Page 7 of Keep Me

But the stranger is no ghost. He’s real flesh and blood, tapping his foot like he’s getting impatient waiting for someone. Sometimes when I take a glance, he’s on his phone or reading the newspaper the café puts out. Other times, though, he’s slumped in the chair, chin resting on his palm and elbow on the armrest like a bored king. And I’m the only member of his court. We make eye contact, and he doesn’t waver, only breaking when I return to my work.

Eventually he rises, a bitter tick in his jaw and one last cutting look my way before putting his sunglasses back on. His stormy eyes disappear, and something settles in my gut. With a sneer that I might be imagining, he strides to the door. I watch his tall frame walk away, feeling a small sense of victory. I won this time.

But the feeling quickly fades, and I’m left with an itchy sense of foreboding. My eyes keep flicking up to the door like I expect him to walk back in any minute. The strong wind off the bay makes the old building creak, and sea spray taps against the window pane. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I feel like a sitting duck, and I don’t like it.

I pack up my things and step outside, hoping to shake this feeling. But instead, I’m greeted by the same asshole’s sunglasses. The stranger leans on the hood of a black sports car, his legs crossed at the ankles and a cigarette balanced between his fingers. I walk down the porch steps, and he tilts his head as he brings the cigarette to his lips. Straightening my back, I watch in my periphery as he exhales plumes of smoke and takes off his sunglasses. A tingle of awareness skitters up my limbs, and I glance his way to find his hardened gaze following me.

I stutter in my steps, debating whether or not to confront him. He must take my pause for fright, because he lifts his chin in a slight nod as the smallest smirk curls his lips. I decide to just roll my eyes, refusing to give him anymore fodder. He looks like the kind of man who gets off on making people feel beneath him.

He’s not going to kill me. A crowded coffee shop is no place to execute a hit. And even here in the parking lot, a dozen people have already seen his face—with geometric tattoos sprawling across his neck and up to his jaw, they won’t be forgetting him. He was most likely sent to intimidate me, but whoever is behind this will have to do better than him.

I won’t run away. Not this time.

I turn my back to him as I open my car door, throwing my bag into my passenger seat even as my muscles tense with the vulnerability. I’m not planning on giving him any more of my attention, but then I hear a dark chuckle from across the lot. I can’t help myself as ire ignites in my veins. I twist to face him, then flip him off. He has the same hint of a smirk as he drags his thumb across his bottom lip. The image makes my stomach tighten as I climb into the car, my skin dancing with flames. Right before my door slams shut, I hear him speak.

“See you soon, Cortez.”

Chapter 5

Trixie’s

Reggie

I shimmy the black-silk dress over my head and down my hips. It fits like a slip, snug around my chest and hanging loose to mid-thigh. It doesn’t look like you could hide anything under it, but it’s just flowy enough, and the watery look of the dark silk disguises any hint of the holster around my thigh. My brooding shadow has been following me around like a bad cold you can’t seem to shake. I’m sure he will make another appearance tonight. 1

I’m planning on it.

I’m just finishing loading my Derringer and double-checking the safety when Roe calls to tell me she’s outside. “I’m walking out the door right now,” I say, holding my phone between my neck and shoulder as I stuff my feet into my Docs. Not bothering to tie them, I shove the laces into the ankle and grab my red-leather jacket off the hook on my way out.

“You look dressed to kill.” Roe’s head pops out of the back window of a waiting sedan, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Good,” I joke as I open the door, taking a peek over my shoulder as I do. Sure enough, that same damn sports car is parked a few cars back, the headlights coming to life as I slide into the backseat. The Uber driver looks back to make sure everyone’s in and then takes off.

“For real, you look like a sexy assassin.” My best friend eyes me up and down, one of her long legs draping across her knee.

“Well, you would know.” I raise my eyebrows back and she huffs, swatting her hand at me.

“Oh don’t start back up with that. You very well know I’m just a political consultant.” She rolls her eyes, then looks out the window.

“Mhmm, sure.” I laugh. I met Roe in undergrad, where she majored in poli-sci with minors in Russian and Arabic. She’s also fluent in French and can get by in German, Spanish, and about six other languages.

It’s probably frowned upon to invite your friend to a night out at the bars when you’re planning on luring out your tatted, potentially murderous stalker. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure Roe is a covert CIA agent and can handle herself just fine. Her long, cabernet-colored nails tap on the car door handle, and her eyes dart out the window at every intersection like she’s mentally keeping track of every street name.

There’s not one thing in particular that makes me think that. It’s a combination of a bunch of small things that come together like pieces of a puzzle. A puzzle I know all the pieces to, growing up surrounded by people leading double lives. Like my father: a respected businessman, beloved mayor, adored family man, and the most dangerous crime lord in all of Mexico.

Taking trips that even the people closest to them only know about once they’re back. Never sitting in public with their back exposed, scanning every room for escape routes as soon as they enter. So masterful at deflecting questions when it comes to certain parts or times of their lives that the other person will think they were the ones to change the subject.

It’s a short drive to Trixie’s. You’d think with a name like that, it would be a dive that sells two-dollar Pabst Blue Ribbons and has free peanuts at the bar. Turns out, the name came from the owner’s witchy black cat. So rather than beer-stained floors and a bartender with platinum hair still teased like it’s the ’80s, it’s a sleek, modern bar stylized with black and astral ambiance.

The driver lets us out, and I pause for a moment to search through my purse on the sidewalk like I’m making sure I didn’t leave anything in the car. In truth, I am waiting for the sports car to appear from around the corner. He slowly cruises by us, and I don’t even try to hide my glare directed at the driver. The windows are tinted, but I know exactly what I’d see on the other side—blue eyes, so cold and bitter you can’t help but get a sour taste in your mouth, and a stare so intense that it makes you feel like he is either reading you down to your darkest secrets or looking right through you like you’re nothing but a gust of air.

I don’t know which I’d rather.

His constant presence makes me feel hot and itchy, like I’m always on the verge of fight or flight. But there’s another part of me that keens under his perpetual gaze. As if we are the only two people in the world and everyone else is just a prop on our stage.

I don’t like it. I don’t like anything that gets under my skin and makes me question my gut. I want him gone. I want the non-stop feeling of eyes boring into my back gone. But I also feel the tugging need to know more. I want to peel back his tattooed skin and see if his heart is really as black and dark as it looks through his eyes. Are the pain and anger that keep his body always tense and ready for a fight just a charade, or do they go down to his core?

But wouldn’t anyone want to know these things about the person tailing them? What makes them tick, their blind spots and weaknesses. What they want and how to get rid of them. It’s a habit my father instilled in me—instinctively looking for anything that could be used to make someone a weaker enemy or stronger ally, but always leaves you as the victor.

---