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So that feeling I had yesterday of someone watching me?
Nope.
It's just a coincidence, that's all.
It couldn't have anything to do with the serial killer.
Just couldn't.
My nightmare, however, begged to differ.
Chapter Four
I dreamt that someone was watching me, a figure cloaked in shadows that were darker than the blackness of night. Something was compelling it to follow me, but before I could figure out what this was, I had already woken up, a scream lodged in my throat, and cold sweat bathing my skin.
Well, shit.
My heart continued banging against my chest as I flipped my bedlight on and cast a nervous look around me. I was alone now, the TV presumably switched off by Mary Priscilla. Nothing seemed amiss, and I couldn't sense any other presence in my bedroom, living or otherwise. But even so, I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was being watched.
I checked my alarm clock.
3:15 AM.
I had a feeling that should mean something. I was almost sure it did - and as someone who could see ghosts, I probably should've more knowledge of the occult than the average person...but nope. The only reason 'cult' was in my vocabulary was because of campy classics like The Princess Bride, nothing else.
Shameful, I know, and it had me making a mental note to consult Mr. Google on what those numbers meant.
For now, however...
I tried going back to sleep, but the moment I closed my eyes, shadowy figures from my subconscious swarmed over me in an instant, and I sat up with a gasp, my heart once again galloping in fear.
I knew I was being silly, letting some stupid nightmare freak me out when my life wasn't exactly normal. I didn't just see dead people, for heaven's sake. I lived with one, too, and had the tiniest bit of a crush on another.
But even so...
Something about those shadows perturbed me, something about them that reminded me of how awful it had been, the first (and only) time I had encountered a poltergeist.
No way would I be able to go back to sleep now, not unless...
Ugh.
But because I hadn't any choice, and I didn't want to show up bleary-eyed at work, I eventually found myself doing the unthinkable.
Ten minutes later, and I was dressed to sweat as I swiped my access card to enter the tenant-exclusive gym at 8/F.
Exercise and Saoirse Sullivan have never been best friends, and more often than not, I only tended to work out when someone had managed to bribe (Jason), annoy (Jason), or semi-fat-shame (Jason) me into doing it.
Desperate straits called for desperate measures, however, and I was seriously hoping if I worked out long enough, I'd eventually knock myself out with exhaustion and be able to grab even just a few hours of dreamless sleep.
Zero nightmares gained, hundreds of calories lost.
Win-win situation, right?
Or so I tried to convince myself as I slowly made my way towards the dozen or so treadmills facing floor-to-ceiling windows, which presently showcased a million-dollar view of Portland's skyline.
Ah, treadmills.
How I hate thee.
The mere sight of them had me gnashing my teeth, with the way it brought back memories of how Jason and all the other "cool kids" in our social circle often took this healthier-than-thou attitude when preaching about the Holy Bible of Physical Fitness. They always made me feel like I was the villain among them, and all because I refused to stock up on tofu and buy a FitBit.
But whatever.
Moving on.
I squared my shoulders.
Zero nightmares gained, hundreds of calories lost.
I just had to think of it as an all-new mantra to live by.
So eyes on the prize, missy, and get on with it.
I climbed up the treadmill and heard someone step up on the treadmill next to mine as I dropped my water bottle into the holder. I couldn't resist looking up, curious to see who else could be working at this hour, and—-
Camilla Cabello started singing in my mind as nightmares of shadowy stalkers were all but forgotten.
Because the guy next to me?
Ooh. La. La. La.
He was hot. Just oozing with so much hotness that staring at him literally left my throat dry. He had jet-black hair and silver eyes that seemed to smolder the moment our gazes collided. He was beautiful, albeit in a harshly defined way, and so breathtakingly sexy that I was suddenly reminded of just how long it had been since the last time I had sex.
I had never had a one-night stand in my life, but if this guy asked me to hook up?
I'd say yes in a heartbeat, and I wouldn't even feel the slightest bit of shame about it.
He had a rather brooding air about him, despite the casualness of his attire (stadium jersey and track pants, both in black). I've only dated three guys in my entire life, and they had all been the well-dressed and party-loving type. Nothing at all like the guy next to me, in other words, who was more like the kind to report house parties in the neighborhood as a public disturbance.
