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“You're the one with a gun,” I say slowly, “not to mention you broke into my home.” I hate that he is in here.His fingers around my face must feel my swallow. “If anyone is bad here…” I leave my sentence to fall away.
“It’s a nice place, a little too Hollywood for my tastes.”
I scoff as he stands and runs his palms together, then slides them into his trouser pockets.
“In that case, feel free to let yourself out.” I stand, bringing myself to my full height, but I’m no match for him.
“And there's the problem. I’m not ready to stop looking at you yet,” he admits, bemused. I frown heavily at him. What is his game? He is the most peculiar and staggering man I’ve ever come across.
“I have a copy of Vogue you can borrow.” I smirk, finding this mysterious man all the more alluring by the second. I’ve spent years being looked at, but none have ever looked at me the way this man does.
“I don't want Vogue. I want you.” His down-turned face is less than inches from my own when he delivers that rough confession. I suck in a low breath, my eyes vividly searching his. “Until next time, Zara,” he says. Before I can respond, he side-steps, moving past me. I look over my shoulder, and he’s there, watching me once more.
“Goodnight, Callan,” I whisper. His eyes make a lazy trail down to my toes pressed into the carpet. I stay stone still until the door clicks shut with a softness that contradicts his persona. I softly walk to the window and peer through the slatted blinds. Wide shoulders duck into the rainy street, where a car now idles in the middle of the road, a monstrosity of a thing, all matte black and painfully conspicuous. Callan slides into the back, and I hear the door thud shut. I sigh loudly and close the blind aggressively, shutting him out of my view. A pointless feat, seeing as the man broke his way in here and can get back in just as easily.
I spin away from the window with a disbelieving laugh. What the hell was that?
Fuck, if Callan Scott can find my address and sneak his way into my home, who else can? I shudder, thinking ofthem,but remind myself it’s too big a risk for them to reveal themselves to the world. If they wanted to harm me, they would have done it by now. They are biding their time, waiting for me to fall off my pedestal. The minute the world decides I’m no longer worthy of their attention, they will strike. I grip my throat and drop down into the chair, taking no comfort from how warm it still is.
I spend the rest of the evening searching for Callan Scott online, but other than finding out he is the owner of a club called Nexo and another called Hex, there is no information about him, not even an image. Groaning in frustration, I throw my phone down after my excessive search for Skyn leaves me still guessing. Any link I believed to be related to him was either a dead end or denied me access.
“Exclusive gentlemen’s club,” I mock, dropping back in the chair, pissed off that he seems to know a far sight more about me than I do him. I grab a shower and head to bed, ignoring the pent up weight in my groin.
The following morning, I do some yoga, then grab a shake before heading out the door to meet Oscar for lunch. I'm almost at the restaurant when he flies down the road in a new sports car.
“What’s up?” I panic. Where the hell did he get this car?
“Paps, get in. I've called ahead to Firehouse.” I don’t question him. I’m grateful and slide in, looking back at the lone photographer frantically trying to pack his gear away to follow us. “I think an employee contacted them. As soon as they saw me and the false name, they must have clicked.”
“Oh, but I love it there,” I huff.
“Me too, twats,” he spits and zips through the traffic. I look back and freeze when I see the huge blacked-out car tanking it behind us a few cars back. Callan.
“You okay?” Oscar wonders.
“Yes. Firehouse is fab, plus you love their cocktails.” I waft my hand, trying to dispel the feeling of excitement rushing around my body. “New car?”
“Liquid lunch? Hell yes,” he chortles. “Felt I was due an upgrade,” he says with a wide grin. He goes quiet before saying hesitantly, “By the way, I had to swing by Skyn last night, and we're all good.” He blows out a few days’ worth of worry.
My eyes pique with interest, and Oscar groans. “Z, no, I mean it. The man is fucking scary,” he says heatedly.
I fiddle with my hair.“I know. It’s just so odd there is nothing on him other than these two clubs. Why not mention this Skyn place?” I aim for indifference, but Oscar gawps at me.
“Why are you looking him up?” His fingers flex nervously on the wheel, but I give him my hardest stare. I’m not letting this go. I’m like a dog with a bone. Grinding his teeth, Oscar reluctantly opens up to me. “It’s invite only. Callan only has who he wants in his club.”
“He's a bit of a ghost,” I comment.
“Like you.” He frowns, finding some unwanted similarity between Callan and me.
“I’m on every other billboard,” I drawl. Callan and I are nothing alike.
“Yes, but no one knows the real you or anything about you. You’re an enigma. Other than your raging sex appeal, it’s the next best thing about you.” He laughs, shifting the tense atmosphere in his new vintage car as he sighs and looks pleadingly at me. “Please let it go. He’s dangerous.”
“I can't,” I whisper, side-eyeing him.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Well, for starters, he was in my apartment when I got home last night,” I admit shakily. Oscar’s face drops and pales. I refrain from telling him about our little staring competition.
