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“You gotme,” he says in an ominous tone. “I’m sure you convinced yourself that no one would give a damn if they saw you up there. Well, sorry to break it to you, baby, I do.”
“And who are you?” I toss back, genuinely unsettled by his taunt. “A stalker?”
He turns away rather than answer. With his shoulders hunched, I’m forced to acknowledge his size. He’s huge. A wall of living, breathing muscle.
Someone, I don’t have the energy to fight with, even verbally.
“Is this your gym?” I wonder, ignoring the obvious question lurking between us like a lit stick of dynamite. My brain won’t let it go, however, dwelling on the potential connection between him and Hale. Did they know each other?
He whistles low. “You should really get out more often.”
He doesn’t want to play along. I stammer out another question anyway. “Springer doesn’t seem like your part of town.”
This place, on the other hand, does, just as jagged and rough as he is.
“I never took you for a snob, Blondie,” he says, nothing more.
But I need more. More talking. More moving.
My raw nerves demand something—anything—as an outlet. It’s either that or dwell. Dangerous memories flicker like wild electricity, daring me to relive them. Whether I like it or not, playing mind games with him is preferable.
“So why wereyouat the bridge?”
He chuckles, for real this time, and I catch myself staring. There’s a calculated power in the way he speaks. Laughs. It’s musical. Slow and rhythmic in places, but quick and pulsating in others. And yet, ruthlessly in sync.
“Do I really need to say it?” he asks. “Fine. I was sightseeing, Blondie—”
“Frey,” I interject.
I’ve been absently touching the floor while observing him. This section has been worn down by countless scuffling feet. Brawls. Spars. It’s like skin, wearing the weight of this building in a million tiny nicks and scratches most people wouldn’t notice.
“Maybe you don’t care, but my name’s Frey.”
“Well, Frey, Idon’treally care.”
I shrug off his hostility. “So, what’s yours?”
He’s still leaning against the wall. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck, coating his hair and darkening the honey-blond strands.
“Jerk?” I quip, hazarding a guess. “Unrepentant Sinner? Corrupted Soul—”
“Close.” God, that chuckle. It’s rich and cold at the same time. Like a ghost of him is taunting me, but the real man’s far away. “What the fuck does ‘Frey’ stand for anyway? Don’t tell me your parents named you that.”
“Yes,” I snap. “It stands for ‘none of your business’.”
“Well, ‘none of your business,’ the name’s Daze.”
I laugh at what has to be an obvious joke. “Really? You’re making fun of my name when yours isDaze?”
“Hahaha. Laugh it up, sweetheart.” His flat tone lacks the energy of real anger. More like he’s going through the motions out of sheer habit. “Still better than Frey.”
“Frances,” I retort. “And I beg to differ.”
“Whatever you say, Frey,” Daze says under his breath. “Fuck. I’ll be right back. I gotta wash this shit off me.”
He disappears down a small hallway and emerges a few minutes later, drying his hands on a towel that he tosses aside. Holding my gaze, he reaches into his pants pocket and fishes out two loose cigarettes and a lighter. “I need a smoke.”
Aware of me watching, he makes a spark and lights up one cigarette. After exhaling a grayish cloud, he cocks his head.
