Adrenaline Rush (Death Chasers MC 4)

“Good. Then hurry.”

Hanging up, I move quickly, snatching up the table just behind him, and steady myself as I finally bring this stupid little game to an end. It’s gotten tedious at this point.

“I keep waiting for you to make yourself known. I’ve never had a stalker before, so what has attracted you to me?” I ask, glad my voice is steady and doesn’t shake, even though it’s taking all I have not to tremble.

The tedious game I’m referring to is the waiting game, and he still hasn’t made a move.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him visibly tense, and he doesn’t answer right away. So I prattle on, pretending to be unaffected.

“I mean, the coffee is mediocre at best here, so I know you don’t come to this exact table just to drink it all day on the days I work. Especially since the lettering on the window here obstructs the view to your face from the diner, but still allows you to easily see through my work’s windows. So who are you? The devil or the devil’s advocate?”

Turning, I move my face close to the back of his neck, and he cracks his neck to the side without turning to face me as he pulls out his earbud.

I’m giving myself away, but if he’s been watching me for months, he’s not too convinced that I really am Karen Canady.

Tattoos slither up the back of his neck, and I try to figure out who he is without asking. I’ve never seen him up close, but I’m not an idiot. He started showing up a few months ago, and he’s grown increasingly obvious with his stalking from over here.

I’m paranoid, so I notice shit like this.

“Neither,” is his gruff reply as he shakes out the paper and starts feigning interest in it once more.

As much as I don’t want to out myself, my paranoia can’t handle this anymore. I need real sleep, and I can’t get it when I have a gun under my pillow with my finger poised on the trigger, waking to the sound of every creak, crack, and tap in my house.

“You’re going to have to do better than that. You see, I’ve been in this town for a while. They don’t know the Death Dealers. The MCs who pass through here are actually the normal, good-guy kind. You know, the guys who ride for fun, do incredibly charitable work for the communities…like raising awareness for autism, and other good things like that. They may look rough but they hug like teddy bears. This place doesn’t have the fear they need to give a shit who you are, and I’m five seconds from calling the police if you don’t tell me who you are and what you want.”

He snorts as though he finds this all amusing, and I stand up and move around the busy coffee shop to sit down in front of him. I steel myself for whatever comes next.

The paper lowers immediately, and my breath runs out in a harsh burst. I didn’t steel myself enough to see the ice-blue eyes that are staring back into mine.

Eyes I never thought I’d see staring through me again.

Most people only know him by one name. Even his closest friends assumed it was his real name. Even the club assumed that one name was actually his.

But I know who he really is.

Rusty Asher, only known to the Death Dealers as Rush, sits in front of me, eyes on mine like it’s no big deal as he smirks and arches an eyebrow.

His body is different than I can remember, but since he’s sitting down, it’s hard to be sure how different. Gone is the long hair, and in its place…a more spiky look. Gone is the soft look in his eyes, replaced by a harder, less naïve glare.

Gone is the boy I knew if he’s come to this town, and in his place, someone who was sent by Herrin to finally take me out.

My hands ball into fists under the table as I try to regain my composure. I guess I only thought I was ready to confront this. Pop really is a demon to use Rush for this.

“So it’s you,” I state, sounding much calmer and less betrayed than I feel. “In the end, he sent you.”

Rush, for whatever reason, rolls his pretty/hard eyes. “Herrin didn’t send me. Drex did. I can’t talk about this here, so if you want to chat, let’s find somewhere with fewer people,” he tells me, his voice sounding deeper, rougher, and much…different than I remember.

I really don’t like the way my stupid body tries to respond to it. I know better than to be that ridiculous. The past is the past.

The present is constant paranoia and Death Dealer drama.

“I’m sure you’d like to get me somewhere with fewer people,” I say with a bitter smile, trying not to show him how much this actually hurts. “But I’m also sure you understand I didn’t survive seven years just to die now by the hands of a guy I once begged to go away with me.”