Tease: A Kings of Korruption MC Novel (3 page)

I’VE BECOME A FUCKING stalker.
 
A creepy, over-caffeinated stalker.
 
For the last couple of months, ever since the day we collided, I’ve gone to that hippie coffee shop, ordered a black coffee and sat on the patio, one table away from her.
 
In those months, my whole world has gone to hell.
 
I’d been working with a young as fuck, new prospect, Ryker’s woman had been kidnapped and almost killed, causing a whole shit storm with another club.
 
The stress of it all would have been almost unbearable if it weren’t for my mystery woman.
 
Sounds creepy as hell, but being near her calms me somehow.
 
I still don’t even know her name, and I haven’t dared to speak to her, but at least three times a week I’ve sat close by.
 
While watching her, I’ve learned plenty.

 
I’ve learned that she is definitely blind, but that doesn’t seem to hold her back any.
 
She moves with confidence and grace, only relying on the dog when necessary.
 
I’ve learned that she’s a writer, or a blogger or some shit.
 
She’s always on her laptop, earphones in her ears, fingers wildly plucking away at the keyboard.
 
I’ve learned that when she’s thinking, she twirls her hair.
 
Often, her fingers on the keyboard stop their race across the keys, her head tilts slightly to the side, and she pulls a chunk of her honey blonde hair between her fingers and twirls.
 
This can go on for quite a while and every time she does it, I can’t help but wonder what the fuck she’s thinking about.

My favorite thing I’ve learned about her is that when she’s concentrating, her little pink tongue pokes out the side of her mouth just a tiny bit.
 
It makes me hard every single time.

I don’t know why I keep coming back here, torturing myself with what I can never have, or why I am doing this creepy stalker shit.
 
The only thing I can say is, she’s got my attention, and I can’t get her out of my fucking head.

As she types and drinks her chocolate drizzled, girly coffee, her German Shepard lies silently under the table, head always up and alert, watching his surroundings.
 
I can smell her strawberries from where I’m sitting, and it still continues to fuck with my head.

Like every other day, at six o’clock on the dot, an alarm sounds on her phone.
 
She packs up her computer and earbuds, stuffing them into a hideous, neon pink backpack.
 
I love this part of my stalking best because this is when I get to hear her voice.

“Come on, Dex.”
 
Her voice sounds like sex – husky and sensual.
 
If she sounds like this when she’s just talking to her dog, I can’t help but wonder what she’d sound like if I got my mouth between those creamy white thighs of hers.

Slowly, she stands, swinging her bag over one shoulder, hand clasping the handle of the dog’s harness.
 
I watch as he slowly leads her away from the chair, around her table, and past my own.
 
Just as she passes, mere inches from where I sit, she pauses.
 
Her head tilts down in my direction, and I swear at that moment that she’s looking right at me.

I freeze, staring up at her, wondering if I’ve been busted.
 
My dead heart pounds erratically in my chest as we stare at one another for what feels like several minutes.
 
She leans forward slightly, and if I’m not mistaken, takes a deep sniff.
 
Did she just fucking smell me?

My face heats, and I sit up straight, unsure of what to do.
 
And then she smiles.
 
I can’t breathe.
 
She’s smiling directly at me, her entire face lighting up with pure delight.
 
She has the wonkiest, most fucked up smile I’ve ever seen.
 
It’s beautiful.
 
She’s
beautiful.

“Hi again.”
 
She keeps grinning at me as she speaks, and it takes me a minute to realize that she’s talking to me.
 
Shit!
 
Can she see me?

“Uh … hey.”
 
Real smooth, asshole.

Her smile widens with amusement.
 
“Maybe tomorrow, instead of sitting all the way over here, you can join me at my table.”

I stare at her in shocked silence as she stares back from behind those dark sunglasses, waiting for my response.
 
Anger courses through me like wildfire.
 
She
can
fucking see me.
 
She’s seen me all along.
 
This bitch is playing with me, and I don’t like it.

I curl my lip, sneering at her.
 
“Not fuckin’ likely.”

Her smile falls a fraction, disappointment flashing across her face before she straightens, clears her expression of all emotion, and shrugs.
 
“All right.
 
Your loss.”

I don’t say a word as she turns, gives the harness a gentle tug, and steps out of the fenced area of the patio onto the busy sidewalk.
 
My mind is spinning.
 
I thought she was fucking blind.
 
All this time she knew I was watching her, and she likely thought I was a fucking pervert or some shit.
 
She’d been making fun of me when she’d invited me to her table.
 
That’s the way passive aggressive bitches like her work.

As she leaves, passing in front of the patio with her head held high, I hear a commotion from farther down the sidewalk.
 
Swinging my head in that direction, I see people crying out as they jump out of the way of a bicycle careening down the sidewalk at top speed.
 

Whipping my head back to her, I see her turn, stepping farther out into the middle of the sidewalk as she tries to figure out what the commotion is.
 
That’s when I realize, she really
can’t
see.
 
She is looking in the direction of the noise, but there is no way in hell she can see that she’s about to be run over by that bike.
 
If she did, she wouldn’t be just standing there.

I jump up from my seat, moving to vault over the waist-high fence of the patio as I holler out a warning.
 
“Look out!”

The bike is just about to her.
 
The kid on it has a purse clutched in one hand, his entire torso turned, looking behind him and not in the direction that he’s going.
 
He’s going to hit her – there’s no way I will make it to her in time.

Just then, her dog angles his body in front of hers, using his weight to push her back against the patio fencing.
 
My feet clear the fence, and I land beside her just as the dog lets out an ear-piercing yelp.

It all happened so fast.
 
The worst part is, I don’t even know what the hell it was that happened at all.
 
I was walking away, trying not to show my humiliation at the way that my regular coffee neighbor had shot me down when I had heard a bunch of yelling and movement behind me.
 
I’d turned to look just as I heard Coffee Dick yell out a warning.
 
Next thing I know, my own dog had shoved me against a fence.

I’d heard a crash of metal, several thuds, and then Dexter had let out a long, ear-piercing scream of pain.
 
Coffee Dick came out of nowhere. Now I’m knelt down, hands out, frantically patting the air around me as I tried to find Dexter.

“He’s right here.”
 
His hand grasps my own and moves it down and to the left until it rests on Dexter’s head.
 
“He’s hurt.”

Just then, a groan comes from a few feet away.
 
Coffee Dick growls, and I can feel his pissed off energy pouring off of him.
 
“You stupid fuck.
 
What the fuck were you thinkin’?”
 
His voice has moved, and I know instantly that he’s moving toward whatever “stupid fuck” he’s talking to.
 

I can hear a crowd of rubberneckers gathering around us as I pat along Dexter’s body, looking for any sign of bumps or bleeding.
 
Coffee Dick is knelt beside me again, muttering to himself something about body bags and deep holes.
 
Suddenly he’s standing, and he’s taking my dog with him.

Grasping my hand in his own, he places it on his hip.
 
Surprised and confused, I yank it away.
 
“Babe.
 
We gotta move.
 
Hook onto my belt loop.”

“What?”
 
What’s going on?

“Your dog is hurt.
 
We need to get him to a vet.
 
To do that, we gotta move.
 
Now hold onto my fuckin’ belt.”

In no position to argue, I reach back down, locate his belt loop, and hook my pointer finger through it.
 
He starts moving, and I have to jog to keep up with him.
 
“He’s really hurt?”

“Yeah.
 
May have a broken leg.
 
He’s holdin’ it funny.”
 
I tuck my body close to his and hold on tight as he weaves his way through pedestrians.
 
“Call a taxi.
 
Have them meet us at the corner of Bleeker and St. James.”

“A taxi?”

He doesn’t answer.
 
He just keeps moving, dragging me along behind him.
 
I pull out my phone, asking Siri to dial the number for the taxi service I always use.
 
I place the call, requesting the pick up where Coffee Dick had said, while he pulls to a stop.
 
Raising my hand, I locate Dex and gently stroke his head which is resting on Coffee Dick’s bicep.

I realize then that his name very likely isn’t Coffee Dick, and he
is
doing me a favor so, even though I am pretty sure he’s an asshole, maybe I should find out his actual name.
 
“I’m Laynie.”

I continue to stroke Dexter’s head, my hand accidentally-on-purpose brushing along his bicep.
 
It’s huge and hard as a rock.
 
I feel him tense when I speak; he doesn’t answer me, though.

“You have a name?”