Page 1 of Marked

A speck of blood marks my knuckles.

After licking my thumb, I wipe the spot clean, then climb out of my car. Even with my sunglasses on, the sun glaring down on me from high in the sky is blinding.

Rounding the back of my car, I tap on the trunk. “We have some time. How about a cup of coffee?”

A grumble and a thud respond. I leave it behind, hopping up onto the curb and heading for the door.

Inside the coffee shop, the windows have a heavy tint, not allowing much of the sunlight to creep inside.

I tuck the arm of my sunglasses into the front of my black T-shirt as I step into the short line at the cashier.

We’re over an hour outside of Chicago, past the suburbs, nestled deep into the corn crops and soybeans of the Midwest. But even way out here, the coffee chains have made a home.

I can see the appeal of a town like this. A twenty-minute drive will bring you to all the modern conveniences, but you’ll still have the simplicity of a small-town community.

Not that I’d ever consider settling down in one spot for too long.

Too much work to do all over the country.

Fuck, the world. It’s a dark place, and a man like me thrives in th darkness.

“Sorry.” A soft voice comes after a shoulder bumps into mine.

I turn, finding the offending shoulder attached to a woman. A blonde-haired beauty with soft caramel eyes, and they’re focused on me.

“Sorry,” she mutters again, her eyes fleeing my gaze as soon as they land.

“Not a problem,” I say, watching her scurry to the corner of the coffee shop with her covered paper cup. She tucks herself into the booth, and pulls a paperback from her bag before moving it to the seat across from her.

Not interested in company.

Message received.

I move up in the line, still watching her as she turns the pages of her book to find her last page.

She sips her drink, licking away a bit of foam that escaped through the lid and smeared across her bottom lip. The name ‘Harley’ is scribbled on the side of her cup. An ID badge has slipped out of her bag, dangling from a lanyard tucked inside. Her full name is Harley Turner, and she’s a teacher at the local elementary school.

As though she can feel my attention, she glances up from her book just enough to survey the room. I keep my stance loose, my attention on a spot where I can see her in my peripheral vision.

When her eyes land on me, they linger.

Heat builds just below my skin the longer she stares. I turn a little more in her direction, making it look as though I’m checking out the mugs on the wall not far to her right.

She still stares.

I almost smile.

But I don’t want her to know that I see her.

I want her to have herself a long look. I want her to feel me in the room before I approach her.

IfI approach her.

I’m on a deadline.

No time for flirtation today.

“Can I help you, sir?” the cashier calls to me. My turn.

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