Page 13 of Eyes in the Shadows

I really try not to smile, because I think it’s giving her the wrong impression, but I can’t help it. “I’m going to keep you,” I decide.

The indignant expression wipes from her face. “W-what?”

The buzzing of her phone is more persistent now, as well as evenly spaced. A phone call. I let her question hang in the air as I walk over and pick up the bag, dig out the phone, and read the screen. “Harrison? Who’s that?”

Her face twists back up with fear and concern. “N-no one.”

“Passcode?” Defeatedly, she recites her PIN and I slide my finger across the screen to answer it. “Hello?”

“El—wait, whoa, who’s this? Why are you answering Ellie’s phone?”

I scowl at her as I mute the call. “You have five seconds to tell me who he is and why he’s calling you or I’ll just find out who he is myself and take care of him.”

“Is she okay?” drifts out the grating male voice from the speaker. “What’s going on?”

She winces. “Harrison is my neighbor. We’re staying together at the motel while—” she looks around, and decides not to bring it up, “I told him I was going to get us something to eat, but I came here first. He doesn’t know I’m here. Please don’t hurt him!”

I put a finger to my lips, to which she jerks a nod in understanding, and unmute the call. “Eleanor changed her mind about the motel, she’s going to stay with me until they’re done fumigating.”

“Who are you?” the guy asks, not quite suspicious. More curious.

“I’m her boyfriend.”

Eleanor makes a choked noise and the guy has the audacity to laugh. I let my silence hang in the air as a warning to both of them. She clams up instantly, looking away, and after a few seconds, the laughter in his voice drops. “Wait, seriously? She… ah, she never mentioned.”

“I’m hurt,” I intone, more to her. She scowls at the cushion next to her, not turning my way.

“Uh, sorry man,” the guy says awkwardly. “Well, tell her I said have fun, I guess. And since she was supposed to bring food back with her and instead just abandoned me here, tell her she owes me dinner.”

“I’m not going to do that, and she doesn’t,” I say, my voice lowering in anger.

I can practically hear the fucker’s heart start to race in fear. “Oh… o-okay. Uh, bye.”

“Harrison says have fun,” I say after I end the call and pocket the device. “Some friend. He doesn’t seem too concerned that you’re not the one who picked up your phone.”

“In this case, that’s probably a good thing for him,” she mumbles, staring with resignation at the pocket where her phone disappeared. It looks like she’s staring at my package and my cock nearly twitches at the thought.

“Probably true. That happen a lot? Lots of guys picking up your phone for you?”

I know I sound jealous, but I can’t fucking help myself. I’ve been watching as her chest expands with each breath, pressing the rope into her upper arms and breasts and pressure is starting to pound in my head and in my dick. The thought that she’s got other guys is… aggravating. At least this Harrison character doesn’t seem like he’s one of them.

“Do I really have to answer that?” she asks.

I close my eyes and exhale loudly as I bring up a hand and try to rub the tension out of the back of my neck. I know I’m being crazy—too possessive, too much—so I need to back off. “No.” But then I see her eyes follow the movement of my arm, locking in on the triceps bulging through my shirt, and I change my mind. “Yes.”

Her eyes cut to the ceiling and she shakes her head a little, like she doesn’t want to say it. “You’re the first.”

Satisfaction swells in my veins, and because I know I should be more concerned about that reaction than I am, I decide to give her some space. I move back over to my setup, and crouch around the other side so I can keep both the viewfinder and her in my line of sight.

“Tell me something,” I say conversationally. I just want to keep talking to her. I know she’s going to like me. She already sort of does—I can tell—but the situation doesn’t really lend itself to romance. “Why aren’t you in any of those photos, darlin’?”

She turns her head in the direction of my gesture, fixing on the row of frames standing on the couch table. “Um, I don’t know. I guess I’m usually the one taking them,” she says,looking down.

I don’t like that, for some reason. It strikes me as a bit sad, that she’s always the one behind the camera. Even sadder if the reason is that she doesn’t like photos of herself, the way I know some people don’t. She’s a woman who should be photographed, and those photos should be framed and put on a shelf to look at often.

Movement catches in the corner of my eye. She shifts on the couch, moving closer to the arm. I keep half an eye on her—if she thinks she’s being sneaky in her attempt to break free, she’s adorably wrong—but it soon becomes obvious that escape isn’t her goal. She starts rubbing her knee against the arm of the couch.

“You got an itch?”

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