Page 13 of Bake the Town Red

I…

Fuck.

I don’t slam my fist on the table this time. I get the fuck up. The chair scrapes the hardwood floor. My whole body strains as I do my best to stay put.

Seeing her is wrong.

But I’ll lose my fucking mind if I stay here.

I can’t control this obsession more than I could stop Ian’s killing rampage.

Driven by my most basic impulses, I stride off to my bedroom. Stand in front of the mirror door of my closet. I stare at the thirty-four-year-old man I’ve become.

My face is made of sharp edges. My expression has hardened over the years. I rarely smile anymore. At six-four, I’m tall. Toned from years of killing people and lifting weights.

Sadly, no matter how built I am, nothing will help me fight fate. Nothing ashumanas muscles could pull punches against the sad ending that’s waiting for Dahlia and me if we were ever together.

The singe on my back turns into an agonizing pain. It demands I go to Dahlia.

Fuck this.

I throw on a black Henley and hoodie that match the color of my jeans. Next are my boots and keys.

I’m on my way to her.

It’s late. Cold. The chilly fall air bites into my cheeks as I cross the city, walking downtown. I welcome the distraction. Always do. Anything to take the edge off.

Anything to make me want her less.

I shouldn’t even like her. Shouldn’t do what I’m doing.

I march forward anyway.

Going up the fire escape to her apartment is a climb I’ve taken again and again over the years.

No one sees me do that. No one gives a fuck. New York after midnight means I could do whatever I want. I could murder her in her sleep and no one would notice until the smell of her rotting corpse seeped through the ventilation system.

Not like I’ll ever do that.

Dahlia Valentine is the girl who stole my heart. Some days, I’m worried she’ll take it with her to her grave. To hell.

This murderous, beautiful woman just might.

As I peer into her apartment, I see through the open door to her bedroom. She’s asleep. Tucked under a fluffy blanket, her blonde hair sprawled on the black pillowcases.

Serene. Calm.

She sleeps like the dead.

Always has. I’ve done a lot of unimaginable shit to Dahlia Valentine over the years ever since she was nineteen. In her sleep.

She hasn’t woken up. Not once.

Tonight won’t be any different.

The latch on her window opens with enough manipulation. I oil the hinges every three months, so the window slides up soundlessly. Dahlia doesn’t hear it, doesn’t twist and turn in her bed.

One leg, then the other, and I’m inside her apartment. The soles of my boots land softly on the linoleum floor. I slide the window closed. No one else is allowed in here but me.

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