The man holds me to him, walking me up to my unit. He takes his time with me, being extremely patient as I try to get my shaking legs up the steps to the second floor.
Once we reach my unit and he opens the door, it doesn’t hit me until we’re inside that he knows where I live.
So why don’t you feel like you’re in danger?
Because I’m not. I just know it.
I’m sure of it.
He closes the door behind us, flips on the light switch, and walks me down the short hall to my room. That’s when I see his skin.
Decorated. Like one massive piece of art.
No longer crying, I ask through shuddering breaths, “Have you been here before?”
But he doesn’t answer me.
Walking me to my bed, he sits me down, then walks out my bedroom door. Not thirty seconds pass when I hear the shower start, then he’s back in my room.
He doesn’t even look at me, just goes through my drawers, pulling out items of clothing for me.
So while I have a moment, I take him in.
If I saw this man on the street, the way he’s dressed right now, I would put my head down and walk the other way. And pray to God that he doesn’t see me do that, because a man looking like this while being pissed off is surely not a good thing.
He is gorgeous, though. Just not in a conventional way.
He’s tall, a little over six feet, with a muscular body and olive skin. His dark brown hair is shaved close to the scalp at the sides, but long on the top. He wears dark blue jeans that encase his long and powerful legs, a white tee that covers his broad chest and shoulders, and he’s rocking white sneakers and a thick black leather belt. But it’s what’s under the tee that draws me in.
Tattoos line his arms and neck. He has a small 13 tattooed on his right cheekbone.
The backs of his hands are beautiful. There’s no other word for it. On the back of the left hand is an intricate, black-shaded rose with a smoky grey outline; the right hand has a grey-shaded skull with smoke lacing through it. It looks so lifelike, I shiver.
Oh God.
“You’re hurt.”
His knuckles are bleeding and swollen.
Stopping in his tracks, he turns his hooded eyes to me. They aren’t hooded in a sexy way, just a bored, broody kind of way. Permanently.
It looks good on him.
He’s handsome and would look something like a clothing model without the tattoos. He has a strong chin, full bottom lip, and high cheekbones. His eyes are a soft brown. He mumbles, “Don’t worry about it. Go shower.”
Not sure why I’m taking orders from a man who likes to watch me from under a hood, but I am. As soon as I stand, the hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I ask his retreating back, “Will you still be here when I get out?”
Turning slowly, he watches me curiously from those hooded eyes. We watch each other for a good thirty seconds before he asks in that husky voice, “You want me to be?”
Not trusting myself to speak, I avoid his eyes and nod.
I feel immediate relief when he nods in return, turns, and orders, “Shower.”
Taking my robe off the back of my bedroom door, I shuffle my way into my small bathroom and undress without looking in the mirror. If I look in the mirror at the state of myself right now, I know I’ll be past freaked-out. In fact, I’m sort of questioning why I’m not freaking out more than I am.
Stupidly, I peek at my reflection and bark out a laugh.
The mirror is so fogged that I can’t see a thing. It just wasn’t meant to be.
Undressing quickly, I step into the scalding hot spray, and hold myself there for as long as possible without actually getting burned. Reaching out blindly, I turn the knobs until the spray turns cooler and think about what just happened to me.
Did I really just get assaulted by a big scary man, then get saved by my stalker?
…Yeah. That about sums it up.
The first tear comes hard.
The next comes easier.
The rest fall freely, as if they were summoned by the first.
Holding a palm up to the wall of the shower to steady myself, my body shakes in silent sobs.
I don’t want him to hear me.
Breathing deeply, I pull myself together and use the last of my energy to wash my hair. I soap up, rinse off, and head out.
Wrapping myself in my robe, I brush out my hair, then exit the bathroom to hear movement in the kitchen. Stepping into my room, I drop the robe and dress in the clothes he’s laid out for me.
It’s only once I’m dressed that I realize he’s chosen my favorite pajama combo.
Coincidence?
Somehow, I think not.
Making my way down the hall in my Elmo pajama pants, white tank, and wet hair, I slowly walk into my TV room, glancing around cautiously. From where I stand, I see him standing in the doorway of the refrigerator with his back to me.
Knowing there’s nothing in there for him to eat, I cringe. From what little I know about him, I know that I always see him on the street, wearing the same clothes. My caseworker brain automatically assumes he’s homeless.
My chest squeezes. He must be hungry.
I clear my throat and he turns to me, “Hungry?”
My brows furrow in confusion. Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?
“Uh, no. I don’t think I could eat, even if I wanted to.”
He nods thoughtfully, then asks, “You good?” while eyeing my body.
Dipping my chin, I answer back softly, “Yes. And I would’ve been a hundred times worse if you weren’t there, so...”
My heart races. I’m suddenly nervous and antsy.
“Th-thank you. F-for what you did back there,” I stutter.
His glacial eyes bore into mine. He mocks, “Don’t kid yourself.”
Taking a step towards me, his hooded brown eyes almost see right through me. “Monsters don’t always lurk in the shadows.”
Reaching up, he runs a fingertip slowly down the length of my jaw. Leaning forward, his breath warms me as he mutters a hairs-breadth away from my lips, “Sometimes they hide in plain sight.”
Eyes still closed, I break into goosebumps, and the hair on the back of my neck stands. My nipples tighten when he runs his thumb down
my cheek, so so gently. He mutters, “Got some scrapes.”
I swallow hard and step back from him.
He’s like a magnet, drawing my positive to his negative. It’s too much right now.
Opening my eyes to find his still on my face, I ask a hushed, “What’s your name?”
The corner of his lip tips up. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll forget it once I’m gone.”
Taking a small step towards him, I promise, “No, I won’t.”
It’s his turn to take a step back.
He watches me some more. Those eyes. It feels as if they see everything.
Breathing in, he replies on an exhale, “I’m Twitch.”
Twitch?
Twitch? …Really?
Feeling a little braver, I explain, “I meant your real name.”
“That is my real name.”
Shaking my head, I say quietly, “No, your given name.”
He looks annoyed. “That name was given to me.”
Now, I’m annoyed. “By your parents?”
He returns, “No. Does that make it any less my name? It’s the only one you’re getting, so take it or leave it.”
Hmmm. Interesting.
I look around the room, anywhere to avoid his eyes and ask, “Why do you…” stalk “…watch me?”
When I get no answer, I look up to find him inspecting me again.
It’s strange. He doesn’t look like a predator. Certainly doesn’t act like one. So what’s the deal?
Irritation surges through me quick as lightning. Placing a hand on my hip, I ask, “What is your deal?”
To that, I get a reaction. He smirks, knowing he’s getting to me, “It’s called people-watching.”
Frustrated, I scoff, “People-watching is watching multiple people. Different people in different situations. You are not people watching. You’re sta—”
All of a sudden, he’s up in my face. He’s so close, I can smell him.
“I’m what?” he says, daring me to say the ugly word.
Taking a deep breath, I wish I hadn’t. He smells really good. Like aftershave and musk…and all man.
I whisper, “I just want to know why you watch me?”
Not answering, he states acidly, “It was a fucking good thing I was, don’t you think?”