Page 6 of Tony

Lucky for him, she doesn’t feel the same way back.

If she did feel the same way back, I’d have to step in and take control of that situation. Because she’s still mine. She will always be mine until we kill each other, or get sick of the hate fucks, or get that therapy we desperately need.

Or something.

But she doesn’t feel the same way about Vann, so I’m ignoring him and stalking her.

I’ve been stalking her for three days now. And tonight there is no Vann to get in my way. It’s his night off. So tonight, when she comes out of the shop at two AM, she will be alone. And tonight, I will follow her in the shadows. And then I will take her by surprise. Scare her a little, probably. At first, anyway. She might hit me. No, she will definitely hit me. Probably grab my hair with both hands, knee me in the balls, and then punch me in the mouth.

Or at least she’ll try.

But just before she does all those things, I’ll spin her around, cover her mouth with my hand, and lean in to her ear and say something hot like… “I’m gonna fuck you now, Rosalinda.”

And then she’ll know it’s me. And she’ll be pissed. But not that pissed. And she’ll let me drag her around the side of her garage-slash-apartment and fuck her up against the weathered old wood siding.

I really hope there’s enough light to see her tears.

Maybe I should reconsider the fuck spot?

I’m thinking about this when she comes out of the shop. But… she’s not alone.

She’s not with Vann. She’s with Sick Boyz number two and three. The twins. I’m not sure which is which, but it doesn’t matter. They live at the Vaughn family mansion. They are walking her home.

Plans interrupted, but no big deal. I’m not one of those rigid dudes. I can bend. So maybe I have to put a little more effort into that final leg of this plot. Or maybe I have to actually sneak into her apartment after she goes inside. That could be fun. So I deal with the twins by keeping a safe distance as I stalk them, taking in small details about Rosalinda that I hadn’t had time to notice before. I catch a glimpse of her pink ponytail under the streetlights. It appears and disappears as they walk down the block. Pink. Black. Pink. Black. A lot of hair has fallen out of the elastic holding the ponytail up. And I wonder if she wears it like that on purpose or if she’s just had a long day. She wears skirts a lot. And cowboy boots. Sometimes she wears jeans, but they always have rips and tears in them. Rips and tears that look genuinely worn instead of artfully placed by some fashion designer.

That’s her new Colorado look. Her new Belinda look. Her new life look.

I call it the long-rough-day look.

But every glimpse of her I’ve seen since arriving in town, she’s been smiling.

So which is it, Rosalinda? Are you weary? Or are you excited about this new life?

This girl is Belinda. She is almost nothing like the Rosalie I once knew. I saw it immediately back in Key West and it kinda pissed me off. Not that she turned into someone new, but that her new look was as alluring to me as the old one.

I almost feel like she did that on purpose.

Like she’s been planning this moment for eight years. Like everything she’s done since she was brought to this town totally against her will and forced into taking a new name, and a new job, and a new look was done with the express purpose that when I came looking for her—and she knew I’d come eventually—I’d see it.

I’d see that she moved on, and forgot all about me, and embraced something new.

Does she cry after she fucks her new men?

I can’t think about it. I’ll just get irrationally jealous. And it is irrational. Because I do not want her. I don’t. I might not understand why I’m here, or what I’m doing, or how I’ll feel after I fuck her tonight—but I do know how it will end.

It will end with us going our separate ways.

That’s the only way it can end.

I do not love her. She does not love me.

We are sickly twisted. Illogically entwined. Irrationally connected.

None of it makes sense and this connection needs to be severed for good. I’m counting on this ex-sex hate fuck—or possibly fucks in the plural—to break my obsession so I can figure out what’s going on with the witnesses and then get my ass back home where I belong.

So I forget about the men she might or might not be fucking, and instead I concentrate on the twins because I know she’s not fucking them. Not with their little brother, Vann, throwing himself at her every chance he gets.

Everyone in the little group in front of me is wearing boots. I recognize the dull thud of footsteps on the concrete sidewalk. Vaughn brothers number two and three are much taller than Belinda. They tower over her, glancing at each other frequently, only occasionally looking down at the small girl between them. But they laugh easily. Telling inside jokes, maybe, or recounting some customer experience they shared today.