Page 31 of Kiss the Villain

After I get rid of the clingy students, I finish my other classes for the day and head out.

I’ve opted for a full European life. No car or other means of transportation.

Brighton Island is small anyway, and I prefer to walk around in the UK’s depressing windy and rainy weather instead.

As if.

I’m mostly observing.

Just like the little pest who’s been tailing me.

Correction: a little monster.

Carson’s words about watching my back are actually a job he took upon himself. Literally.

For a week now, he’s been following me everywhere.

All the time.

Like a freak.

He’s even skipping some classes. I know because one of the other fool professors that he has in the palm of his hand has expressedconcernabout his absence.

“He’s such a bright student. It’s not like him to skip. I’m worried about him.”

You should be worried about your brain that he’d eat for breakfast if given the chance.

I walk into an organic food shop and skim through the freshly roasted coffee beans.

Carson does, in fact, make a decent stalker. He always keeps a safe distance, uses different cars, and even wears hats and sunglasses to cover his hair and face. He has a knack for making himself invisible when needed, and sometimes, it takes me a while to notice him.

Would give him four out of five stars. Knocking one star off for the unoriginal content.

“Hello there.” A teenager with orange hair and chipped black nail polish says in a singsong voice. “Need my help with anything at all?”

I’d hope not. I don’t expect someone like her to help me with my particular taste for coffee.

“Just looking around, thank you,” I say, browsing the bags and offering no smile. I don’t give a fuck how people perceive me.

I lost the ability to care about that a long time ago.

“That one is our bestseller.” She motions at a bag with a huge red tag that says ‘bestseller’ on top. Young people these days share one brain cell, I swear.

“Can I smell samples?”

“Of course you can.” She fumbles around to get the tray set up. Her anxious energy bounces off my skin like a ping-pong ball on a loosening thread.

If it were anyone else, they’d feel some form of sympathy or try to alleviate the situation, but I just stand there, letting her flounder in her own mental blood.

It’s fascinating how her cheeks turn red as she fumbles over her word diarrhea that I effectively filter out. Even Carson seems annoyed in the discreet reflection of the glass, judging by the way he keeps bringing his finger to his mouth and then letting it fall back down.

Three times now.

Five if we count the two times he did it in class this morning.

His bad habits are pouring out like a damn fucking waterfall. It’s euphoric.

And I find myself riveted, fully absorbed in what else I can squeeze out of that perturbed mind of his.

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