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Chapter nine

Skylar

Leaning against the counter in the breakroom of Studio 221, I slowly chew the salami sandwich without tasting it. White bread, processed meat, and a single slice of cheese. It’s plain, uninspired, and barely enough to satiate me. I escaped Jericho’s place, sure, but my life seems dull without him. Kinda like this fucking meal. Plain and dry. Completely devoid of any real substance.

Franko has gone underground. The asshole hasn’t even called to check up on me after almost getting killed, and his phone always goes to voicemail. I can’t even call him under the pretense that I’m concerned about the bastard. Meanwhile, my full attention has shifted over to Jericho, the last person I should be daydreaming about like a lovesick teen.

One week. One week and twelve hidden cameras. That’s all it took to turn me into a stalker with an addiction.

I stare at my food, wondering what he’s up to. He would be home right now, probably in his chair, reading a classic. Maybe the one with the pretty leather spine. The man is like fucking clockwork. Even so, the urge to pull out my phone and check my secret little cameras is tempting.

Instead, I try to concentrate on the upcoming shoot I’m about to perform with Monty. Unfortunately, thinking about Monty makes me think about Jericho and his piercing stare. Jericho. The man who stole my revenge and captured my full attention in just a single night.

Leaning against the counter in the break room, I take another bite of my sandwich. I sigh. It’s been a week since I escaped, so why the fuck can I not stop thinking about him?

Because I’ve lost my damn mind, that’s why. The truth is, he truly captured me that night. I might have gotten away physically, but my mind remains trapped under his control. When he was sleeping off the sedative I gave him, I was busy placing tiny cameras all over his house. Since that night, Jericho has been the sweet obsession that I can’t stop stalking. Even now, I don’t want to be here. I’d rather be at home watching. Observing. Learning all I can about the intriguing man.

I’ve done my research on the guy. Jericho Williams, age thirty-eight, ex-military. Honestly, the military thing makes sense. It’s probably why he’s a textbook creature of absolute control. Every morning, he wakes up at exactly 5:59 AM, a minute before his alarm. His usual routine consists of him doing some delicious as fuck stretches in front of a camera I hid in his bedroom, before he puts on his sweats and goes for a run.

The man is observant and follows his intuition. I’ve almost been caught watching him on his run. Twice.

This is a dangerous game I’m involved in. Where, for a single, exhilarating moment, he freezes mid-run, attempting to decipher why he feels a sense of someone lurking nearby. What would he do if he caught me? Would he tie me up again? Have his wicked way? Or maybe he would hurt me? My dick twitches, unsure which scenario is hotter. Either way, it’s fucked up, and yet I can’t get myself to stop. The thrill of stalking Jericho is almost as exhilarating as a kill.

As soon as he gets home, he eats breakfast and goes about his morning routine until he leaves for the gym right after a light lunch. Then, my favorite part—the middle of the day. It usually starts off with a shower where I get to watch all his sexy muscles on display. But surprisingly, the parts I like the most are the quiet moments that follow. He’s usually tucked in the corner of that room I’ve dubbed his sanctuary, curled up on his plush chair, reading. Because there’s seriously nothing sexier than a man with a book. It’s either that, or he plays a few rounds of chess, or searches the dark web for hits he might want to pick up.

To my delight, he skips over the hits that clearly target the innocent. Things like wives wanting a hit on their ex-husbands for no reason, or wealthy corporate people who are probably in someone’s way of their financial goals. Instead, he pauses on the same type of evil people I would go after. Does he get some sick pleasure killing them the way I do?

The longer I stalk the man, the more convinced I am that he is The Cleaner. I just want to see him in action before I do anything rash.

“Hey there, Skylar,” Monty purrs as he walks into the break room. He’s wearing tight jean shorts and a bright pink crop top with a fishnet shirt peeking out from underneath. His bleached-blond hair is styled in such a way that it looks casually ruffled, yet we both know he spent hours fussing over it. “I didn’t know you were here already,” he says.

Monty walks up to me with his casual familiarity and plucks my sandwich from my grasp. He takes a bite as if this is a common occurrence between us, like we always share food. As he chews, his face morphs from that playful Monty most of us see on camera to a full-on grimace. “What the hell is this?”

I snatch the sandwich back from his greedy little fingers with a grin. “Get your own food, brat.” His eyes seem to light up when I say the word brat, and I know I’ve made a mistake. Monty and I have worked together for several years, and he’s definitely my go-to co-star when it comes to shooting porn, but he can sometimes get a little clingy. He’s tried asking me out several times now, but can’t seem to take no for an answer.

I can already tell tonight is going to be an issue. Not only have I been horny as hell ever since leaving Jericho’s place, but I know topping will not sate this deep yearning inside of me. I need to be fucked, and cute little Monty isn’t going to do it for me.

Monty trails his hand over my arm, and I fight the urge to jerk away. I glance over at him. He’s giving me a concerned look. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You seem distracted. I’ve been talking to you for a good thirty seconds or so, and it’s like you didn’t even know I was here.”

Damn. I really need to get Jericho out of my system.

I give Monty another polite smile. I know he means well. “I’m sorry, Mont. I just have a lot of things on my mind.” I unwrap his fingers from around my biceps and take a step back.

“No worries,” he says in a sing-song voice, not seeming bothered.

“We’ll be ready in fifteen, Skylar,” someone shouts on set.

Monty’s look turns flirty, and suddenly he’s there again, his hand returning to my arm. His long fingers wrap around the muscle, and he squeezes harder this time. “Would you like me to, you know,” he drops to his knees in front of me. “Fluff you up before we go on set?”

I give him a low chuckle, but I swear my dick gets softer. Really, it’s not a bad idea, and by the way my body’s reacting, it might be necessary. But the thought of Monty touching me suddenly makes my stomach turn sour.

Holding my hand out, I help him stand. His eyes widen with shock for a brief moment before he gets to his feet. I toss the remaining half of my sandwich into the trash, racking my brain for an excuse. As if my prayers have been answered, my phone rings. Checking the caller ID, I see Hunter’s name. Crap, I’ve been dodging his calls and texts all week. I take a deep breath. I guess it’s one awkward moment to the next.

“Sorry, Monty, I gotta take this.” I wave my phone at him as an apology. “I’ll see you on the set.”

Monty, as bubbly as ever, gives me a nod and bounces off to go flirt with Juan, the cameraman. Once he’s out of earshot, I make my way down the hall and into a private room to answer the call. “Hey, Hunt. How’s it going?”

“How’s it going?” He scoffs. “How’s it going? All this fucking worry and that’s how you answer the phone?”