There’s a presence in my life that I can’t see, eyes that burn into my skin whenever I leave the house, and even then. Some mornings I roll over and swear there’s a scent apart from laundry detergent and my own perfume on the pillow beside me, but that’s insane…isn’t it?
I thought so until this morning. In fact, there have been many times in the last few months when I swore I was losing my mind. There is no other explanation for the way my skin pricks under watchful eyes I can’t see. Some days I find myself standing by my second-story window, looking down at the street below me, scanning for a ghost I’m not sure exists.
But this morning, I found the owner of the eyes, and that owner was familiar. Too familiar. They’re the same blue eyes that haunt my dreams at night. The same ones I find myself dreaming of despite how dangerous he is.
I only met Tommy Hart once, and yet he’s been the star in more dreams than I care to admit. He saved me, held me when I was too afraid to close my eyes, and he brought me home, checked every single room, every cupboard, even going as far as checking the crawl space in the roof before giving me a sweet kiss on the cheek and disappearing into the night.
So why is he on my street this morning? What possible business does he have on this side of the city at eight in the morning? Wynter keeps me out of the darker parts of her job, but I’m well aware of what Tommy does for a living, and my understanding is that his role in the business is done under cover of night, not on a Tuesday morning on a bustling street.
As soon as he realizes I’ve seen him, he turns on his heel and shoves through a group of people before retreating up the street. If I wasn’t suspicious before, I sure as hell am now, and I find myself stepping toward the curb out of instinct. Why would Tommy be following me? I’m pretty sure Wynter hasn’t arranged a security detail for me, but maybe she has and just forgot to tell me. Except, that’s not what Tommy does for the business, so it still doesn’t explain why he would be here or why he’s running from me.
I take a quick look both ways before stepping into the street, careful to avoid the black ice on the road. January is freezing in Chicago, a far stretch from Florida, where I spent my teen years. For most people, it may seem like a strange turn of events to move from warm all year round to the cold Midwest, but I love this city, and I’ll never regret my decision to escape the hell I grew up in and the people who made my very existence a nightmare. I’ve never felt as free as I have since I moved here, even if I’m still afraid of my own shadow.
It’s unlike me to chase after someone like Tommy or anyone, really. I’m too shy to date or speak to men, or anyone I don’t know, if I’m honest, so why do my feet carry me of their own accord?
The sound of screeching tires makes me pause, and when my eyes meet a car careening toward me, going entirely too fast, I’m frozen in place. I need to move, but my feet are rooted to the road, staring at my own demise rushing toward me. Why can’t I move? Why does it feel like there’s concrete attached to my ankles and I’m just staring at a car as it rushes toward me?
I don’t have much time to ponder any of those questions as chaos ensues around me. People scream at me to move, to get out of the way. The car speeding toward me has their horn blaring. And yet I can’t bring myself to move, can’t bring myself to tear my eyes off the late model sedan that’s about to hit me.
At the very last second, when I can almost feel the cool steel of the bumper against my legs, strong arms wrap around my body and pull me out of the way. The car grazes my calf as I’m whipped out of the way and pain radiates up my leg until a scream tears from my lungs. Holy shit. I could have died. I could have been hit by that car and thrown down the street. But I wasn’t. Someone saved me. Someone put their own body on the line, and that someone is still holding on to me, their arms shaking around my torso.
I look down to see scarred tattooed hands splayed across my stomach, holding me against the owner with such force it borders on pain, but I’m grateful for it. I need to feel it to remind myself I wasn’t hit.
“What the hell were you thinking, Clara?” he snaps, and I’d know that deep rumble anywhere. It’s featured in my dreams, whispered dirty words to me as I’ve touched myself to the thought of them, and has told me I’m safe when I’ve woken up in a cold sweat. Well, his voice in my mind has. I’ve only ever heard his voice once in real life.
“Tommy?” I whisper, looking up over my shoulder and meeting his intense blue eyes filled with fury.
“Hello, little fawn.”
