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Maybe Freddy Mercury here is a good guy. Maybe...
Nope. I still fucking hate him. I wasn’t so sure before, but seeing him with her just made up my whole damn mind: I can definitely kill a college kid. I’ll bury him on the football field and let the fans visit his burial site every Friday night. It’d be a good resting place for Freddie.
Every time I see him reach in her direction, every time she fucking smiles at something he says, pain prickles beneath my skin.
I know I look like a brooding, creepy asshole hiding in the shadows of the fucking party, but I can’t help it. Where she goes, I walk. Like a moth drawn to a flame, despite the fact that I know going to her will kill me. I don’t give a single fuck.
I want her.
I need her with an ache.
And she’s here with someone else, oblivious to the fact that I even exist.
Until she comes out of the bathroom and our eyes lock together just before her fingers lock against him. Before she angles her head almost as if she means to let him kiss her.
The thin black dress flirts against her smooth thigh, cinching perfectly at her waist and drawing too much attention to the dips, curves, and rolls of her body. He touches her cheek. Everything in me snaps. I frown as I take her in, as I move on instinct, shoving him before his fucking lips can touch hers. I wonder what she sees when she stares at me. Does she recognize me? Do my scars frighten her?
If they don’t, they should.
She has no idea how dangerous I truly am. She has no fucking idea that as easily as I fucking saved her, I could also fucking kill her.
I want to.
Especially when she flicks her gaze away without a single fucking ounce of interest and presses closer to him like he’s her saving grace.
I try to contain my rage, but it’s uncontainable. It’s unavoidable.
She acts like I don’t exist.
She saw me and looked rightthroughme.
She’s my world. My beautiful fucking obsession. And yet to her?
I am nothing.
Twelve
Atlas
He trails after us the rest of the party. He only talks for a brief moment to the flirty hockey player I met at the arena. Anna is in that circle of friends now, her shy eyes watchful but her laughter carrying in this way that makes me wish she would come out of her shell more. The guy laughs hard and tries even harder to engage my mystery stalker in a game of beer pong, but he ends their discussion the moment I leave the room.
I can’t pretend he’s not there, and yet, I have to. I know it’s him. He’s the one from the alley. The one who saved me. The one who changed my clothes. And he’d let me believe I’d imagined it all. Let me question my mental stability for a moment too long even. But I know it was him. I fucking know it.
The rest of the party, I can barely concentrate on anything Simon says.
All I can feel is that dark gaze on my backside, and when I turn to search, I can see him in the shadows, hiding, pretending like he’s not staring at me.
If he’s going to pretend, then I fucking will too.
So I act like he doesn’t exist. I think I do an okay job at pretending. After all, I’ve been pretending to be okay even after the incident. This is no harder than that.
This all feels like a game though. A dangerous fucking game of cat and mouse. Who is he, and why the fuck is he pushing his way into my life?
The bigger question is why do I fucking like it so much?
The anxiety fades, and suddenly, a safety settles over me. Like a net. One that I grasp for. Wherever I move, he’s there. I know his eyes are flicking over everything. From the water I choke down to every touch Simon gives me.
He’s a great, hulking predator. Watching. Waiting.
