Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I picture the way Conlan would’ve looked at me and regret it. “There’s nothing going on. We talked, nothing got resolved, and here we are.”
She shuffles closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay to like him.”
“I, uh—” I’m not sure what to say.
“Sometimes, I don’t know if things are normal, you know what I mean? If I’m allowed to do stuff, if it’s okay? I picture someone in my head telling me that it’s okay, like they’re giving me permission to be myself.”
“That’s the secret to your confidence?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, I don’t need permission to be with Conlan.”
“Don’t you?” Her head tilts. “I know he’s scary. His whole life’s terrifying. But he’s really into you. I hear he left the party the same time you did and never came back.”
I glance at the front door. I didn’t see where he ended up, but it’s possible he stayed out in that truck all night, watching the house.
Stalking me like a total freak.
Making sure I’m safe.
“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s really fine.”
She’s not convinced, but I steer her away from the topic and we move on.
Days pass. I drift from home, to work, to home. I accept my tips, chat with Marlon a little bit, and make a few friends at the diner. Allison continues to head into the Lincoln every day and doesn’t plan on moving out anytime soon.
And honestly? I like that she’s around.
Most nights, when I get off work late, I spot that black truck. It’s always there, following me home. It never gets too close, never speeds past, never acts threatening; it’s only there, a presence I can’t shake.
One night, a couple weeks after the flapper party, I have a leftover burger in a to-go container that I don’t plan on eating. Instead of throwing it away, I step out of my house, look both ways on my street, and find that black truck parked a couple houses down. I walk over slowly, and Conlan rolls down the window.
He looks good. Some stubble on his chin, but the same as always. Handsome in an otherworldly way.
“Here,” I say, offering him the food. “It’s extra from the diner. I don’t need it.”
“You should eat,” he says.
“Seriously. Allison doesn’t like meat and I have like six pounds of fries. Take it.”
He reaches out and I pass the burger through the window.
“Thanks,” he says. “I appreciate that.”
I hesitate, glancing back at my house. “This is weird,” I say.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“You’re always out here.”
“Not always. Sometimes I have one of my men watching you instead.”
My eyes go wide. “You’re using your guys too? Conlan!”
“I have to work.” He opens the to-go lid. “Nice, my favorite. How’d you know?”
“I didn’t—” I start, but that isn’t true, is it? There’s a reason I grabbed this before I left. I knew he likes pepper jack and lots of pickles. “Whatever, just eat it.”
“Thank you.” He leans back in his seat, staring at me.
I turn away, my cheeks burning red, and hurry away. What the hell am I doing, talking to him like that? He’s stalking me—like seriously, he’s stalking me—and it should scare me to death.
Instead, I feel safer than I’ve felt in a long time.
I haven’t felt like this since I lived with him.
Chapter 41
Isabel
Flowers show up one afternoon. There’s no reason for them, no card, no indication who sent them.
“Guess he’s still thinking about you, huh?” Allison asks as she puts them on the dining room table. “These are really pretty.”
“Throw them out, I don’t care.”
But she doesn’t, and I’m glad she doesn’t, because I smile very time I walk past them.
When the flowers die and I have to throw them out, more arrive. This goes on for a while, a cycle of life and death, new flowers coming and old flowers going.
Until the pattern changes. This time, the flowers arrive with dinner from a vegan place Allison likes. “Your mystery suitor is so considerate,” she says as we sit down to eat together. “Should we head out to his truck and say thanks?”
“Please don’t,” I say, but that night, before I head to bed, I pull up my blinds and stare out the window. I spot the truck, parked even closer to the house. I wave once, and the headlights flash in response.
I close the blinds, pull on the blanket, and wrap myself tight, smiling.
He’s there in the morning. He’s there at night. Sometimes I look and don’t find the truck—but it always shows up. It’s almost always him, but occasionally, Damon’s behind the wheel.
“He pays double,” the security guy explains with a shrug when I bring him coffee one morning. “Everyone loves his gig when he gives it out.”
“What’s he do in here all day, anyway?”
“He’s got a mobile command station with him. Phones, laptops, hotspot for the internet. The guy’s working.”