Yeah? Tell that to your fucking friend.
I don’t say it out loud though, because I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than admit that these men do scare me. The way they’ve completely invaded my thoughts and my life in just a few days has me completely unnerved.
Maybe Marcus can tell what I’m thinking anyway though, because he grunts, flicking a glance at his friend. “Speak for yourself.”
The blond guy rolls his eyes. Then he catches my gaze again, leaning over the bar with his glass held lightly in one hand. “I’m Theo, by the way.”
Ryland makes a noise of disgust in his throat, as if just by introducing himself to me, Theo’s made some kind of monumental mistake.
It pisses me off. This fucking asshole acts like he hates me, like he’d rather be anywhere else but in my presence, yet he’s part of the same crew that’s very obviously stalking me. He openly admitted to it the other day.
And now he’s acting like it’s my fucking fault? Like I asked for this somehow?
I grip my upper arm with my good hand, wishing I could wrap both arms around myself. I feel like I need the protection, the extra layer of armor around these men. All three of them throw me completely off balance, although for different reasons.
“So what are you all doing here?” I ask, frustration giving a blunt edge to my voice. “Got bored of sneaking around to follow me? Decided to stop hiding in the shadows?”
“Yes.” Marcus shrugs. It’s almost a dare.
“You know I could call the cops on you,” I shoot back.
His eyebrows twitch just slightly. “Are you going to?”
Fuck. No, of course I’m not going to. First of all, I know enough about how shit works to realize that it probably wouldn’t do any good. And second of all, I don’t exactly have a great track record with cops myself, so the last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself in any way when it comes to the police.
Marcus does that annoying as fuck thing where he seems to hear all the words I refuse to say despite the fact that I never utter them, and he nods in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”
“You’re safer with us watching over you than you’d ever be with the cops anyway,” Theo adds, the same earnest expression still on his face. Like he’s trying to convince me it’s actually a good thing that I’ve got three stalkers. “The cops couldn’t have saved you the other night. And even if you reported it afterward, I think we all know they wouldn’t have done shit.”
He’s not wrong about that. If I’d even been alive to report the incident to the cops afterward, it would’ve gotten shoved into a file drawer full of other cases just like it to die a slow death of disinterest and neglect.
“Is that what you want?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “You want me to thank you?”
My voice sounds thin. Strained. I reach behind the bar for a bottle of Tres Agaves, uncap it, and pour myself another shot. My nerves are so frayed that they feel like live wires, and although I hate to admit it, I can almost relate to the intense, demanding tone of Marcus’s voice as he kept asking me why yesterday.
It’s the same question that eats away at me now.
Why?
I saved his life. Okay, sure. But why all of this? Why all the hiding, the watching me in secret?
Why this obsession with me? What does he want from me?
“You want me to say thanks?” I ask again, my gaze darting over all three of them.
“No. That’s not what I want.”
Marcus’s eyes bore into mine as he shakes his head, and I tear my attention away to quickly throw back the shot. The burn reaches my belly this time, and it unwinds a little of the tension in my stomach.
I snort a laugh, setting the empty shot glass on the bar with a thud. “Fine. Then I won’t thank you.” My gaze cuts to Ryland for a second, then back to Marcus. “But if you’re planning on wasting your time following me around, I’ve got bad news for you.” I hold my arm out, encompassing the bar and everyone in it. “This is it. This is as fucking exciting as my life gets, so if you’re gonna keep following me, you might wanna bring a good book.”
Theo chuckles, that infectious grin spreading across his face again. Marcus smiles, but there’s something predatory in the expression—something hungry.
My nipples harden as my skin prickles, my nerve endings lighting up against my will.
Dammit. Why does he affect me like this? My body reacts to him as if it’s attuned to every little shift in his posture, every small movement he makes.
I glance down, trying to regain my composure, and my gaze falls on Marcus’s hands. They’re resting on the bar, fingertips drumming lightly against the smooth, polished wood. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a clear look at them, and I realize with a start that his fingers are tattooed. Eight pieces of ink are stamped across each of his fingers between the first and second knuckles so that they’ll line up in a neat row when his fists are clenched. I tilt my head a little, scanning each one.