I groan and roll my neck, realizing this vintage chair I spent ten grand on is a lot better to look at than sit in for hours.
I finish my stretch and then jump out of the goddamn chair because3...
There she is.
My sleeping feet hurt as blood trickles back in, and I’m mystified by a new sensation in my stomach.
She’s wearing a burgundy sweatshirt, and I resist the urge to read the university seal on the front. I can find out anything on just about anyone. My connections can do things the NSA can only dream of.
But for some reason, I don’t want to read about her in a file. I want to hear it from her lips. I need to drip this budding obsession slowly and carefully, if I don't want to become an addict.
That’s not it. I don’t care about being an addict if she is my drug.
I want to draw this out, pull on this string loosely tethering us together, until it becomes so taut it snaps.
I have to readjust my dick in my pants when she pauses outside of the bookstore and gathers her long, dark-strawberry hair in her hands and lifts it off her neck. I’ve always had a thing for necks. The way they curve gracefully, the skin soft and thin. The way a pulse will flutter faintly until you start squeezing. Then you can really feel it thump under your fingertips.
She does some magic trick only girls can do, wiggling and wrapping her hair until it’s secure on the top of her head. Her ass is round and full in her black leggings as she walks into the bookstore, and I clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms.
I watch attentively as she disappears from view. I want to know which book she’s looking for. Does she like the thrill of true crime? Can she stomach the grisly details, or does she grow white and nauseous at the mention of blood? Does she want a knight in shining armor to sweep her away like a princess in a fairy tale?
I can’t be her knight.
But I can be herking.
1.Psycho—VOSTOK | SummerOtoole.com/Playlists
2.Stop playing Psycho
3.Devil—Niykee Heaton
Chapter five
Prey and Prey
Harlow
Thenextfewdaysare rather uneventful. He walks most places, which makes trailing him easy. And I’m getting better at remaining stealthy. Throughout the day, I’ll switch up which glasses, hat, or sweater I’m wearing. I’ll put my hair up and then take it down. Sometimes I’ll put on bulky headphones, and I’ve even taken to changing my phone case if I use it as a cover for a long time.
While I’m certain he has not seen me, I am less certain I’ve seen anything. I follow him around from his apartment to a cobbler to a sandwich shop. He stops to chat with the bodega owner and seems to be best fucking buds with every barista and bartender in town. But even when I spend twelve hours watching his every move, I don’t learn a single thing about him except that he only drinks espresso like some pompous asshole.
It’s not like he’s walking around all day either. Most of the time he’s inside a building, and I’ve only been brave enough to follow him inside once. It was the bookstore, and only because I was confident I would have enough shelves and aisles to stay discreet.
I chew on the straw of a smoothie I picked up as an on-the-go lunch. I don’t know what I expected. Him to commit murder in broad daylight? Laughable.
Even the cigarette butt I was so excited about is useless. Not only is it inadmissible, Leo refuses to tell me if the killer’s DNA was even found on Beth or the scene. And even if he was reckless enough to leave anything behind—which is a big if—what am I going to do? Become a biochemist overnight? I can’t do shit with a cigarette butt other than throw it in the trash.
Currently, Cash has been waiting outside this ice cream shop for the past five minutes. He’s not smoking or talking, so I don’t know what for. His dark sunglasses hide his eyes, making me wonder where he’s looking. His form-fitting, white dress shirt’s sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and his hand tattoo stares back at me, taunting me. His neckline has fallen open, the top few buttons left undone, and his tattoos crawl up his chest. If I’m lucky, he’ll poison himself with all that ink.
I don’t think that’s possible, but it’s a nice thought. Especially when it’s absolutely cruel and unfair that when he’s not stabbing people to death he’s objectively and undeniably very attractive. It makes me want to punch him in his chiseled jawline for daring to appear so handsome and unfazed, when my world has been turned upside down, violently shaken, ripped apart, and then set on fire. Byhim.
A vintage muscle car pulls up and three white men step out. I don’t know what I was expecting. A drive-by shooting? A drug delivery? I don’t know, but it certainly wasn’t this.
I recognize one of them from the first day outside the apartment. Judging by the familial look, these are his other two brothers. And the four of them are chatting and laughing and walking into the ice cream shop…
Fox family fun day at the ice cream store?
Once I pick my jaw up off the floor, it takes me all of two seconds to decide that I’m going in. It’s foolish, risky, and most likely my death sentence, but the chance to eavesdrop on all four Fox brothers? I can’t miss it.