I haven’t taken a day off in years. The only exception was the holiday Wynter took me on last year for my birthday. And before that, it was the days I was forced to take off school because of the jobs my father forced me to do.
I squeeze my eyes shut to push down the panic that threatens at the edge of my vision. Thinking about my family always has this effect on me, which is one of the reasons I don’t take time off. Hell, I’m lucky if I take a full weekend. Because when my mind is clear and I’m left with nothing but my thoughts, I can’t help but allow the darkness to crawl in.
My worries are cut off when a loud knock at the door startles me. Who the hell could that be? I glance at the clock in the kitchen. It’s only ten in the morning. Why would anyone be knocking on my door? Hell, why would anyone be knocking at any time of day? I don’t have any friends apart from Wynter, and all my mail is held downstairs, so there’s no reason for them to be up here.
“Clara?” A deep voice penetrates the door and my heart stalls in my chest. No, it can’t be him. Why would he be back? He has no reason to be here. He’s done his good deed for the day and probably the year if the stories about him are true.
I don’t answer him because every word that comes to mind is stuck in my throat. I need to tell him to leave because I can’t trust myself around him, but I can’t bring myself to do it. The words sit heavy on my tongue, begging to be said, but I can’t force them out.
“Clara? Are you okay?” His words are tense and when I don’t reply this time, there’s a long pause. Maybe he left. That would make sense. He has no reason to be here, and maybe he’s satisfied that I’m asleep or something. Not that I would be. I sleep ten to six every single night without exception. It’s a routine I thrive off and one I implemented not long after I moved here. When you grow up the way I did, there’s no such thing as routine. There’re late nights and sleeping in. There’s missing school for days at a time and not being able to tell your teachers the real reason.
But the silence is interrupted by metal on metal, and I realize too late what he’s doing. He’s unlocking the fucking door.
Tommy appears in the doorway, his dark-blond hair windblown and his hands full of bags. Why does he have so many bags?
“Did you just let yourself into my apartment?” I blurt out.
“I used your spare.”
“How do you know where I keep my spare?”
He shrugs and his lips quirk up into a smirk. “I know all the hiding places people use.”
Of course he does. Because he’s a literal serial killer. He kills people for a living. It’s his job. So naturally, he knows how to get into people’s apartments. Wait. Is he here to kill me? Is that why he happened to be on my street this morning? Dread seeps into my veins and despite the questions on my tongue, I can’t bring myself to reply. What do you say to the man who is about to end your life?
He pauses a few feet away from the couch, and his brows pull together as his eyes sweep over me. I’m still sitting in the same place he left me, and I haven’t bothered to change because I’m too scared to try to walk on my leg. I’ve had worse injuries, so many of them I can’t recall most of them, but since I moved here, my pain threshold has taken a hit, and now I’m scared of it.
“What’s wrong?” he finally asks and drops the bags beside the couch.
“Are you here to kill me?” I ask.
I may as well be up front because what’s the worst that can happen? If he’s here to steal my final breath from my lungs, he’s going to do it regardless of whether I see it coming, so I may as well be able to prepare myself for the eventuality.
“Is there a reason I should?” he asks, his lips turning into a hard line.
Oh, maybe there is a worst that could happen. What if he wasn’t here to end me, but by my thinking that was the case, he’s suspicious of—
“You’re spiraling.”
“What?”
“You’re spiraling. You get into your head about things and it gets out of control. Wynter was talking about it this morning.” He closes the distance between us and drops to his knees beside the couch. The big bad serial killer doesn’t seem so menacing when he’s on his knees, but I don’t dare comment on it for fear he’ll leave again.
“I do not spiral.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I think we both know that’s a lie, fawn.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
His intense eyes meet mine and he considers me for long seconds before shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I guess you just remind me of one.” But there’s more to it than that, and he doesn’t need to say the words for me to know his intention.
He’s calling me weak. Not directly of course, because people don’t do that. Not usually at least. Normally people lie about how they really feel and say the things they mean to other people because most people are assholes.
Before I can think through a response, he starts pulling things from the bags and setting them down between the side table and the couch. A bag of chips, a bandage, some cream I can’t easily identify, a bottle of vodka. The strange array of items has my brows pulling together and my lips quirking up in a smile. What the hell was the store clerk thinking when he dumped this shit on the counter?
“What are you doing here?”
“Wynter was worried about you, and her being worried makes Everett almost have kittens. So I’m making sure you have everything you could ever possibly need so they can remain calm.”
Disappointment washes over me like an ice-cold wave, but that’s ridiculous. Because if his answer upsets me, that would mean I care if he wants to see me or not, and I most certainly don’t give a shit about Tommy or who he spends time with.
“She’s going to kill him before she has that baby,” I scoff.
“I’m not sure if she’ll kill him or if the man is going to drop dead seeing her in so much pain during childbirth.”
He’s got that right. Everett can’t stand the idea of Wynter in pain. They’d be cute if they weren’t so revolting. It’s not that I’m not happy for her because I am. The day Everett walked back into her life was like a switch flicked and my boss went from surviving to thriving. But their almost constant PDA and the number of times they call and drop in on one another is bordering on ridiculous.
“I can look after myself.” I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to distance myself from him.
Men don’t like it when you close yourself off to them, and I’ve perfected the art of driving the opposite sex away. It’s become a fine art over the years, but Tommy doesn’t seem affected at all.
“I know.”
“So you can leave.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.” He shrugs and pulls a bag of my favorite potato chips from the bag and hands them to me.
How does he know ranch is my favorite? I don’t think I’ve ever eaten them in front of Wynter and she’s as close to a friend as I’ve made in this city.
I take the bag from him slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There’s always another shoe. No one does something for nothing, and that’s a reality I’ve learned the hard way over and over again.
