His Ballerina

“Hello? Where’d you go?”

I growl again at my observation being interrupted. “Did it ever occur to you I have my own shit to deal with? Do I have to check in with you every minute of the day?”

“Hey, take it easy. Since when do you snap at me like that for asking a totally normal question?”

“Maybe I don’t feel like being questioned?”

“Then maybe you should stop doing weird shit like this. Since when do you disappear after a job?”

“I got the job done, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, then you sent somebody else in to clean up after you. That doesn’t happen. So I’m sorry if this sudden change made me wonder.”

I roll my eyes at the offended tone in my brother’s voice. “Listen, everything’s fine. That’s all I can tell you. I’ll check in with you later.” I end the call there since all Ace is going to do is ask more questions and demand I tell him the story.

Honestly, I don’t even know where I would start. What would he think if I explained? Hey, no big deal, but I met a girl last night. That is, she witnessed the hit. And instead of killing her, I’m following her around because I can’t stand the idea of her being alone in this neighborhood. It meant going the whole night without sleep and not leaving my car, but it’s what I have to do.

He’d have me committed.

And if I were in my right mind, I wouldn’t blame him. If this were any of my brothers, I would have to question their sanity after they took an about-face like this. Because this isn’t me. This isn’t who I am; it’s not what I do. I don’t skulk around in the shadows, trailing random girls.

I don’t trail any girls. They trail me. If I’m in the mood, I’ll fuck them. If not, I’ll ignore them. But it’s always my choice, my decision. And if they’re disappointed, that’s on them. I can’t even remember the name of the last girl I screwed—probably because I never asked for it. What difference does it make? It’s not like I’ll ever see her again.

She was a nobody, just like all the other nobodies. Madison might as well exist on another planet. Another galaxy.

It’s not ten minutes before I see her again through the window, and now she’s wearing one of those polyester waitress uniforms. She probably got it from an office in the back, and it’s at least two sizes too big. I don’t know whether I’m glad she didn’t go in there to eat or sad for her.

But she’s smiling. I can see it from here when she greets the booth full of men who just got out of a pair of trucks parked alongside the building. She’s warm, kind, the sort of kindness that shines out of a person. It’s not fake, not put on just for the sake of earning tips. One of the guys tells a joke, and she laughs, making the rest of them laugh with her.

I want to know what her laugh sounds like. I want to be the one who makes her laugh. My hands tighten around the steering wheel when I think about the guy who told the joke. Who does he think he is, speaking to her in the first place?

But they’re older guys, and I doubt any of them are seriously trying to pick her up. Besides, she might look small and weak, but there’s a core of steel inside this girl. I witnessed flashes of it last night. Something tells me she would know how to put a guy with the wrong idea in his place. She would probably do it with a sweet smile, with kindness.

Of course, not all men know how to take no for an answer. Which is where guys like me come in. I would more than happily wipe anybody who dared put a hand on her from the face of the earth. I know how to do it, so nobody ever finds them.

I meet my own gaze in the rearview mirror. The hardness in my eyes comes as a surprise, though it shouldn’t. All this thinking about her has my protective instincts running on overdrive. No wonder I look so intense.

It goes deeper than that, though. Down to the core of who I am. I’m not kind. I’m not sweet. I don’t have a gentle bone in my body. She is the complete opposite of me. Maybe that’s what makes her so irresistible.

She’ll be at it for a while, I’m guessing, so I decide to head home to shower and change before going back and waiting for her to finish her shift.

She’s still working when I return, and she doesn’t leave until seven. It’s dark, just the way it was when she first left home this morning, and I can’t help but feel sorrier for her than I did before.