His short responses always irritated me, but right then, they were infuriating. “All right.” I crossed my arms. “Tell me, Muscle Boy. What are you interested in?”
“You.”
I stared at him, blinking. Had he actually said that?
No. He couldn’t have meant it.
“You’re still lying.”
“I’m not,” he said.
I went to the other side of the bar, and the lead bartender took over the side with Grant. I couldn’t deal with him right now. He was only saying that stuff because he wanted me sexually. There was no interest in that, only pure lust. Because, being the stupid ass that I am, I had given in to my libido and gotten him to finger me instead of training. He wasn’t thinking with his brain. Or his heart. He was thinking with his cock.
But my heart was racing. Grant liking me, actuallylikingme, was not a situation I wanted to be in. He had left before. What would stop him from doing it again?
As soon as I saw it was my fifteen, I went to the back room. I was desperate for a break to breathe. I hastily opened the locker. Grains of white dust fell out, like an avalanche, dotted with red liquid.
White dust. Blood. Dean.
I looked around in a frenzy, my heart thumping so loud it blocked out any sounds. A few of the other employees looked at me with blank faces, gawking at the mess on the floor, and the manager said something, but I didn’t hear what he said.
It could have been one of the waitresses, but I knew it wasn’t.
The stalker had been here. In the restaurant. Right under my nose.
A picture message on my phone, of Grant and I talking at the bar.He won’t be there forever, it said.
My jacket was covered in white powder. I left it there. Flour or sugar. Red food coloring. Corn syrup or not. The message was loud and clear.
