Sweet Obsession: Chapter 5

Should’ve fucking stayed home, Ayla. Learned your goddamn lesson, didn’t you?

I grimace in irritation at myself as I grab a bottle of Grey Goose and start mixing a martini, working deftly one-handed. I didn’t bother wearing my prosthesis tonight, even though I usually get better tips when I do.

My arm has been aching worse than usual lately, sharp jabs of pain shooting through the phantom limb, as if my body has somehow been reminded of what it lost by Marcus’s sudden appearance in my life.

Of the piece of me I’ll never get back.

I grab the cold metal container and shake it rhythmically, trying to shove memories of what happened yesterday at the library out of my mind.

I’m not sure how long I spent sitting on the floor in the stacks like that, my clit still throbbing occasionally from the aftershocks of the orgasm that tore through me. But it was long enough that when the librarian finally wandered upstairs to return books to the shelves, he looked both concerned and suspicious as he asked if I was okay.

Probably worried I was a junkie sneaking into a quiet part of the library to shoot up or something.

I left without the book I came for. Honestly, I didn’t feel like reading at all after that. Instead, I went home and turned on both the TV and the radio, trying to fill my apartment with enough noise to drown out my thoughts.

And today, unlike yesterday, I didn’t have the luxury of deciding whether or not to leave my apartment. Not if I want to keep paying rent on said apartment anyway.

Duke’s gets busiest on the weekends, but even though it’s a Wednesday night, it’s been steady ever since I got here at eight.

I’ll take it. I need the tip money, and even more than that, I need to keep myself distracted. After my encounter with Marcus at the library, the dreams I had last night were… fucked up.

I woke up on the heels of another orgasm, my own hand grabbing my breast so hard that my fingernails left five little crescent-shaped gouges in my skin.

In the dream, it wasn’t my hand, though. In the dream…

Fuck. Stop it.

Gritting my teeth, I drag in a deep breath through my nose. I quit smoking the night I got shot—the smell of menthol makes me queasy now—but at this particular moment, I’m really fucking craving a cigarette.

Something.

Anything to distract me and center me.

I pour the cocktail and slide the drink across the bar, palming the cash the guy lays down on the slick wood. But as I look up to see who else needs a drink, I freeze with the bill clutched in my hand.

Marcus is here. Sitting at the bar like he’s got every goddamn right to be here right now. Like he didn’t just shove his hand down my pants in a library yesterday. Like he’s just a normal, good-looking guy out for a drink with his buddies.

Because he’s not alone either.

He’s flanked on either side by two men I recognize. Ryland sits on his left, staring at me with the same level of animosity as he did the last time I saw him.

The other guy is Marcus’s other shadow. I don’t know his name, and I’ve never really gotten a great look at his face, but I’m sure it’s him. Like bad fucking news, these men always come in threes.

The third man was there the night I got shot. He was there the night they beat the shit out of my would-be mugger. And now he’s sitting with his elbows resting casually on the bar, sipping a glass of whiskey as he grins at me.

I can feel Marcus watching me intently, the air and earth of his eyes raking over me like a physical touch. Combined with the blistering glare from Ryland, it makes me feel like my clothes are about to be incinerated—and maybe the top layer of my skin too.

So I ignore both of those men, letting my gaze settle on their friend instead.

The guy whose name I don’t know looks… different than the other two.

There’s something almost alarmingly laid back and charming about his bearing. It’s alarming because it makes me want to relax around him, and I know that would be a huge fucking mistake.

Just because he doesn’t seem to be made of pure fire like Marcus or of stone like Ryland, it doesn’t make him any less dangerous than his friends.

I scan the room again, looking for anyone else who needs a drink, but of course it’s died down. I could just ignore the three men watching me from the end of the bar, but I know it won’t make them go away. And their steady focus on me is making my hand shake. Trying to pretend I don’t know they’re here isn’t going to work for shit.

So I pour myself a shot of tequila, down it, and then walk toward them as the burn creeps reassuringly through my chest.

Marcus’s eyes track my movement, the light blue of his right iris reflecting the colorful neon lights of the signs behind the bar.

I refuse to even acknowledge him though, bracing my palm on the smooth dark wood of the bar as I cock my head at the man I don’t know.

“So, what’s a guy like you doing hanging out with these two assholes?”

I jerk my head to his left, indicating the other men, and the guy throws his head back and laughs. He’s got shaggy, dark blond hair that’s swept back away from his face, though a few pieces flop over his forehead. Blue-green eyes glitter in the light as he looks back at me, a crooked smile curving his lips.

“You know, I ask myself that same question every damn day, Rose.”

His last word makes me tense slightly. Rose.

He knows my name. I’m sure of it. Given how closely I’m starting to realize Marcus and Ryland have been watching me, it’s impossible that this man who seems to be the third part of their triad wouldn’t know just as much about me as they do.

But he called me Rose, a reference to the tattoos that cover my truncated arm.

It’s familiar and intimate in a way that makes my heart beat faster.

He’s not just friends with these guys. He’s one of them. A part of this—whatever the fuck this is.

“Never mind.” I shake my head, taking a step back as goose bumps break out across my skin. “Forget it.”

“Hey.” His voice stops me, the softness in it catching me by surprise. His brows pull together, and he looks at me with what appears to be genuine confusion. “Don’t be scared. It’s all right. We won’t bite.”

Yeah? Tell that to your fucking friend.

I don’t say it out loud though, because I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than admit that these men do scare me. The way they’ve completely invaded my thoughts and my life in just a few days has me completely unnerved.

Maybe Marcus can tell what I’m thinking anyway though, because he grunts, flicking a glance at his friend. “Speak for yourself.”

The blond guy rolls his eyes. Then he catches my gaze again, leaning over the bar with his glass held lightly in one hand. “I’m Theo, by the way.”

Ryland makes a noise of disgust in his throat, as if just by introducing himself to me, Theo’s made some kind of monumental mistake.

It pisses me off. This fucking asshole acts like he hates me, like he’d rather be anywhere else but in my presence, yet he’s part of the same crew that’s very obviously stalking me. He openly admitted to it the other day.

And now he’s acting like it’s my fucking fault? Like I asked for this somehow?

I grip my upper arm with my good hand, wishing I could wrap both arms around myself. I feel like I need the protection, the extra layer of armor around these men. All three of them throw me completely off balance, although for different reasons.

“So what are you all doing here?” I ask, frustration giving a blunt edge to my voice. “Got bored of sneaking around to follow me? Decided to stop hiding in the shadows?”

“Yes.” Marcus shrugs. It’s almost a dare.

“You know I could call the cops on you,” I shoot back.

His eyebrows twitch just slightly. “Are you going to?”

Fuck. No, of course I’m not going to. First of all, I know enough about how shit works to realize that it probably wouldn’t do any good. And second of all, I don’t exactly have a great track record with cops myself, so the last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself in any way when it comes to the police.

Marcus does that annoying as fuck thing where he seems to hear all the words I refuse to say despite the fact that I never utter them, and he nods in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”

“You’re safer with us watching over you than you’d ever be with the cops anyway,” Theo adds, the same earnest expression still on his face. Like he’s trying to convince me it’s actually a good thing that I’ve got three stalkers. “The cops couldn’t have saved you the other night. And even if you reported it afterward, I think we all know they wouldn’t have done shit.”

He’s not wrong about that. If I’d even been alive to report the incident to the cops afterward, it would’ve gotten shoved into a file drawer full of other cases just like it to die a slow death of disinterest and neglect.

“Is that what you want?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “You want me to thank you?”

My voice sounds thin. Strained. I reach behind the bar for a bottle of Tres Agaves, uncap it, and pour myself another shot. My nerves are so frayed that they feel like live wires, and although I hate to admit it, I can almost relate to the intense, demanding tone of Marcus’s voice as he kept asking me why yesterday.

It’s the same question that eats away at me now.

Why?

I saved his life. Okay, sure. But why all of this? Why all the hiding, the watching me in secret?

Why this obsession with me? What does he want from me?

“You want me to say thanks?” I ask again, my gaze darting over all three of them.

“No. That’s not what I want.”

Marcus’s eyes bore into mine as he shakes his head, and I tear my attention away to quickly throw back the shot. The burn reaches my belly this time, and it unwinds a little of the tension in my stomach.

I snort a laugh, setting the empty shot glass on the bar with a thud. “Fine. Then I won’t thank you.” My gaze cuts to Ryland for a second, then back to Marcus. “But if you’re planning on wasting your time following me around, I’ve got bad news for you.” I hold my arm out, encompassing the bar and everyone in it. “This is it. This is as fucking exciting as my life gets, so if you’re gonna keep following me, you might wanna bring a good book.”

Theo chuckles, that infectious grin spreading across his face again. Marcus smiles, but there’s something predatory in the expression—something hungry.

My nipples harden as my skin prickles, my nerve endings lighting up against my will.

Dammit. Why does he affect me like this? My body reacts to him as if it’s attuned to every little shift in his posture, every small movement he makes.

I glance down, trying to regain my composure, and my gaze falls on Marcus’s hands. They’re resting on the bar, fingertips drumming lightly against the smooth, polished wood. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a clear look at them, and I realize with a start that his fingers are tattooed. Eight pieces of ink are stamped across each of his fingers between the first and second knuckles so that they’ll line up in a neat row when his fists are clenched. I tilt my head a little, scanning each one.

Then my gaze flies back up to Marcus’s face, my eyes widening. He’s watching me closely, having noticed my examination of his tattoos.

I swallow, a wave of emotions too powerful and unfamiliar to name rushing through me.

Holy fuck. I don’t even know what to do with this.

The markings on his fingers aren’t random symbols. They don’t spell out “love” and “hate” or some shit like that.

They’re numbers.

The month, day, and year of the night I was shot.

“Hey, Ayla!” Duke’s bark almost makes me jump out of my skin. “You mind givin’ me a hand over here? I’m sure your boyfriends can wait.”

A flush creeps up my cheeks as I turn toward the stout man, my hand pressed against my pounding heart. Fuck. I didn’t even notice the group of rowdy girls who are clustered around his end of the bar—probably a bachelorette party or something. Not even bothering to say anything to the three men sitting across from me, I turn and hurry down the length of the bar to join Duke, getting to work mixing Manhattans and wine spritzers.

Several of the girls gawk openly at my tattooed arm, leaning closer to peer at the stump. I hear a few whispering about it, but I hardly pay attention.

Because their gazes aren’t the ones I feel.

Only three sets of eyes burn my skin, and they belong to the three men still sitting at the other end of the bar.

Once the bachelorette party is taken care of, another wave of people comes in, and I lose myself in the rhythmic monotony of shaking, pouring, and rinsing glasses.

The prickling feeling on my skin gradually subsides, and a while later, I peek over at the three men through lowered lashes. They’re deep in conversation amongst themselves, talking easily the way old friends do.

They look different like this. Marcus’s face is more relaxed, and although Ryland’s features are still as hard as ever, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes as he listens to something Theo says.

Something in my chest squeezes, and I look away hurriedly, focusing back on the drink I’m mixing. I’ve never had that—the thing I can see so clearly in these three men. Friendship. Family. I’ve never had people I trust with everything I am, people I would do anything for. Hell, I’ve never really had people I can sit down and have a fucking drink with.

I never really wanted that, I guess. Early life experiences taught me I was better off as an island, a self-contained continent in a vast sea of people.

It’s harder for people to hurt you when you don’t willingly hand over pieces of your heart.

Clearing my throat, I wrench my thoughts back to the present. I shoot a customer-service smile to the guy across from me and slide his drink across the bar. “Here you go.”

He lifts his chin in thanks, his gaze sliding down my arm to the exposed stump that sticks out from my sleeve of my form-fitting t-shirt. His eyebrows lift slightly, and just like the frat boys the other night, he opens his mouth like he’s about to ask me what happened. But I turn away before he can say anything.

That’s a question I never feel like answering, least of all tonight.

For the rest of the evening, I do everything I can to stay on this side of the bar, keeping as much distance as possible between me and three men who seem hell-bent on invading my life.

Duke definitely notices I’m acting weird, but thankfully, he doesn’t make a big deal of it.

I glance over one more time at around midnight when movement on that side of the room catches my eye. Marcus and his two shadows are finally leaving. Theo drains the last of his drink quickly as they all stand.

My gaze lingers for just a fraction of a second too long, and Marcus looks up, catching my eye. He cocks an eyebrow slightly, as if daring me once again to come over and speak to them. But I don’t fucking budge.

A small smile curves his lips, summoned by some internal thought. He grabs his wallet out of his back pocket and pulls a few bills out, dropping them on the table. Then he leans over the bar and grabs a pen from the stash we keep for people to sign credit cards with.

He scribbles something on a cocktail napkin, and then all three of them move toward the door and disappear through it.

It takes me ten minutes after they leave to finally make my way over to the spot they claimed at the bar—as if I’m afraid they’ve booby-trapped it with explosives or something.

But there’s no bomb waiting for me.

There are just two crisp hundred-dollar bills, and a note written on a napkin in slanted, confident handwriting.

Marcus Constantine.

And below that, a phone number.