Page 121 of Intrepid

She may as well have brought her own stage pole, for the kind of sex her body promised.

Only difference between Tight Shirt and me was what I was willing to do to claim her first.

Still, I waited.

Watching.

After all, a true hunter practiced patience. He knew to study his prey. Making himself privy to her flaws. Her weaknesses. Her insecurities. It was all about timing, the glorious moment when predator and prey would cross paths, and it wouldn’t be in a chaotic instance of distraction, but like lightning and thunder coming together in one masterful strike.

Tight Shirt strode through the crowd, stopping every so often to indulge in a grope, or grind, with whatever piece of ass got in his way on course toward the girl.

She, on the other hand, existed in her own world, oblivious to the dangers around her, unaware of the signals her body sent to every horny douchebag up in the club, including myself.

I’d spent the last hour suppressing the desires she’d stoked in me, turning away others who’d never measure up to her.

It wouldn’t be long, though. The sweat on her skin, the exhaustion in her eyes, the smile on her face told me she’d almost had her fill. Soon, she’d be looking for a shower, a soft bed, and the pills she’d begun to take to ensure she slept through the night.

Tight Shirt finally crossed through the throng, and the split second his hand gripped her elbow, the first pang of jealousy struck. That he could so easily reach out and touch her hit my heart like a white hot blade slicing through liquid metal. So many nights I’d dreamed of it, reaching out for nothing but ghosts in the air. And there some bold asshole dared to grasp what belonged to me.

The girl spun around, the tight knit of her brows announcing his touch wasn’t welcome.

I smiled.

She wrenched her elbow free, tilting her head slightly to the side to hide her scar.

I watched.

As he stepped toward her, she stepped back, in a dance I was all too-familiar with, where she was concerned.

I waited.

The final shake of her head killed his single opportunity, and when she walked along the edge of the crowd toward me, the smile she’d worn just minutes ago fizzling to sadness, I ducked my head to avoid making eye contact. Her scent drifted past me—a sweet coconut sugar I could have damned near lick from the air.

Tight Shirt followed after her, and as he approached, I stepped into his path, blocking his chase.

Throwing back the hood of my sweatshirt, I tipped my head, staring at him.

His jaw jutted in challenge, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Perhaps the desperation on my face gave away my intent. Maybe it was the unyielding determination in my eyes from months of sleepless nights. Or the threat of another hunter lurking about the same waters.

He turned away, abandoning whatever he’d had on his mind going after her.

Could’ve been innocent. He could’ve been her knight in shining polyester, but it was too late. I’d already decided I couldn’t be without her, and I sure as fuck wouldn’t be giving her up to some swinging dick in tight jeans.

I kept on, out of the club, across the dark parking lot, watching her slip into the one familiar car parked amongst all the others there.

She’d taken up going out by herself. Foolish, but I understood. The need to push limits and taunt fate. That was how fear dealt therapy sometimes. In my case, at least.

You had to face what haunted you most, and in her case, it was being completely alone in a city that would eat her alive.

I kept three car lengths behind her, as she drove back toward her apartment, the leisurely speed a clear indication she wasn’t in any hurry. When we finally arrived, I parked my bike a block away, out of sight.

She hustled across the street, and I caught the shine of her keys weaved between her fingers from where I stood shrouded in the dark silhouette of the bushes. The door of her apartment swung open as she strode through, but there was no need to rush after it, since I’d already wedged a small piece of steel into the locks’ track earlier in the evening. As soon as she’d disappeared within, I followed after her, and entered the building with ease. I removed the small bit of metal, and listened for the click of the door as I made my way toward the stairwell beside the elevators, and up to the third floor.

Having just slipped inside her apartment, she failed to notice my approach. She hadn’t even bothered to lock the door behind her. Again, testing fate.

The shower flipped on, as I made my way through the foyer, padding across the room. I came to a stop in front of the easel, where the charcoal rendition of my pained face stared back at me with a disconcerting likeness. How many times had I stared into that same expression, knife propped against my arm, daring myself, while thinking of her? Two other versions sat propped on the floor against the easel. It was like staring down at mirrors, in the remarkable details she’d captured.