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I’ve never had people who I could just hang out with and do something as simple as play a game of pool and give each other shit.
It’s… nice.
My life was a gray, colorless blur for a long fucking time. I did things, went through the motions of living, but I barely felt anything.
Now I can’t seem to stop feeling, and even though what I feel terrifies me half the time, I’m not sure if I’d want to go back to the way things were even if I could.
Even if that were an option.
But honestly? I don’t think it is.
Chapter 17
After playing one more game of pool, Marcus insists on driving me home to change, and then to work. I don’t fight him on it, partly because I’ll definitely be late if I try to take the bus, and partly because… I don’t want to.
I’m sick of fighting. Sick of trying to convince myself I don’t feel anything for this man, and sick of blaming myself every time my defenses break down and I let him in.
I still don’t believe in fate. Don’t believe in destiny.
But whatever brought us together the night I was shot, it’s stronger than I ever allowed myself to admit.
When Marcus drops me off at Duke’s, it doesn’t even surprise me that he follows me inside. He spends my entire shift settled on a stool at one end of the bar, nursing a drink and occasionally scrolling on his phone. He talks to me when I end up on that side of the bar, but only when I initiate it—and he never tries to keep me from getting back to work when another patron needs a drink.
Mostly, he just watches me.
As if I’m the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. As if watching a girl of average height with dark hair and blue eyes and a tattoo covering the stump of her arm serve drinks is all he ever wants to do.
I get the strange feeling that this is what he’s been doing for a long time, only now he’s decided to throw subtlety out the window entirely. Instead of hiding in the shadows, he’s doing it out in the open.
And I’m no longer making any move to stop him.
Several times over the course of the night, women sidle up to Marcus, either perching on the stool next to his or leaning against the bar as they incline their heads toward him. He brushes each one of them off with barely more than a glance, and as I watch them slink back to their friends with dejected looks on their faces, I can’t help the strange sense of satisfaction that flares inside me.
Because he’s not theirs.
“You good, Ayla?” Duke asks at the end of my shift, his gaze flicking to Marcus, who’s still stationed in his spot at the end of the bar.
Maybe this is my chance. Now that Marcus and his friends aren’t even bothering to hide their stalking anymore, maybe I could build a strong enough case to report it and have the cops actually listen and believe me.
But the thought barely flits through my mind before I shake my head at Duke, brushing off his concern. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
After I finish cleaning up, Marcus drives me home. His hand rests on my knee, his grip firm and possessive, and I close my eyes and lean back against the comfortable seat, letting the music playing softly through the stereo lull my tired mind.
When we reach my place, he cuts the engine and uses two fingers to tilt my face toward his. Then his hand slides around the back of my neck, and he leans over to kiss me.
His lips are warm and soft, and although a sense of heated urgency still infuses the kiss, it doesn’t feel quite as desperate as others have.
As if he knows I’m done running.
He draws back, his knuckles tracing the curve of my cheekbone. “Goodnight, angel.”
“Goodnight.”
He looks like he wants to kiss me again—and maybe never stop—but he reluctantly pulls back and watches me unclip the seatbelt.
I hear the engine start up again as I make my way up the stairs to my apartment, and when I get inside, I peer out the window down at the street.
Marcus’s car is gone.
