Page 12 of Falling for the Biker
I swipe my badge with a tired sigh, then wrestle my apron off. The stiff fabric smells like leaking meat juice and something else I can’t describe. I stuff it into my locker, slamming the metal door shut on the scent and the long shift.
Should’ve called off, but Diesel insisted I couldn’t run away and hide in his home all afternoon. At the same time, he did sound like he was trying to convince himself of the same thing.
He didn’t work in his shop in the morning or during lunchtime. Instead, he glued himself to my side and asked me questions here and there. Some were about finding out details about me, such as silly things like my favorite movies. Then he’d question me about my stalker. Then, I’d have to tell him about my favorite food. Back and forth, he’d leave a sour taste in my mouth before offering something sweet.
Is he out there in the parking lot, waiting for me? The thought hits me as I push open the door leading out of the backand back onto the main floor. A little thrill, a mix of excitement and nerves, pushes some of the tiredness away.
I try to smooth down my hair, knowing it’s probably a hopeless mess after being tied back all day.
Hopefully, he understands my manager has an exceptional talent for holding me up right at the moment I should be clocking out, so he’ll forgive my tardiness.
I head toward the employee exit attached to the side of the building, closest to the parking lot, half-distracted by the hopeful image of Diesel’s bike rumbling out there, which is why I don’t see the person walking out of an aisleway until it’s too late.
I bump hard into a solid chest. A reflexive apology is out of my mouth before I even look up. “Sorry—”
My gaze lifts, and the words die in my throat.
I recognize the man I run into, but not in a way I should. He’s a customer, a regular. Someone who shouldn’t be here after closing hours.
The one who always comes through my lane, every day, and always gets enough food for a meal. He always has a quiet, polite smile. Not now.
His face is a cold, blank mask. Those blue eyes, usually so calm, are now sharp with an intensity that freezes me in place. A few strands of his usually immaculate blond hair are out of place, as if he’s been running his hands through it. He’s standing far too close. A cold trickle of dread slides down my spine.
What was his name again? Will? William? Something along those lines.
I can let management find him, can’t I? Diesel’s waiting for me. That’s why I’m getting this inner instinct to run, right? I don’t want him to get impatient.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to sidestep before this unsettling sensation grows.
His hand snaps out, clamping down on my arm. The grip is like iron, catching me off guard.
“Who’s the bastard with the bike?” Eerily calm, he lowers his voice into a whisper like he’s trying to keep this conversation between the two of us.
For a second, I’m just startled. The question doesn’t compute. My mind is still on Diesel, on getting out of here. “I… don’t know what you mean.”
His grip tightens, fingers digging into my bicep. He leans in, his cool blue eyes narrowing. The question comes again, sharper, each word a clipped icicle. “The man on the motorcycle.”
He doesn’t have the patience for me to figure out that he’s talking about Diesel.
Without another word, he tugs me toward the dimly lit back corridor, back toward the place I just left.
I always thought this place had a haunting appearance during closing time. Heck, even before I got scared easily, this place gave me the creeps. The lack of life is one thing, but the music still plays like normal. Louder than it should be, but hardly a hum compared to the blaring thoughts filling my head of questions on what is happening right now.
His stride is purposeful, confident. He doesn’t hesitate or look around. He ignores the couple of employees we pass who are just as eager to get out of this place.
A quick, sharp flicker of panic ignites in my head. Doeshework here? How does he know this way? I’m just a cashier; I stick to the front and the break room. I’ve never even been down this hall. William moves like he’s walked these back ways a hundred times, like he owns the shadows closing in around us.
A heavy metal door pushes open, spilling us into the cold, dimly lit dock area. The night air hits me, a slap of frigid dampness that steals my breath. A light mist falls from above,instantly soaking my skin. Or maybe it’s the fear causing the goosebumps that prickle across my skin.
He’s got me exactly where he wants us, like he’s planned this thoroughly.
The sound of the door swinging shut behind us is a death knell. We’re completely cut off from what little remaining life is inside. If I scream, will it be loud enough? There are cameras, I know, little black domes in the corners. But no one actively watches them. Not at this hour.
He rounds on me, his face a mask of quiet fury. The polite facade is gone, a mask cracked to reveal an obsession beneath.
“Who is he?” he demands, the words sharp and cold. “That biker who brought you home last night? The one who dropped you off.”
He was watching. He saw Diesel. The realization is a physical blow. Jealousy drips from every word, making his tone both accusing and terrifyingly possessive.
