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Raphael glances at me, but I can't quite meet his eyes. My shoulders sag with relief when he speaks up again. "Nah, I think we're good. I'll see you soon, Selma."
"Sure." She looks pissed as she glances at me. "You know where to find me. I'll be around... even when your latest conquest isn't."
I don't think Raphael notices, but when she leaves, she kicks sand right at me. I pretend not to notice either.
"I'm sorry about that," he mutters once we're out of earshot. "Here. Let's sit down."
He takes off his blazer and places it on the sand. I'm about to object – I'm sure it cost a lot of money – but I have a feeling he wouldn't listen. Instead, I sit next to him, and he puts his arm around my shoulders, cradling me against him. The moment is peaceful, serene. I'm relishing in the thought that he doesn't push me to kiss him, though the promise of it hangs in the air, sparkling and magical.
His fingers gently travel down my back. I want him to kiss me. I haven't wanted anyone to kiss me in years.
"Dove." I look up into Raphael's eyes. "I'm really glad we went out tonight. You made my week. My month. My year, even."
I laugh, shaking my head. "Don't exaggerate."
"I mean it."
Our eyes meet. There's something special in the air tonight. But then the spell breaks when Raphael is suddenly kicked aside. Sands flies everywhere and I feel someone snatching my purse away from me. I scream, but the attacker is already running off, blending into the night in his dark clothes.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter 6
Nox
I take off sprinting, holding onto Dove's handbag. I can hear someone shouting, coming after me, but I'm faster. Until I trip on something in the sand and come crashing down. That smug bastard Dove was on a date with reaches me, grabbing me by the lapels of my leather jacket, but I'm too fast for him. Before he can see my face, I smash my fist into his, and he stumbles back, clutching his nose which is already bleeding profusely.
I disappear into the shadows, blending in with the night. I know they won't find me now. I watch them from under the nearby pier. Dove is consoling that photographer prick, and someone from that bonfire party runs over, calling the cops.
I need to get the fuck out of here before anyone gets the bright idea to check under the pier. I open Dove's bag and dig through her shit, smirking when I see her phone in there. Fucking jackpot.
While I walk back to the restaurant, I use Dove's phone to look up the photographer she was out with. I'd researched the companies in that office building she left days ago, and I instantly recognized the bastard when he picked her up for the date. Now, I realize the idiot has used his home address for his company. I smirk. I know where I'll be spending the night.
Because I was tired of having to hitch a cab every time I needed to follow Dove, I decided to invest in a ride of my own. As I approach the rusty Harley Davidson I splurged on earlier, I grin to myself. At least I'm fucking traveling in style now.
I stash Dove's bag in the storage compartment and drive to the address I found. Raphael's not back yet, probably still giving a statement to the cops at the beach. But I'm fairly certain I ruined their little moment. Dove will be scared now. She won't let him kiss her anymore. I smirk to myself, pleased with my work.
I only have to try three times to find the right code to unlock her phone. It's her birthday. Not careful enough, little bird. I'll have to teach her better.
Her phone is filled with texts from her brother and a few from guys trying to get her attention and miserably failing. Some prick's been texting her every month for two years. Give up already, you're embarrassing yourself, I think to myself. Besides, she's fucking mine. I block the guy's number. He won't be bothering my little bird again.
Dove's camera roll reveals only a few selfies. The rest of her photos are ominous shots of LA, nothing like the vibrant, colorful atmosphere people associate with the city. There are no social media accounts except for Instagram. I click through to that, knitting my brows together when I see she actually does have an account. And one helluva lot of followers. Fifteen thousand of the fuckers.
I scroll through her page. It's private, none of the selfies are on there – but the dark, moody shots are. I'm impressed with her as I peruse the pics. She has a good eye.
It doesn't take long for me to install the software that will track every move she makes on her phone. I'll be one step ahead of her now, always, and the thought pleases me.
