Stalkers: A Dark Romance Anthology

by Ally Vance

  She didn’t call him to come to the hospital, so maybe it’s a casual thing. I’ve never wanted to kill a man without warrant before, but my hand shakes with intense jealous rage. I’m not fucking crazy, but what I’m feeling is. This isn’t me. This is a spell of some sort. She’s bewitched me. I need to get my fucking self together.

  Jumping out of my car, the complete opposite of what I should be doing, I follow them. By the time I reach her front door, they’re already inside. Placing my ear against the wood panel, I listen, hearing Lola’s laugh ring out.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I bang my fist on the door, and within a few seconds, the door opens and the guy with stupid blonde spiky hair and neck full of tattoos eyeballs me up and down with a smirk on his fucking face. “Can I help you?” He quirks a pierced brow.

  “Detective,” Lola voice calls out from behind him. Why call me “Detective” and not Adams like last night?

  “Detective?” The guy asks. His eyes enlarging, he backs away, letting Lola come to where I’m standing. I’ve never felt such disdain toward someone without knowing them before, but here I am, wanting to make an excuse to pull my weapon out and shoot this punk in the balls.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks, her features pinched.

  “Can I come in?” I ask, my tone gruff.

  She looks over her shoulder at the punk. “This is my friend Simon. Simon, Detective Adams.”

  I hold my hand out and ask, “Simon what?”

  “Hodgman.” He jerks his chin up, and I take a mental note of his name so I can look him up later.

  “Should we maybe go out here?” She ushers me out of the front door and closes it behind her with Simon still inside.

  “Boyfriend?” I ask, my tone harsh, biting and unreasonable.

  “Friend, like I said.” She folds her arms over her chest, and it’s then I take notice of what she’s wearing. It’s clubwear again. This time, it covers more of her flesh.

  “You’ve been to a bar again?” I query, and her eyes narrow.

  “I wasn’t the criminal last night, Detective. I shouldn’t have to hide away like a frightened mouse because pigs can’t keep themselves from attacking women.

  Guilt flares inside me. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean?” Her brown orbs bore into me, that thick bottom lip sticking out. Damn, I want to taste her so badly. “Is there a reason you’re here?” she asks, letting me off for the previous question.

  “There was a witness that night.”

  She steps back, her head tilting slightly to the side before shaking no. “No, I would have known.”

  “We have them on camera at the entrance of the alley.”

  Her chest begins to rise and fall. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Lola?” My palms twitch, my brow dipping low, jaw as hard as granite. Why is she so panicked? Did things not go down like she said they did? Without thought, I reach out for her and bring her against my chest to soothe her.

  “It’s okay. Breathe.” Her body begins to jerk with silent sobs, and I cup her face, swiping at her tears with the pads of my thumbs. “It’s going to be okay. He hasn’t come forward, and if he did—”

  “Then he’ll tell you why he didn’t help me. What kind of man does that make him?” she murmurs, her glassy eyes ripping at my soul. Taking my hands in hers, she places them against my body, steps away, and grabs her doorhandle. “Bye, Detective.”

  Chapter Six

  Lola

  Closing the front door, I inhale a needed breath. My heart is racing. Goosebumps litter my skin.

  “Everything okay? I sensed some weird vibe between you two,” Simon queries, lighting a cigarette.

  “Just sexual tension,” I breathe out on a soft laugh. He doesn’t need to know what Detective Adams means to me. I’m not sure myself. What I do know is I feel safe in his company, like I can be me and he will understand.

  “So, are we going to do this or what?” he asks, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his jeans.

  “Yes.” I smile, pointing to the couch. “Get comfortable.”

  Waggling his brows and letting out a puff of smoke, he says, “Oh, I intend to.”

  Adams’ words bounce around in my mind, and I try to search my memories. I didn’t hear or see anyone. I was preoccupied with being attacked. Why would he not come forward, go straight to the police? Maybe he was coming from town, drunk and unclear on what he saw.

  “Lola!” Simon barks, startling me out of my stupor.

  “Sorry.” I shake my head and go to get my canvas. We’ve been working on Simon’s painting for over a year. He can only sit for an hour at a time, and I only get to see him when our paths happen to cross. Unlike my commissioned work, for Simon, I’m working for free. He, like me and all my clients, has past trauma. We shared a bond and became friends through those traumas. We recognized the shadows in each other’s souls. It’s rare to find someone who knows you without having to ask questions. We accepted each other’s battle scars of the dark life entwining us.

  Adding paint to my pallet, I dip the brush and stroke red over the skin on his hip—self-harm wounds, deep and telling, coming to life on the canvas.

  The mood shifts with each passing minute Simon lays himself bare to my art. Memories resurface to torment his soul “He was released from prison,” he suddenly says, sadness pulling his mouth downward.

  My hand tremors, causing me to almost make a mistake. Placing the brush down, I ask, “When—when did this happen?”

  Biting down on his lip, he waves a hand in the air dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. He can’t hurt me anymore. I’m fucking grown.” He waves a hand down his body for emphasis.

  “How long did he get?”

  Twisting the side of his mouth up, he jerks a shoulder. “Fifteen years for various offenses.”

  I move toward him, taking his hand in mine. His eyes dart to where our hands meet, and his brows tug down. “How long has it been?”

  “A decade.” His body twitches, unseen scars plaguing him. “I want to kill him. Just show up at the house of horror, pull out a bat, and beat the bastard until he’s nothing but mulch.”

  “How do you know that’s where he is?” I ask, getting to my feet to pour us both a drink. Handing him a glass of vodka, he takes the glass and gulps down the entire thing, hissing when the burn ignites in his throat.

  “I don’t.” He shrugs. “It’s just what I picture.”

  “Do you think it will change things for you, if he’s dead?” I pour him another and take an attentive sip of my own. Pulling the throw blanket I keep on the back of the couch over his waist, he takes a couple seconds to think about my question.

  “I haven’t slept without nightmares since his release. Every fucking sound makes me jump. An empty street makes me fear to walk down it. Like he’s stalking me without having to actually do anything. He’s in me—in here,” he growls, tapping a finger against his head. “I can’t fuck. I can’t take comfort in anything. He’s always there, in the back of my head, mocking, tormenting.” A tear forms in the corner of his eye and leaks to his cheek, sending a wave of sorrow coursing through me.

  I put down my glass, then take his and place it on the coffee table before moving beside him and pulling his head into my lap. Stroking his hair, I soothe his gentle sobs.

  “It’s okay. You’re safe here. Sleep, Simon. Let me keep you safe,” I murmur, my heart aching for him. Someone needs to put an end to his stepfather—the man who destroyed the boy he once was.

  Chapter Seven

  Adams

  A loud pounding jolts me awake. It takes me a few seconds to come around and remember where I am. Another rapping sounds on the window, and I silently curse myself for falling asleep. I couldn’t leave her last night. I had to wait and see Simon leave, but he never did. Now, the fucking cunt is standing beside my car looking in at me like I’m a crazy person. Opening my door, I step out and stretch my limbs, straightening my spine to my ful
l height, which is taller than his by a few inches.

  “Can I help you?” I growl, pissed I was so sloppy. Looking him up was the first thing I did when I got back to the car last night, but there was nothing on him. He’s a ghost.

  “What are you doing out here? Is there something going on with Lola? Is she in trouble or in danger?”

  Looking to her apartment door to be sure she isn’t looking out at us, I narrow my gaze on him. “What business is that of yours?”

  Barking out a short, humorless laugh, he scratches the back of his neck and steps away, putting a little distance between us.

  “Does she know you’re out here?” he asks, but it sounds like more of a threat than a question.

  “Why did you lie to me last night?” I flip my jacket back to place my hands on my hips, deliberately flashing my badge and gun.

  Baulking, he shakes his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  Taking a step toward him, I fold my arms, looking him up and down. What the hell is she doing with someone like him? She’s out of his league. “Your last name was a lie.” I punch the word at him, and he appears to shrink before me. “It’s against the law to lie to law enforcement, Simon.”

  “How do you know Lola?” he has the balls to ask me.

  “How the fuck do you know her?” I counter.

  “Oh my god, you have a thing for her, don’t you?” He smiles like we’re schoolgirls discussing a crush.

  Reaching out, I grab him by the lapels of his jacket without thought and slam him against my car face first. Gripping his wrists, I pin them behind his back and crowd him with my body. “You know how easy I can make a nobody like you disappear?”

  “Please let me go,” he begs, his eyes closing and a weird humming noise coming from him, almost childlike. “Please, let me go. Get off me. Please, please, please.” Trauma. This guy has suffered trauma. He’s hysterical as he ruts against me, trying to get free. Releasing him with a shove, he trips, crashing to the asphalt, and skitters away from me, his hands raised in defense.

  “What’s wrong with you? Get up,” I demand, checking around to see if anyone is looking. He’s on his feet in seconds and takes off in a sprint down the street.

  Fuck. I hope he doesn’t tell Lola about this. Slipping back in my car, I’m about to pull away when her front door opens, and she steps out in workout gear. She puts earbuds in and begins walking. I hate that she’s wearing something that will block out the sound of someone coming up behind her. She should know these basic risks. Starting the engine, I follow her, making sure to stay far enough back. In my head, I know what I’m doing is wrong, fucking stupid and immoral, but it doesn’t stop me.

  My cell buzzes, alerting me to the missed calls I’ve ignored. She rounds a building and disappears from sight. Dammit. Pulling up across the street, I jump out of the car and do some surveillance. A couple of buildings are empty warehouses, but one is a gym. Makes sense that’s where she’d be. I slip inside, sticking to the outer edges, staying close to the walls, observing the place. A reception desk sits at the far back of the room with chairs and a small coffee station and juice counter. It’s busy with hallways leading to different parts. Checking the room, I don’t see Lola, so I venture deeper. Glass panels show inside different rooms with different activities happening. Yoga. Some kind of pole dance aerobics. A squash court. And then I see her.

  Warmth fills the cavities of my chest as my eyes devour her talking to a couple of other women. A guy claps his hands, drawing their attention. He says something to them, but it’s not audible to me. I move to the side, peeking in like some pervert at a bedroom window. But I can’t look away. She gets into a defense stance, then kicks forward, high, powerful, experienced. I look to the pin board next to the door. Self-defense class.

  She takes lessons. How long? Was she really in danger that night? Could she have incapacitated him without shooting three holes in his face? Shit.

  My phone glows in my hand, the annoying ringing gaining attention from a couple of women walking past. They smile, but it’s strained, their eyes looking me up and down, no doubt confused by my appearance. Not really a suit and tie place, and I spent the night in the car, so it’s all creased.

  I move farther down the corridor and take the call. “Hello.”

  “Adams, where the hell are you? I’ve been calling since last night.”

  “Sorry, the headache got worse. I went home to try to sleep it off,” I lie, pacing.

  “Next time, let your partner know. I didn’t know what to fucking think.” His tone is pissed off.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, a real headache forming.

  “I have an I.D on the witness. I’m going to go over there now—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “Send me the information and I’ll go look into him. You’ve been on all night. Get some rest.”

  “Are you sure? This guy has a record. Nothing violent, but he’s no saint either.” Hopefully, he’s unreliable.

  “I’ll be fine. Send his info and I’ll check him out.” Ending the call, I scrub a hand down my face. I need coffee and a shower, but first, I need to know what this guy saw. I make my way to leave when Lola comes walking down the corridor.

  Shit.

  Darting for the closest door, I end up in a locker room and find a spot behind some cabinets, wanting to punch myself in the face for getting into this situation. She walks in, and my hands clench when she begins stripping out of her clothes, humming away to herself. Another woman comes in, then disappears through another door. Creeping from my hiding spot, I move like a wolf stalking a lamb.

  She’s so vibrant and breathtaking. Her blonde locks cascade down her back in waves. Sweat coats her skin, glistening under the lights. I’m losing myself to this woman. She slips her workout leggings down her thighs almost seductively, and saliva floods my mouth at her bare flesh fevered pink from working out. I want to lick the salt from her ass cheeks. Bite down, bruise the flesh like a peach. Turning on one of the showers, she steps inside without bothering to pull the curtain. She wants to be watched. Small delicate hands begin touching, dancing over her skin, washing away the sweat. Her head tilts back, and she sighs under the punishment of the water. Her tits are full and heavy, her nipples in need of being sucked until they painfully peak. The water chases down the valley of her cleavage, rivets cascading over her torso, kissing the mound of her pussy. My cock strains in my slacks, desperate to be free and inside her body. My breathing accelerates to a pace that almost leaves me lightheaded.

  “What are you doing in here?” A voice suddenly cuts through the air from behind me. Shock saturates me in shame. I’ve been caught in a woman’s changing room spying on Lola. Fuck. The water turns off, and her voice calls out, “Hello?”

  Barging past the woman, I ignore her shouts for me to stop and get the fuck out of here, not stopping until I’m in my car and driving away.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  If they report a peeping tom, the gym could have surveillance and see me entering the locker room. I pound my palm down on the steering wheel, then check my cell for the information Snow was sending. I enter the address into the GPS and drive straight to the witness’s house. I’ll know soon enough if I’m caught.

  After a twenty-minute drive to the middle of fucking nowhere, I pull up to a trailer. A dog chained to a metal fence just inside the gate begins barking and losing his shit at me. Getting out the car, I look around for life. It’s the only trailer here with a chain fence and gate bordering it. The dog yanks at his chain, trying to get loose. He looks ravenous, ribs showing through his fur. Poor bastard.

  The racket hasn’t brought the witness outside, so I doubt he’s here. Opening the gate, I keep my distance from Cujo and rap my knuckle on the door. Silence greets me. I try the handle, and it gives under the weight of my hand, opening the door.

  “Hello?” I call out, unholstering my gun.

  A groan sounds, followed by a grunt. “Who’
s there?”

  “Detective Adams. Can you come outside for a minute? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Do you have beer?” Why the fuck would I have beer? Stepping inside, the foulness of mold and scum assaults my nostrils. A scruffy topless guy hiccups. Stretching from a pull-out bed, he stands and itches his ass before he stumbles forward, grabs a cigarette box, and puts one between his lips. He moves to the stove, lights a burner, then bends to light the end of his cigarette. “This about that shooting?”

  “Yes, actually. Is there a reason you haven’t come forward?” I reholster my weapon, doing my best not to touch anything. This sad fuck isn’t going to be a threat to me. He’s still drunk from the night before and half my size. “Is there a reward for information?” he asks, brow reaching up to his hair line.

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s a shame.”

  “Do you have any information or not?” I growl.

  He exhales a puff of smoke in my direction and jerks his shoulders. “I heard grunts, I thought someone was fucking in the alley, stopped to watch.” He licks his lips, giving me a look that makes me want to burn this shithole to the ground with him in it.

  “But?” I encourage. This conversation is like pulling teeth. Maybe I should pull some of his teeth to move it along.

  “This blonde chick did some weird karate move or some shit. Took some guy to the ground, then pulled out a gun and shot him. I ran, man. You can’t trust crazy chicks, you know?” He nods his head, gesturing to me like we’re on the same wavelength. What a fucking insult.

  “So, you didn’t see the man attacking her? Could he have been, and you arrived after that happened?”

  Shrugging, he sucks in another hit before stubbing out the cigarette on the corner of a side table. “Maybe.” He lifts a hand to his face and scratches at the stubble on his chin. “But she put him down. I wouldn’t want to meet her in an alley. She fucked his shit up.”