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I was able to get her number the last time I was at the cafe, so we’ve been texting on and off throughout the day.
She’s been a lot more receptive to me since I kissed her the night I followed her back to her house, and I’m glad she’s giving in to me.
That’s the only thing I want—for her to give me a damn chance—and it seems like she finally is.
8
Astra
The ringing phone yanks me from my thoughts.
I glance at the clock—nearly eight in the evening and the café’s just closed.
Who in the world would be calling the café at this hour?
Apprehension coils in my gut as I reach for the phone.
“Catsandjava, this is Astra speaking. How can I help you?
I’m met with dense silence.
It’s so quiet, and then all of a sudden heavy breathing crackles over the line.
I must have been on mute.
“Hola?” I try again in Spanish, my pulse kicking up a notch as the caller’s breathing grows heavier.
There’s more silence followed by low laughter that raises the hairs on my arms.
Laughter I hoped I’d never have to hear ever again.
“Hello, darling,” purrs Tony’s familiar voice. “Did you really think you could hide from me forever?”
Fear shoots down my spine as chilling as an ice pick, but I force steadiness into my tone. “I’m not hiding. I’m living my life, as far away as I can get from you. We’re over, Tony. Don’t ever call here again.”
His chuckle is as sinister as they come. “We’ll see about that. I’m tired of waiting for you to come to your senses,” he pauses to moan, “God, that pretty blue shirt you’re wearing will look even better stained red. A punishment for what you’ve done.”
His threat paralyzes me.
Tony can fucking see me, which means he’s somewhere outside watching me.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think he’d leave Chicago to follow me.
Not in a million years.
Tony was always obsessive, possessive, but I never knew how volatile he was until the day he caused the scar on my head.
I knew he was calling me, how he was antagonizing me, I just never expected him to actually show up here.
God, he’s tracked me down, undoubtedly driven by years of pent-up rage.
My hands shake as I grab my cell and pull up my messages.
There’s only one person I can think to text right now, so I tap on Python’s name.
911. At café.
Tony keeps talking, taunting me about the pain he’ll inflict when he gets his hands on me again.
