Page 1 of Stalkers Anonymous

Chapter One: Cole

“My name is Cole. And… I’m a recovering stalker.”

The words feel like sandpaper in my throat, rough and uncomfortable. Six pairs of eyes stare back at me with a mixture of boredom, understanding, and judgment. The fluorescent lights of the Fort Collins community center basement buzz overhead, casting everyone in an unflattering, sickly yellow glow.

“Thank you for sharing, Cole,” says Tracey Doyle, the group’s therapist. She sits perfectly straight in her metal folding chair, clipboard balanced on her knees, pen poised like she’s ready to document my every breath. Her blunt-cut bob and cardigan scream “I have multiple degrees in analyzing your bullshit, and I’ll see straight through you,” but her eyes are kind. Something in my gut tells me it’s a dangerous combination.

“Since this is your first meeting with us, would you like to share a bit about what brought you to IBSG—Interpersonal Boundaries Support Group?” she asks, her voice neutral but expectant.

A tall, well-built man two seats down from her coughs into his hand, choking out “Stalkers Anonymous” like he’s correcting her. Several of the other group members chuckle, shit-eating grins plastered across their amused faces.

I don’t miss the way Tracey immediately rolls her eyes, like she’s heard this a few too many times. “This is serious, Tyler. You don’t encompass the full scope of the group’s issues by boiling it all down to one word. You’re people with boundary issues. You don’t always know when you’ve crossed a line, but that doesn’t mean you’re stalkers.” Tyler lets out a defeated sigh and sinks down into his chair, and Tracey quickly pulls the group’s attention back to me. “What brought you to us, Cole?”

What brought me here?

Simple. I got caught.

“My new employer felt it was a necessary precaution,” I say casually, keeping my answer as vague as I can. “I’m in security.”

I don’t mention Emma or her piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend.

“And how do you feel about being here?” Tracey presses, her pen scratching against her clipboard.

“Honestly? I think it’s overkill.” I lean back in my chair, its metal legs creaking beneath my weight. “I’m not some obsessed ex who can’t take no for an answer. What I did wasn’t far outside the scope of my profession.”

HR at NextGen Security was pissy about “inappropriate surveillance techniques” and “invasion of privacy” when I used company resources to track down Emma’s ex, Stephen—or, as I prefer to call him, Shitbag Steve. That fucker had the audacity to lawyer up, then sue NextGen for their part in what happened. As part of the settlement, they traded his signature on an NDA for my resignation.

One of my buddies from my army days reached out when he heard through the grapevine that I’d lost my job. Jack Morrison owns Fortress Security Systems—a smaller outfit than NextGen, but a solid company with a good reputation. We served two special ops tours together in Afghanistan, so Jack knows I’m not the type to go off the rails without good reason.

He understood what I did. Why I did it.

“Look, Cole,” he’d said over drinks at Tallon’s Pub three weeks ago, “I’ve got an opening for someone with your skillset, but I’m going to be straight with you—if you want this job, there are going to be conditions.”

Jack had already talked to his HR director prior to meeting with me. They’d done their homework, looked into what happened with Shitbag Steve, probably ran deep background checks, dotted their i’s and crossed their t’s. I can’t say I blame them.

I’d have done the same, and then some.

The job offer came with strings attached: minimum six months in a support group for people who struggle with “boundaries.”

“You get help, you get the job,” Jack said, sliding the business card for IBSG across the sticky bar table. “You don’t, and we part ways. Your choice.”

It wasn’t really a choice, though, and Jack knew it. We both did. He was sticking his neck out for me in ways that could blow back on his business to throw me a lifeline when no one else would even return my calls.

So here I am, sitting in a circle of metal chairs that screech against the linoleum floor every time someone shifts their weight, trying to figure out how to explain all of this—any of this—without sounding like I actually belong here.

A jacked guy with tousled red hair and full tattoo sleeves throws his head back and laughs. “Man, that’s exactly what I said my first day. ‘I’m not creepy, I’m just passionate about my art.’”

He leans forward, extending a gentle hand. “I’m Grant, by the way. Professional photographer.”

He leans on professional, like we both know he’s taken some distinctly unprofessional pictures, too. If having his name on a business card makes him feel good about how he uses a telephoto lens, who am I to judge?

We shake hands, though I’m unsure how to perceive him.

“We don’t judge here,” Tracey explains, practically reading my mind, “but we do hold each other accountable. Everyone in this room has crossed boundaries in ways that felt justified at the time.”

She gestures around the circle. “Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves briefly so that Cole can learn a little bit about us? It’s been a while since we’ve had a new member. You’ve met Grant. Next to him is Tyler.”

Tyler nods at me, his light-brown face clean-shaven, his medium-brown eyes alert. “Hey. I own Elevate Brewing downtown. This is my sixth month in the program.” He doesn’t elaborate on his offense, and no one presses him. They already know, and with time, I’m sure I will, too.