chest, picking up its pace so fast it almost leaves me nauseated.
Fuck.
The prickling feeling grows more intense, and when I turn around, I almost crash backward into the large shelving unit.
Marcus stands there, so close he could reach out and touch me. Jesus, how did he get so fucking close before I even realized he was there? He’s like a goddamn ghost.
My lungs burn, demanding more oxygen, but I refuse to let him see me gasp for air. I refuse to let him know how much he scared me.
Swallowing, I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze dead on. “This doesn’t look like you fucking off.”
He chuckles lightly, a rough sound that seems to rumble in his chest. “Yeah. I got that message.”
“So? Fuck off.”
Despite the heavy thud of my heart, my voice is strong. But if I expected my words to have any damn effect on him, I’m disappointed. He doesn’t budge, just stands there staring at me from two feet away.
My legs burn with the impulse to run. To flee. To get away from this man, as far and as fast as I can. But I’m rooted to the spot, and I can’t tell if it’s fear that binds me in place or something else.
We’re in the far eastern corner of the library, and it’s a Tuesday afternoon. There’s no one else around, and I’m not even sure the librarian at the front desk would hear me if I yelled.
When I spoke earlier, I kept my voice library-quiet out of habit—but the truth is, there’s no one around to hear us at any volume.
“Why did you do it?”
Marcus’s voice is quiet too, although I’m sure it’s not out of respect for the library, and there’s an intensity in his words that seems to burn through my skin.
I know what he’s talking about. He’s referring to the night I got shot. The night I almost died. It doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure that out. But I see no reason to give him any ground at all.
“Do what?” I keep my face impassive.
His eyes narrow slightly, and he steps forward, closing the space between us until our chests are practically brushing. “You know what.”
I have a sudden impulse to put my hand on his broad chest. To hold him at bay. To create some kind of barrier between us.
But for some reason, I’m terrified of touching him like that. So instead, I grab on to one of the shelves behind me, my hand near my hip, clutching the ancient metal like a lifeline.
“Is that why you’ve been following me all this time?” I have to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. “Just to ask me that? You could’ve saved yourself a long-ass time and asked me months ago.”
“I’m asking now.”
Up close, I can see every detail of his face, and I can’t help but drink it all in. This is the first time I’ve truly gotten a good look at him. Every other time I’ve seen this man, his features have been partially obscured by shadows, or by the shifting lights inside the club that night.