Page 21 of Voyeur

I’m fine. Don’t worry too much about me. I’m a tough cookie.

I never said you weren’t, tag-a-long. But everyone needs someone to worry about them.

Do they?

I don’t recall me ever having someone like that in my life. Ever. Still, I don’t want him distracted at work and getting hurt.

Still, don’t worry. Have a good shift. And thanks again for last night.

I await his funny retort or sexual innuendo like I’d expect from any other man, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he tells me I’m welcome and moves on with his day. I have to respect it, but I’m almost disappointed.

Ryker is an amazing man. He’d be a perfect partner, that I know. He’s sweet, giving, and devoted. He’d treat me right in all aspects. But there’s something that keeps me from fully connecting with him.

He’s not…

I don’t know.

Maybe it’s that old notion that women love assholes and he’s not one. Maybe I should force myself to use my fucking head for once and go after the good guy, instead of the scintillating mega-millionaire boss I’m not even allowed to touch in my dreams.

I sigh as the doorbell rings. Looking out the peephole, I see an officer rocking on his heels. I open the door and let him in.

“Ryker sent me to get a statement from you about your stalker. I have my partner casing the perimeter for anything he could’ve left behind,” the officer says.

How has this become my life? I have a new job, boss that’s a blast from the past I should’ve left buried, a stalker, and a neighbor I want to like—that also made me come—but has something off about him.

“Let me make us some coffee,” I tell the officer, moving into the kitchen and seeing the clean dishes I didn’t wash.

Fuck. I need something stronger than coffee.

CHAPTERSEVEN

Anonymous

“Gage!” the slight, gothic-looking barista calls from across the coffee shop. I look up from my laptop and meet her eyes. Something akin to fear and anxiety passes over her features. She drops my gaze and sets my hot, black coffee down, sliding it across the counter toward the edge, the furthest she can get it from where she stands.

When I stalk toward the counter to grab it, she backs away. I have that effect on people. I’m an intense man, and I’ll demand nothing less than submission from those around me. If you don’t bow, I’ll break the knees that kept you standing.

“Thank you,” I tell her, and she shivers.

When I turn, I smirk wickedly.

“I don’t know why you have to toy with them, G,” Trevor says, sipping his sissy latte with foam.

“It brings me joy,” I joke, sitting down on the plush chair and re-opening my laptop.

“Listen, I tell you about one fucking book…” he starts, shaking his head at my teasing banter.

I cut him off, raising my hand. “You not only read it, but then you recounted all the ways to declutter my life and tried to remove things from my apartment.”

He smirks. “Well, there’s not much to remove, honestly.”

About a month ago, Trevor’s wife had begged him to buddy-read Marie Kondo’sThe Art of Tidying Up. Then he took it too far—as he’s known to do—and tried to tidy up my place after he ran out of shit to throw away at his own home. He’s about the only person I won’t murder. He’s lucky.

I sigh. “I don’t need much. No person does. I’m a minimalist. Nothing wrong with it.”

“You live like a serial killer,” he murmurs. I don’t look up, but smirk into my coffee mug.

“Did you get that video feed I airdropped you? Mark wants us to see if we can remove a chunk of time from it and loop the video.”

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