The road plays on and I follow it, driving toward nothing and everything, alone but somehow less alone than I've been in years. And in the back of my mind, a voice that’s quiet but insistent, whispers that this was just the beginning.
That everything is about to change.
That he is out there somewhere, in the night, and our paths will cross again.
I don't know if that voice is hope or fear.
Maybe it’s both.
CHAPTER FOUR
DOM
I keep two miles back, close enough to see her taillights when the road curves, far enough that she won't notice the same headlights in her rearview for hours. Not that she’s checking. I can tell by the way she drives, relaxed and unhurried like she’s the only person on the planet. No paranoia, no constant mirror-checking, no sudden lane changes to test if someone is following. She drives like someone who's never had a reason to look over her shoulder.
That’s going to change.
My car hums beneath me, a familiar vibration that has become as natural as breathing over the years. I've driven this car across half the country, through deserts and mountains and forgotten towns where people still think the world is a good place. Where they still believe in things like safety and trust and the fundamental decency of strangers.
Fucking idiots.
The road winds out ahead, only a handful of vehicles pass by. Those ridiculous fairy lights are visible through the back windows, a soft light that makes the whole thing look like some kind of bohemian dream. I can picture her in there, surroundedby her art and her music and all the beautiful dark angel energy she carries around like a second skin.
She's driving north out of Moab, just like I'd guessed she would. There are only so many routes through this part of Utah, and I know them all. I’ve driven through them enough times to know every rest stop, every scenic overlook, every shitty little town that exists solely to extract money from tourists stupid enough to think they’re having an authentic experience.
To be honest I've been following people for years, I was paid to do it for a while in my past life, and it paid fucking well. I earned money doing something that fed the demon inside of me. After a while, I knew how to read patterns of behavior, anticipate their movements, learning how to stay invisible until the moment I wanted to be seen. It was a skill I'd developed out of necessity first, then refined into something close to an artform when it became a job, turning into a unique skill.
Most of the time, I’d followed people who deserved what was coming to them. Dealers who sold to kids. Men who put their hands on women who said no. The kind of human garbage that made the world a worse place just by existing in it. You’d be surprised how many people were willing to pay to end others. I'd follow them for days sometimes, learning their routines, finding the perfect moment when they were alone and vulnerable and in a position to understand that actions have consequences.
I don’t feel bad about it, or even lose sleep over the bodies I've left behind in alleys, empty parking lots and stretches of desert where nobody would find them for months. The world is better off without them, and I’m better off knowing I removed another piece of shit from the equation.
But this is different.
Roxy hasn't done anything wrong. She isn’t hurting anyone, or making the world worse. If anything, she is one of the fewpeople I've ever met who seems to see things clearly, who wears her true self like a beautiful piece of clothing for everyone to see.
So why am I following her?
The question lingers in my head as I drive with the window down, smoking another cigarette to relax me. The engine's growl drowns out everything except my own thoughts. I could tell myself it’s intrigue, or say I just want to see where she’s going, what she’s doing, to find out whether that moment on the roadside had been real or just a fluke. I could pretend this is casual, meaningless, something I'll get bored with within a day or two.
But I've never been good at lying to myself.
I’m following her because I want her. I need to know everything about her, like what she thinks about when she’s alone, what makes her smile, what she looks like when she comes apart under someone's hands. I want to peel back every layer until I understand exactly what had broken her to become this way. I also desperately want to see what my hands look like wrapped around her slim neck while I fuck her.
But what I want the most is to own that darkness that lives inside of her, to claim it and make sure nobody else ever gets close enough to see what I'd seen in her eyes.
A lot of people would think this is screwed up. I know that every day people don't follow strangers across state lines, or obsess over a ten minute conversation that made them feel this bone deep certainty that someone belonged to them after a single meeting.
Her van's taillights disappear around a curve and I speed up, closing the distance slightly. The road climbs into the mountains, winding through red rock formations that look black in the darkness. Beautiful country, if you’re the type to care about that sort of thing. I've always preferred cities as I love the anonymity, the constant noise, the way you can disappear intothe crowd and nobody gives a shit who you are or what you've done.
But watching her van navigate these empty roads, I’m starting to see the appeal. Out here, there is nobody to witness, nobody to judge you or interfere. Just miles of nothing and the two of us moving through it like ghosts.
I know she has to stop eventually. Nobody drives all night, especially not in a van that looks like it’s held together with duct tape and wishful thinking. She'll pull over at a rest stop or a campground, maybe park in some scenic overlook to watch the sunrise and draw whatever catches her eye.
And I'll be there.
Not right away, as I’m not stupid enough to make it obvious. But close enough that our paths will cross again, to the point that she'll start to wonder if it’s coincidence or something else. The frequent interactions will plant a seed, so the idea of me will start to take root in her mind in the same way the very idea of her has already consumed mine.
I've done this dance before. I know how to make someone feel hunted without them quite understanding why. How to be everywhere and nowhere, and to make my presence felt without being seen. It’s a game I've always been good at, a particular kind of psychological warfare that most people are too oblivious to even notice.
