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“Your sandwich. Not good?”
“Oh,” I say with a wave of my hand. “It was fine. My newsfeed, however, sucks dried up cat shit. Have a seat?”
“Sure,” he says with a laugh. “Taking a break or are you done for the day?”
“A break. I have a lecture in a couple of hours and didn’t want to go home. It’s too hard to leave again once I’m settled in, you know?” My routine is to pop into an on-campus coffee shop, grab a chai, and a snack while digging into some reading or starting on a paper. Damian nods as if he understands but doesn’t say anything. “And you?”
“Done for the day, just lurking.”
“Is it coincidence that we’re running into each other only after a formal introduction a few days ago?”
“It’s said that coincidence is an explanation used only by liars,” he says.
“Let me guess? You’re not a liar.”
“Never,” he confirms.
“So, you knew I’d be here?”
“No. But I have noticed you. Maybe I made a concerted effort to notice you,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s not weird at all.
“And why is that? Better yet, why should I not be freaked out by it?” I’m not worried about him, which should be worrying in itself.
“Alexander mentioned you often, said you studied here. I liked checking up on you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I tell him, resting my chin in my hands while I try to study his features, his reactions. Damian isn’t hard to look at. His dark hair falls low, almost hiding one of his equally dark eyebrows. His eyes contrast them in a light hazel shade. He’s handsome, clean cut, but with an edge that portrays danger with all the black tattoos that peek out around the hems of his expensive clothing. Today, he’s dressed down in a hoody, but even that screams pricey to a trained eye.
“No, you don’t. I didn’t do it for you, anyway.”
I tilt my head at his words. Does that mean Zander wanted him to check up on me?
“Why do you call him Alexander?”
“Because nobody else does,” he says with a wide smile. His teeth are bright and perfect. I wonder if this man has any physical flaw.
“You’re one of those,” I tease.
“One of what, Ms. Cole?”
“Someone who likes to stand out.”
“Not even remotely. I prefer to keep quietly to myself in the shadows.” The way he says it sounds ominously sexual, and like the other night at the game, I have to tell my lady parts to settle down.
“That’s… unexpected. What made you decide to study cults,” I ask, changing the subject so I can watch his thick black lashes blink at me.
“I met a woman.”
“Ooh, cliché much, Mr. March?”
He laughs. “I was already very interested in group behavior and was deep diving into both extremes with religion and the military. But then I met Delilah, a survivor of a polygamist cult. My focus shifted there; it wasn’t much of a stretch.”
“I can see that,” I agree. “All three use similar tactics. How did you meet her?”
“She’s my best friend’s little sister’s best friend,” he says, smiling again at his convoluted description. “She’s practically their third sibling, so we all grew very close.”
“This is back in Louisiana, that’s where you said you were from, right?”
“You cannot tell by accent, ma chérie?” he asks, exaggerating the words with a Creole lilt.
