Page 4 of Savage Stalkers
The loud rumble of a motorbike makes us both look toward the parking area. The guy parks his bike over near the psych building and slides off, and my words die mid-sentence.
He pulls his helmet off and runs a hand through his dark hair, which sticks up in every direction. A leather jacket stretches across his broad shoulders as he moves, and when he turns slightly, I catch the profile of someone who definitely does not spend his weekends at country clubs.
“Okay, nowthat”—Macey elbows me hard enough to make me stumble—“is who you should bring home to mommy dearest. Can you imagine her face when he rolls up on that bike instead of in some trust-fund baby’s electric car?”
I try to laugh, but it comes out as more of a croak. “She would probably lock herself in the house and pretend she wasn’t home.”
Macey grins, then resumes spilling sordid details about her Wild Steps encounter as we make our way over to the psych building. When we get there, I hurry to the door and yank it open just as someone’s coming out, and we crash into each other. Hands grab my arms to keep me from falling on my ass.
I look up and see it’s motorcycle guy. Up close, he’s even better looking, with a little scar through his eyebrow that makes him look like he’s been in a fight or two. But it’s the color of his eyes that takes my breath away—pale ice blue. I can’t stop staring, lost in their depths.
He grins and lets go. “Gotta watch where you’re going, pumpkin.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m standing there staring at where he stood like some kind of idiot while my brain short-circuits.
“Oh my god, did you see those eyes?” Macey whispers, but then glances at her phone. “Shit on a stick! I’ve gotta run or I’ll be late for my marketing class.”
She rushes off, leaving me to stumble into the psychology classroom still feeling dizzy from my encounter with motorcycle guy. Right before we are due to start, I slide into my usual seat next to Adrian.
“Everything okay?” he asks, pulling out his notebook.
Before I can answer, Professor Dean walks in with someone I’ve never seen before. This guy is the opposite of the leather-jacket-wearing guy I crashed into. He’s impeccably dressed in a button-down shirt and perfectly pressed slacks without a single wrinkle. His brown hair is neatly clipped, short on the sides, and styled with precision. When his eyes scan the classroom, they’re so dark—almost black—and intense, so completely different from those pale ice-blue ones that recently scrambled my brain.
“Class, I’d like you to meet Silas Vexley,” Professor Dean announces. “He’s our new TA this semester and is working on his graduate research in criminal psychology.”
As the professor talks, I look over at the new TA. He must feel me staring, as his eyes snap to mine, and we sit in a staring contest for what seems like forever until he looks away. It feels like a small victory, even though I don’t know why.
The class flies by, but my mind isn’t in the room at all. Macey’s revelation about the website keeps flicking in my brain, and I shift in my seat, my pen tapping against my notebook. Would I actually consider something like that? The thought makes my cheeks burn but also sends a weird flutter through my stomach.
I glance around the classroom at all the students taking notes. None of them are probably sitting here thinking about... this. I stop tapping my pen. Earlier, Professor Dean mentioned people who craved dangerous situations, and half the class madeexpressions of disgust. When he talked about “maladaptive behavior patterns,” I sank lower in my chair. My therapist would have a field day.
I press my palms against my thighs, rubbing off the light layer of sweat, and try to focus on whatever Professor Dean is saying about behavioral modification. Yet all I can think about is footsteps padding behind me in the dark, hands on my body, the fear and chase when you want to be caught.
As I leave class, my phone vibrates. I roll my eyes when I see it’s my mom. Things have gotten slightly better between us, but it’s hard to forgive her for keeping my father from me, especially when he isn’t a terrible person. Maybe he shouldn’t have cheated on his wife, though from what my half-brother—or half-adopted brother—Zeland told me, his wife wasn’t innocent either. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but it’s not my business.
“Hello, Mom.”
Adrian slides up beside me and mouths, “I have to go to class,” and I give him a thumbs up.
“Skye Margaret Prescott?—”
“Ellington.”
She huffs. “I did not call to argue with you.”
I move to the side of the corridor and shift my weight from one foot to the other, already knowing this conversation is going to cost me at least ten minutes of my life that I’ll never get back. “Then why did you call me? I’m between classes right now.”
I feel eyes on me, and my heart thumps wildly in my chest. Glancing around, I expect no one to be there as usual; I know it’s all in my head, a wish that there was someone watching me. But this time when I turn, the TA is staring at me, his face void of emotion.
“Skye, are you even listening to me? I need you to pick up your dress. Normally Collin would, but he is off sick, and my entire life is spiraling.”
Collin is my mother’s personal assistant. I scoff thinking about it because she doesn’t work, but he literally runs her life. I bet she didn’t even know how to get out of bed this morning without him drawing open her blinds and pulling the bedspread down.
“Just send me the address. I’ll get it.”
“You are a lifesaver. Also, Clara was asking me if your... Harrison, will he be attending the gala?”
She can’t even bring herself to say the word father. Harrison accepting the invitation would help whatever this cause is, but he is married and living in his little loved-up bubble. The entitlement of these rich women is something else, and also they have not welcomed his new wife into the fold—she doesn’t come from money.
