My stomach dips.
It’s not the man with the mis-matched eyes. I can tell that much even from this distance. This man’s hair is darker and cut shorter, his frame a little more broad. It’s not the same man.
It’s one of his friends.
The guy must’ve noticed me staring at him, since I’m not being subtle about it at all, but he doesn’t react in any way. He doesn’t turn his gaze away as if chagrined at being caught. Nor does he push away from the car to walk toward me.
He just… waits.
And watches.
His focus on me is so intense that I feel it like a brand on my skin, and fear churns inside me. But instead of making me shrink away or dart inside the building and hide, it makes me puff up.
I spent a large part of my life thinking it was better to stay off the radar, to make myself seem as unimportant and inconspicuous as possible as a way of avoiding unwanted trouble. But experience has taught me that strategy doesn’t always work, and that sometimes it can even have the opposite effect. It can make predators think you’re weak.
My jacket slips from my arm again, and the prosthesis lands on top of it with a light thunk. My pulse races as I walk quickly back down the steps and march across the road, barely looking to make sure no cars are coming. The stranger watches me approach, the same indiscernible expression remaining on his face—as if he’s a statue come to life, solid stone that only looks like warm flesh.
When I’m several feet away from him, I raise my voice, still moving quickly across the road. “What the hell are you doing here? What do you want?”
He doesn’t answer until I get closer, and even then, his only reply is a silent shrug of his shoulders.
“I’m serious.” My voice is hard. I feel a little like a chihuahua yapping at a bigger dog, and I work hard to keep my voice level and strong as I speak. I may be afraid, but it’ll be worse for me if he knows that. “What the fuck are you doing here? Were you in that alley the other night? Did that man die? The one you attacked?”
“You mean, the one who attacked you?” The man tosses my words back at me, and I hesitate for a moment. His voice is deep and gruff, infused with a gravel that makes him sound older than he probably is—early twenties, I’m guessing.
“Is he dead?” I ask, my voice catching a little on the last word. He was so still when they finally dragged him away.
“No.”
His voice is clipped and curt, and the single-word answer doesn’t reassure me at all.
The guy must read the expression on my face, because his eyes narrow a little, anger sparking in their hazel depths. “He’s not. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to though. I don’t give a fuck.”
That, I definitely believe. This man seems almost angry at me, as if I’ve done something to offend him somehow, even though I’ve never met him before in my life.
He’s well-dressed in stylish slacks and a jacket over a crisp white shirt. Tattoos peek out from the top of his collar and the ends of his sleeves, swirling multi-colored ink that draws my gaze. It seems so incongruous with the rest of his appearance, a rough edge around a manicured package.
“What are you doing here?” I ask again, standing a little taller.
His jaw muscles ripple slightly as if he’s clenching his teeth together. His jacket stretches over his broad shoulders when he crosses his arms. “Marcus can’t watch out for you all the time. So we pick up the slack when he can’t.”
My head jerks back. I blink up at him, trying to absorb the meaning of his words. Marcus can’t watch out for you all the time.
So the man with the strangely beautiful eyes has been watching me. Following me. And not only that, but he’s recruited other people to help him. This guy said “we.” How many people does that mean? What do they want with me?
“Oh yeah?” I lift my chin. “And what’s your name?”
I try to inject a sense of threat into my voice as if I’m gathering information on him to report him to the police. Whatever the hell has these guys following me around, maybe I can scare them out of it.
But the burly man with the short-cropped hair doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t even hesitate. “Ryland Bennett.”
His hard features are still radiating anger. I swear I can feel it in every line of his tense muscles, and it makes my heart beat harder, fear and an answering anger rising up inside me. He’s acting like I did something to him, like we’ve got a years-old grudge between us that I never knew about. But I don’t know this man. What could he possibly hate me for?
“Were you there that night?” I ask suddenly. “Outside Club 47?”
I know he was. I’d bet every last penny in my pitiful savings account that he was. But I want to hear him confirm it. I want to prove to myself that I’m not crazy—that I should’ve been more paranoid over the past several days, not less.
The man named Ryland stiffens. His hazel eyes go even colder, which I wouldn’t have thought was possible. He uncrosses his arms, one hand actually clenching into a fist, and I draw back as a sudden memory of the meth-head’s fate pops into my head.
Ryland notices my reaction. His lips curl back in something like annoyance or frustration, and he deliberately shakes his hand out, letting the fingers loosen. “I’m not gonna fucking hurt you.”
“Then what do you want?”
His eyes glitter. “From you? Nothing.”
“So why are you here?”
“I told you.”
“Because that guy Marcus told you to?”
One of his muscled shoulders lifts in a half-shrug, and he doesn’t look away from my eyes.
Worry and confusion spin through my head as I gaze back at him, my head tilted up to meet his stare. He’s beautiful. His features are broad and heavy, but perfectly proportioned so that they complement each other well. There’s a small scar above his left eyebrow, a little lighter than the rest of his olive skin. If he smiled, I have a feeling it would be devastating—but I also can’t quite imagine him smiling. The firm set of his mouth suggests that it doesn’t happen often.
“Were you following me the other night?” I press. “Is that how you were in the right place at exactly the right time?”
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.
