I shook my head at myself, whipping my braids against my wind-kissed cheeks.
It didn't matter. I was here now, and I was determined to return this fucking journal. I didn’t want the thing hanging out in my apartment, and I sure as hell didn't want to invoke the wrath of the owner by keeping it. And above all, it seemed private.
Grotesquely so.
Certainly, the owner would be wanting it back. I mean, he even left his address. I was only following his breadcrumbs.
Swallowing my fear I approached, my feet carrying me all the way to the front door like there was lightning on my heels. I’d be damned if I was going to get murdered tonight. This place was creepier than middle-aged men checking out girls at the mall.
Only when my nose was practically pressed against the black glossy door did I hear any proof that people actually lived here. Thumping vibrations that sounded dangerously close to that of the bass of a speaker filled my ears. It must have been loud too. The door was practically shaking.
Tentatively, I knocked, only to leap back in shock when the door cracked open.
How could they hear me over the music? I thought before shifting my focus to the very large, very tattooed hand holding the door open. His eyes captured mine, and suddenly I could no longer shove oxygen into my lungs.
The stranger was incredibly good-looking. Chiseled jaw, stubble trickling down his chin and over his cheekbones. Dark skin coated in ink all the way up to the buttons yanked open on his crisp white shirt.
He looked like someone you saw in your dreams.
In your nightmares.
The mystery man was also masked. A black strip of fabric covering his eyes in a fashion that I could only assume tied behind the back of his head.
He looked at me in confusion, and it occurred to me then that he must have been on his way out. That he had not heard me at all and it was merely a coincidence I had arrived right as this stranger was leaving.
And I was staring.
“Well, what do we have here?” The stranger's voice was pure gravel, as if smoke danced in his lungs, the tone sending shivers down my spine. Transfixed, I watched as he leaned languidly against the powerful door frame, his muscles bulging as he blocked the view from within.
“Hi,” the greeting slipped out. This man, in all his dark glory, who at the moment was staring at me with such jarring intensity it was a miracle I wasn't running for the hills, and all I could think to say was hi? I try to suppress the blush from rising to my cheeks, only to fail miserably as heat spreads across my forehead and cheekbones.
Great. Not only do I look clueless, but now I’ve become a fucking tomato.
Perfect.
Trying to swallow the essence that was my own stupidity, I turned to the dark-eyed man, his eyes hindering on dry amusement, and laced what I hoped to be determination in my voice,
“Hi, sorry to bother you,” I start over, my voice gaining confidence, “but I found this -” I reached for the inner pocket of my jacket, my fingers feeling for the dirty journal I had stashed there, sighing in relief when my fingertips brushed the smooth leather cover.
Thank god.
I looked up, the journal nearly in view, only to have my eyes widen in horror as the door was yanked open with brutal force and a blond head popped out, the dirty strands of his hair catching on the porch lights.
“What are you doing all the way up here mate? Brooding again? You know I could think of several things to wipe that self-deprecating look in your eyes away, and let me tell you none of them are out here.”
My fingers paused on pulling out the journal as I watched the blond statuesque man cozy up next to the dark stranger, my eyes widening in shock. The blond stranger wore no mask, and I was startled to see blue eyes winking up at me before widening in surprise.
“Tristan,” he spat, slapping his “mate” on the back, “Now I see what's been keeping you.” He turned towards me fully then, a smile cracking across his tan face with such clarity that it took me a second to collect myself. It didn't help matters that the porch lights chose that moment to swallow him whole and I was hit by a truck at the full force of his ethereal beauty.
I mean, the man looked like he was a Calvin Klein underwear model for crying out loud. All cheekbones, with a jawline that could slice my heart in two.
“Who’s this little beauty you've been keeping from us?” He clasped my left hand, yanking me forward. Tristan, as the Abercrombie and Fitch model had so joyously called him, scowled at our clasped hands.
“Come on. The party’s this way, love.”
“Jayson,” Tristan spat, his fingers tightening on his friend's black Prada T-shirt,
“He’s not going to like this.” I don't think the words were meant for my ears, but I was so close now, practically pressed against his golden-haired pal, that it was impossible for my ears not to pick up the words.