My Best Friend, My Stalker

Chapter Four

Granger

I’m hidden in the trees across the street from Royal Oak Academy where Peyton works and I can taste blood in my mouth. After a weekend of hitting the punching bag, doing pull-ups and jumping rope until the sweat poured down my body, I should be too worn out to feel this much wrath. But I’m starting to realize there are no rules when it comes to my obsession with Peyton. It’s a living, breathing part of me and it demands to be obeyed.

Paul.

It only took me a few minutes of searching online to find the math teacher’s picture on the school website. Now I watch him through the window of his classroom, my fingertips ripping off a strip of bark and crushing it in my grip. Did he think he could just waltz up to my fairy and ask her on a date? Did this two-pump chump divorcee think he was worthy of her presence? Did he?

I’m here to set him straight.

And it’s obviously not enough to live with Peyton. To spend my nights sitting in the corner of her room, guarding her as she sleeps. Counting her breaths and straightening her blankets when she kicks them off. It seems I have to be with her during the day, too. I have to be there to make sure other men keep the hell away from what is mine. No one will have her but me. No one will come close.

I push off the tree and pace back and forth behind the tree, attempting to get myself under control. In the past, my profession has required me to intimidate people, to scare them, but I was always in control of the anger. I’m not in control anymore. Hunger and possessiveness for Peyton have taken over.

She’s close.

She’s close to letting me in.

Friday night in the kitchen, I swore she was about to acknowledge the wild chemistry that boils between us. I swore she was going to admit her feelings for me go beyond friendship, but she wasn’t ready yet. That’s okay. I can wait. There is never going to be another female for me. My fairy will take all the time she needs—but in the meantime, I have to keep the weasels away.

Faintly, I hear the bell ring across the street and that’s my cue.

I pull the baseball cap down low over my eyes, tuck my hair into the sides and jog across the street, skirting along the edge of the brick, ivy-covered building. Security is tight at the school, as I discovered on their website, so I came prepared. There is a blog section on the site and I scoured the pictures until I found what I needed, a picture of the janitor. After a quick trip to a shop that sells work gear, I’m wearing a boxy-gray uniform shirt tucked into black pants, identical to the ones worn by the janitor.

Now, I locate the broom I left propped against the side of the building earlier and circle around to the back door. Only about five minutes passes when a teacher exits and lights a cigarette, propping the door open with a shoe. When she sees me, I smile and breeze in through the entrance, mumbling something about forgetting my keys. And like most people, she doesn’t pay the janitor the slightest bit of attention.

Based on the online schedule, it’s lunchtime at the school, so the children are in the cafeteria. I stalk down the empty halls, broom in hand, turning left at the end of the corridor and entering the classroom where Paul teaches. He’s taking a sacked lunch from his backpack when I enter and I don’t give him a chance to register surprise. One second he’s jerking back from his desk, the next I have him pressed to the wall with the broom lodged against his windpipe.

“Hello, Paul,” I growl through my teeth, enjoying the way his eyes widen with terror. It’s familiar to me. I’ve been making men piss themselves ever since I realized I’m stronger than most of them. Less given to fear. I can keep a calm head in any situation—except for this one. Except when someone wants Peyton. My Peyton. “Listen very carefully and I might not ram this broom handle down your throat. Are you listening, Paul?”

Eyes bulging, he nods, the smell of his urine turning my stomach.

This coward actually thought he was good enough for her?

I press the broom handle tighter, eliciting a pathetic whimper from this grown man. “Don’t look at Peyton Pruitt. Don’t speak to her. If I even catch you looking like you might be thinking about her, I’ll come find you in the middle of the night, Paul. I’ll burn your house down while you’re still inside. Am I making myself clear? Forget she exists or I’ll make sure you don’t anymore.”