Page 33 of Only for Him
“Or,” Ida says, still appraising the men, “you can prove to me that good enough is good enough.”
I’m about to say something cutting when something shifts. A new pressure creeps into the bar, curling behind my ribs. It doesn’t come from the door or the windows—just the air itself, contracting, like there’s not enough oxygen to go around.
“Giselle.” Ida snaps her fingers in front of my face. “You want to have fun, or do you want to keep spinning inside your own skull?”
I don’t answer.
She grabs her purse and slides out of the booth and starts making her way towards the two guys at the bar.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go forget that killer of yours. Even if it’s just for a single night.”
While Ida laughsat something the taller man named Luke says, the shorter one—Nick, I think his name is—touches my hand. It’s an accidental graze, but I pull away anyways, pretending to reach for my phone.
“You alright?” he asks.
No.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, standing up so fast the stool topples over behind me.
A hard piercing gaze drills into the back of my head, and Iknowthat my stalker is here.
Nick starts to say something, but I’m already gone.
I shoulder my way through the crowd, eyes up, scanning for blue and the impending threat. The hallway to the bathroom is dim, barely lit by a red EXIT sign that throws every shadow into sharp relief.
I enter the bathroom, and for a second, the relative quiet is a blessing.
But I know better.
I lock myself in the last stall, perch on the closed lid, and let my breath slow. My heart is tap-dancing under my ribs.
I wait for the feeling to pass.
It doesn’t.
I check my phone: no new messages. Of course not. If he’s here, he’s not texting.
The feeling of being watched has not dulled. It transforms into a physical pressure, as solid as if someone has their palm pressed to the back of my head.
The door opens. I hear the clack of the latch, and take a slow inhale as the hinges whine. Heels should sound like staccato clicks, but these steps are rubber-soled, deliberate, and heavy. One, two, three.
The footsteps stop outside my stall.
I look down in the dim light and see black boots worn to a shine at the toe and scuffed at the heel.
My breath dies in my throat and I try my damndest to be invisible, as if being still can make my heart stop banging against my ribs. The boots wait, unmoving.
Then,hespeaks.
“I know you’re here, little viper.”
The sound is not muffled by the door. It’s amplified and booming through the empty tile until it reverberates, low, smooth, and rumbling against my collarbone.
Fuck!
I say nothing.
The boots shuffle, just once, then a pause.
