Prey upon me a dark stal.., p.10
Prey Upon Me: A Dark Stalker Romance, page 10
She’s right at the brink of an orgasm—
But she abruptly stops.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit!
Did she hear me? Did I even make a sound?
What the hell just happened?
I prepare myself for her to look over the edge of the bed, for her to see me here and scream loud enough to wake the entire city.
I prepare to run.
But she doesn’t move, except to chuck the vibrator blindly onto the floor behind her. Even though it hits the carpet, the throw is hard, and the device bounces off and strikes the bottom of the desk, very likely breaking.
She doesn’t care. Blondie just grabs a pillow, jams it over her face, and buries a scream into it with such force that my own vocal cords hurt just hearing her.
Once she’s finished, she turns the volume up on the television, like she can drown out her frustration, and I’m reassured that at least I’m okay. She isn’t calling the police or running out of the room. She didn’t hear or see me.
But something’s still wrong.
She’s huffing and cussing, yanking her comforter up and reaching to shut off the lights.
I manage to get back under the bed in time as she shifts to my side of the mattress, but it’s hardly a relief. All I can do is lay here with the worst case of blue balls in my life, the image of what I’ve just witnessed now permanently imprinted on the inside of my eyelids.
CHAPTER 9
KNOX
This girl has officially fucked me up. It took four hours of me hiding under her bed before I felt confident enough to army crawl my way to her door, and I still haven’t recovered.
It’s been nearly three days since I installed the camera in Anna’s living room, and I’ve barely fucking seen her. She hasn’t taken her car anywhere or stepped foot out of her apartment, and the only time she leaves her bedroom is to either use the bathroom or get something from the kitchen. The latter is my favorite, especially late at night. She appears to have an affliction when it comes to her pajamas, because she can’t just wear clothes that cover her entire body. Nope, she either needs to be in long sleeves or sweatpants, but never both. It ensures that I get an eyeful every time she makes an appearance. When she comes sauntering out in pink sleep pants, she’s matching it with a worn, rather see-through white tank top, showcasing the tits I knew were hiding underneath that blouse. And the fact that the apartment appears to be a bit chilly only makes the image all the more glorious.
When I see her the next day, she’s covered up those gorgeous assets in favor of some oversized sweater. I’d be pissed off, if not for the fact that she’s also in underwear masquerading as shorts. Knowing what’s underneath there, watching those hips sway, I get hard just looking at it. Because I’ve seen how that ass can move, how her hips roll.
Yeah, it’s not a question of whether I’m a boobs or ass man. I’m an and.
I feel like a paparazzo, craving the fleeting glimpse of a celebrity. Because that’s what she’s become.
My new addiction.
Every time my phone goes off with a notification that there’s movement inside her apartment, I’m scrambling to unlock the screen, even knowing that, more than likely, it’s just her roommate.
By the third day of my new voyeuristic hobby, I’m beginning to climb the walls, because I’ve barely seen her. Anytime her roommate has other people over, my girl becomes an even bigger hermit. The few times she’s come to the kitchen, she doesn’t bother cooking or preparing anything. She just grabs whatever snack is available that allows her to immediately return to her room and hide.
All I have to satiate my newly acquired appetite right now are the videos and pictures I copied from her computer, which haven’t offered much information. I’ve spent the last sixty-nine hours on every search engine and social media site, hoping one of her photos will trigger a match with something else, but so far, it’s been a bust.
With the constant motion of the half dozen people in the living room, the camera I installed gives me a continuous live feed, so I keep stealing glances at it in the hope Blondie will make one of her brief appearances.
“Dude, ‘all work and no play’ isn’t a good look on you.” Michael snatches the phone from my hand, pointing up to the stage with a laugh. “How about you take a breather and appreciate the scenery?”
Yeah, I know I’m being weird. I mean, who comes to a strip club only to spend the whole night staring at his phone? But I can’t help it. There’s no shortage of beautiful women here, yet I can’t get the one I can’t have out of my head. Hearing her moans, seeing her reflection, watching her snap…
It did something to me.
All I keep picturing is that very scenario, of her on her bed, legs open. Only, it isn’t her hands or some sex toy pulling those sounds from her.
It’s my face buried in her cunt, and she isn’t stopping or cursing or failing to find satisfaction. She’s pulling on my hair and grinding against me, and I make her come so hard that her cries wake up every person on her floor.
Fucking hell.
What is wrong with me?
I’m more turned on by a mere daydream of this woman than I am by the nude dancers in front of me.
“Seriously, what’s up with you, man?” Michael asks. “My cousin is supposed to be the brooding one. Not you.”
Speaking of which…
“Where is Jax?” He said he’d meet us here, but the guy is still a no-show. I’d be concerned something happened to him, if not for the fact that he’s been flaking out on us since the heist. Anytime I ask him what he’s been up to, Jax just gets cagey and mutters that he’s “taking care of things.” What those “things” are is anybody’s guess, and it seems his cousin hasn’t been able to get any information from him either.
Michael shrugs. “Hell if I know. At first, I thought maybe he was chasing tail, but if he was, he wouldn’t have such a stick up his ass. The dude needs to get laid. You both do.”
He steals a look at my phone screen and wolf-whistles.
“Hot damn.” Whatever he sees has him straightening, like it’ll help him get a better view. “No wonder this chick’s got you in such a chokehold. With thighs like that, I’d let her ride my dick, and my face, and anything else she wanted.”
I figure he’s talking about Anna’s roommate or one of the other women in the living room, but I look over to see my girl has reemerged from her self-imposed exile and is standing by the front door.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Not only is she all dolled up, she’s wearing a dark velvety-looking mini dress that shows off her ass and tits but somehow still doesn’t look like something you’d see at the club. It’s too classy.
It’s the kind of thing I’d imagine she would wear for a date.
I know I shouldn’t give a shit. If anything, I should be happy that I’ll get a chance to observe her out in public again or that I might be able to get back into the apartment to recharge the camera if her roommate leaves.
Instead, I’m pissed.
Why is that?
Because the second she walks out the door, one of the women in the living room asks where Anna is going, and her roommate confirms that she has a “hot date” with a fucking cop!
I snatch my phone back and take off across the room, looking for Dominic. We always take turns on who the designated driver is going to be, but despite the night being his turn, I haven’t been cutting loose like I usually would. I’ve only had one beer, and that was over an hour ago. I’m more than safe to get behind the wheel, but that won’t be happening if I don’t get the keys…which I can’t fucking find because they’re with Dominic, who has apparently turned into Houdini, because he’s suddenly disappeared.
I’m able to pick the lock on the trunk to get my gear, but I don’t know the first thing about hotwiring.
Thankfully, Georgia’s husband, Carl, owns the strip joint, and I’m relieved to find his car parked in the back lot. I would normally hate borrowing the old Ford since it’s a used cop car bought at auction. Half of the time, the people driving in front of you immediately slow down when they see the white and black vehicle in their rearview mirrors, not realizing there aren’t any markings on it to signify that it’s still in service. If you want to get somewhere really, really goddamn slow, this is the car you take. But beggars can’t be choosers.
As always, Carl isn’t the type to ask questions, tossing the keys to me without so much as a word. The rest is understood.
Refill whatever gas you use, and leave the keys on the rear tire when you bring her back.
There isn’t a chance in hell that Officer Fuck Face came across Anna by sheer happenstance. The question here is why?
And I have a pretty good feeling I know the answer.
Lillian.
Holt doesn’t work in the same department as the one that would be investigating the robbery, so he wasn’t appointed to watch Anna, at least not by the police. And I’ve seen the women he’s targeted. She doesn’t fit the bill.
So what the fuck is he up to?
Over the course of the twenty-minute drive, I conjure up every sort of scenario, each one making me sicker and sicker.
Is he going to be sly about it and tell her from “a cop’s perspective” that it isn’t a good idea to dwell on the robbery, that she has no idea the target she would be placing on her back? Or is he planning on going full throttle and taking her to the Valley for a “night cap”?
The mere idea has the phantom taste of copper filling my mouth.
Following the tracker on her car, I see Anna hasn’t gone too far from her place, but I’m more than a little surprised when I pull up to the destination.
McDonald’s?
Don’t get me wrong. As I’ve said before, I love their food as much as the next red-blooded American, but it’s not exactly the restaurant that comes to mind for a first date.
I mean, Jesus Christ, this guy can’t be for real. For a woman like Blondie here, you roll out the red carpet for her, even if you have to steal it.
Anna shows up looking like a dish, or hell, an entire fucking feast I want to tear my teeth into, and this dolt’s going to show her the Value Menu?
God, no wonder this woman can’t orgasm. She’s fantasizing about men who think they can get a woman wet by ordering her a Big Mac.
I see the Sunfire parked in the middle of the lot and Holt’s SUV off in the corner, but despite both vehicles being unoccupied, he’s not inside the restaurant. The jackass is pacing out front on his phone.
Seriously, did this guy suffer a traumatic brain injury while I was away? Who in their right mind would leave a woman who looks like that waiting alone inside?
I pull into the first available space, and it takes a whole twenty seconds to realize something here is not right. Holt is being a stage-5 creeper, lurking in front of the windows like he’s casing the joint.
Pulling Carl’s Red Sox cap low over my eyes, I exit the vehicle and make my way over to the entrance. Keeping my head down, I pause when I get close to him and pretend to fumble around my pockets as if searching for my wallet, and though I can’t hear who’s on the other side of his phone call, what comes from Holt’s end is worth a whole field of red flags.
“I’m telling you, this girl has some dirt. I’ve just gotta dig deep enough. You don’t just upend your entire life, change your name, and move somewhere you have no connections to.” He pauses. “I doubt it. She made plenty of connections through the Chadwicks. Any one of them could have helped with an infraction like that. She probably wouldn’t have even needed to transfer schools, let alone drop out.”
If he wasn’t being weird enough, Holt begins circling the outside of the building, and I have no choice but to head inside.
Anna should be easy to spot among the other customers, but I don’t see her anywhere.
Holt comes through the entrance and pushes through the crowd, moving directly behind me. “I just need a little more time—”
“And I need this squashed before it can become anything. Don’t give her that chance.”
Even now, the sound of Lillian’s voice is still enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
It seems I’m not the only one with a target on my back. The thundercunt herself is also going after Blondie, and she’s not in the mood to play softball. I know what measures she’s willing to take to remove a thorn from her side, and if she finds Anna’s weakness, she’ll bury her.
Thankfully, Holt is too busy loitering in front of the bathrooms to even notice me standing in line, and by the looks of it, he thinks Anna is hiding out in the restroom.
Perhaps she’s the real Houdini here, because how the hell did she get to her car?
As soon as Holt disappears down the hallway, I hear tires squealing outside and catch a glimpse of the Sunfire speeding off with a head of bright blonde hair behind the wheel.
By the time I get my order, the GPS tracker shows Anna heading back to her apartment.
Good.
When I eventually get there, I pull into the same dog park across the street and utilize the information Holt provided as I polish off my meal. It takes a little bit of investigating, but I’m pretty sure the “Chadwicks” dear old Benny Boy was referring to is an apparent dynasty family that made their fortune generations ago. Between blood relatives and those who marry into the name, you’ll find every degree of celebrity under their umbrella. Actors, actresses, athletes, musicians, senators, assemblymen, CEOs, and the like. The family is worth billions, and Anna is somehow linked to them…
But how?
Plenty of the middle-aged and senior heirs have taken on much younger mistresses, girlfriends, and wives, so it’s not out of the question that Anna’s been with one of them, but I go the safer route and start in our age bracket.
There are six potential suitors, and lucky number two has me landing on twenty-five-year-old Sebastian Chadwick.
Immediately, I want to punch his face. Porcelain teeth that are a little too white and skin a little too perfect, all framed by a haircut that probably cost more than everything I own.
This isn’t a man. It’s a kid. A bratty one who’s never had to suffer the kind of pain that leaves scars or calluses. He has access to every personal trainer and activity on the planet. He could rock climb or base jump or mountain board, but that would require skill and a set of balls, neither of which he has. The only physical activity he appears to participate in is running, which checks out. Because he’s the asshole in a crisis who would be the one running away.
A friend tagged him in a video showing a group of people near the waterfront when fireworks abruptly go off. Everybody’s initially startled by the sound, and while the other guys instinctively shield their girlfriends, Sebastian crouches under the table, leaving his date high and dry. Sure, everyone laughs it off when they realize what it is, but the brunette next to him looks more than a little annoyed.
He’s a pretty boy who never had to grow up, who’s never been told no. He takes vacations every other fucking week and buys new cars and Rolexes almost as quickly.
This can’t be the guy. The women he’s been photographed with over the past nine months all look like runway models who barely survive off of side salads and water. He clearly has a type, and Anna certainly isn’t it. Hell, I doubt Sebastian would know what to do with a woman like her even if he was given a map and directions—
But then I see it.
Fourteen months, two weeks, and three days ago, a non-blonde Anna stands next to him in a black and white dress at some upper-crust event. His arm is wrapped around her waist, and in one of the shots, he kisses her cheek. But she isn’t smiling.
I keep scrolling to see more and more pictures and videos of the two of them together, and it’s like watching the breakup in rewind. The further I go back in the timeline, the more and more she smiles, and the wider it grows. The fucker actually developed a personality, or at least he gave off the impression of having one, because he’s seen doing shit other than spending Daddy’s money. The two are shown hiking and playing mini golf and attending a World’s Fair. They hang out in sports bars instead of exclusive restaurants. They attend football games instead of three-thousand-dollar-a-plate galas. She looks like she’s having fun. He looks like a cat who ate a whole pet shop’s worth of canaries. Because he got the girl.
And there’s no doubt in my mind who dumped who. He may have the kind of money that could buy a small European country, but she’s the real prize. As that proverb goes, “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.” The proof is in the pudding. Anna took care of him when he got the stomach bug, cooked him Thanksgiving dinner from scratch when his parents couldn’t make it for the holidays, and helped him study for law school. She didn’t need to be lavished with expensive gifts to enjoy his company. Any wealthy man can land a beauty, but finding someone who cares more about him than his bank account? That’s the real keeper.
So, what went wrong? What made her smile collapse more and more the longer she stayed with him?
Sebastian doesn’t leave any hints in the countless posts, but he does provide me with something else.
He’s tagged her in all his posts, but since she’s clearly deleted her account, there’s no clickable link. That, however, still doesn’t hide her name.
Annaleigh Carson.
Despite all of her social media accounts being removed, it’s easy to find the posts her friends tagged her in, and a quick web search also informs me that Miss Annaleigh here earned herself a full ride to college. If my math serves me correctly, she should be in her final year…
But clearly isn’t.
Holt hinted at something happening there, but if anyone knows, they aren’t talking about it online.
