Tongue (RUTHLESS KINGS MC™ (A RUTHLESS UNDERWORLD NOVEL) Book 8) Page 7

  I’m placing a new book on the shelf when I feel the presence again. I inhale, letting the rush roll over my body and energize my heart. The dusty shelf is in the way of my sight, and my breathing picks up when I feel the tension rise. I see specks of leather on the opposite row in front of me, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m caught in a daydream.

  Blood rushes to my cheeks when the hint of his cologne hits me in the face. It’s light, like he sprayed it on his cut a few days ago, and it’s lingering and is now influencing my brain. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I can’t think.

  His face is blocked by the fan of his shaggy brown hair. His arms are up, gripping the top bookshelf, and the tattoos on his arms swirl around the thick muscle. I can’t see his face, but I remember what he looks like. The shelves are in the way from me having the perfect view of the man who’s been waking me up in the middle of the night.

  Without saying a word, I slide a book in its rightful place, and he grabs it from the other side, holding it against his chest. He brings the spine of the book to his nose and sniffs.

  “Do you like the smell of books too?” I whisper over the dust and grab another book from the cart, then glide it across the shelf too.

  He takes the ‘Moby Dick’ novel from my hands, and our fingers graze together. My mouth drops open when a spark travels into my veins and up my arm. What is it about this man?

  “I like the way you smell.” His voice is tinted with a Southern drawl and another unique quality I can’t put my finger on. I close my eyes for a moment as the baritone crawls through my senses and weakens them.

  I smile, then nibble on my lip as I double-check to make sure no one is around to overhear our conversation. It’s an odd one, and I don’t want anyone to get alarmed. “Why won’t you let me see you?” I ask him, placing another book on the shelf.

  He takes that one too and remains silent.

  “Do you like to read?” I question him and pull the cart closer to me to set another book on the case.

  “No.”

  My brows pinch together in confusion, and I lean in, my fingers wrapping around the wooden edge of the shelf. I stand on my tiptoes to try to get a better view of the biker giant, but his hair is in his face. “Why take the books?” Oh my god, what if he burns them? I can’t let a catastrophe happen like that, even if he’s hotter than any fictional character I’ve ever read about.

  “You,” he answers shortly, snagging another copy from my hand.

  At this rate, I’m never going to stock the shelf.

  “Me? I don’t understand.”

  My head falls to the side as I watch him bring another book to his nose. He inhales again, smelling the leatherbound books so hard his shoulders rise from the expansion of his lungs. The leather of his cut stretches across his shoulders as he rolls them.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, then step toward the end of the aisle to face him, but he backtracks, moving further away from me, staying in the dark where I can’t see him. “Who are you? Are you going to hurt me?” I whisper, needing to know if everything I’m feeling is something I’ve made up and if he is someone I need to call the cops about.

  “Never. I’d-I’d never hu-hurt my co-comet.” Do I make him nervous? He sounds like he can barely speak to me.

  “Your comet? Is that what I am? Is that why you’re following me? You are, aren’t you? What’s it mean to be your comet?” I bombard him with a bunch of questions, hoping he will answer one of them.

  He falls quiet again. I can’t take it anymore. I run around the bookcase, but he runs behind another one. The one further encased in the dark.

  “Please, talk to me. Tell me your name.”

  Nothing.

  I can hear him breathing. The sounds are harsh, like he’s unable to control himself.

  “Tongue.”

  “That isn’t your name,” I say, dragging my finger across the wood of the shelf. “Your real name. Reaper told me the people you guys care about only know your real names. Is that true?” I whisper, making sure no one can hear us.

  Silence.

  “Please…” I feel him everywhere, all the time, and it’s getting to the point where I need more than him watching me. “Please, tell me something.”

  “I’ll always be watching you,” he says just as quickly as the space on the other side of the aisle is empty.

  The doorbell chimes, and I spin around to get one last glimpse of him, but no one is there. It’s only the melody of the bell swaying back and forth as the door slowly closes. I walk down the aisle, giving a customer a polite grin, and speed up my strides as I pass the middle-aged woman. She’s in the romance section, reading the back of a book to see what it’s about.

  I open the door and run down the three steps until I’m outside in the sun, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. There are a few dozen people on either side of the street. Some are entering Paula’s Candy Shop, and some are entering the hardware store. I push my glasses up my nose and examine each side of the street, looking for any sign of leather or the sound of a bike.

  He’s a phantom, appearing out of nowhere and vanishing without a trace. He makes me wonder if he’s real or if I need to seek medical attention. Tongue is messing with my head and my heart.

  “Are you okay?” Andrew asks from the doorway of Page by Page. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing … I—” I spin around again, hoping I can see him because I can feel him. He’s here. Where? Where is he? It’s like he’s bathing me in his vision, memorizing me. I know it should freak me out, but my gut tells me he won’t let anything happen to me. “I thought I saw someone I knew. I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t.”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Actually, I don’t think I’m feeling well. I’m going to go home for the day. Is that alright? Do you need me here?”

  “No, you go ahead. It’s fine. Get some rest.”

  I run up the steps and give him a hug. “Thank you. I’m just going to run in and get my purse. I’ll be on my way.”

  “Call me if you need anything,” Andrew says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  I don’t question it, but the kiss was a little too close to my mouth for comfort. Andrew has always been an affectionate guy, so I’m not going to read into it. “Hi, how are you?” I ask a customer as I pass them, giving them a quick nod as I make my way to the employee room. I pass the bookcases where I spoke to Tongue, and I wait to see if he appears out of thin air, but it’s only books.

  Only. Books.

  I never thought I’d ever think of books in such generality, yet here I am, disappointed to be staring at a bookcase because I’d rather see his face. I’ve been forbidden to see him, warned away, and was bluntly told the guy is dangerous.

  I don’t care.

  There’s a force pulling me toward him. Tongue has made roots somehow, latching himself onto the inside of my heart and soul. The longer I’m away from him, the tighter the roots constrict around my bones. When I’m near him… When I’m finally able to breathe again, I’m exhilarated.

  It isn’t normal, but it all makes sense as to why I’ve never dated before. Normal isn’t something I want out of someone. I need more. I need a story.

  I want to write a book from beginning to end with someone, chapter by chapter, ache by ache, until we get our happy ending.

  “Excuse me?”

  I close the door behind me after grabbing my purse and smile at a customer. “Yes?”

  “Where is your porn?”

  I blink at the woman. She has to be in her nineties. She’s hunched over with a long wooden cane in her hand and a scowl that would make that guy Reaper flinch.

  “Well?” she asks me impatiently, huffing when I take too long to answer.

  “Ma’am, we aren’t that kind of store. We sell books.”

  “No shit. I’m old, not blind. I’m looking for books.”

  “You must want the romance novel section. Two aisles ov
er on your right,” I say, showing her the way by pointing to the rows.

  “Thank you,” she huffs, hobbling as she walks away.

  I glance down to get my keys out of my purse when I notice it is unzipped. I remember closing it, but maybe I didn’t. The last few days have been odd. If my mind is screwing with me about Tongue, then small things like remembering to zip my purse are going to happen too.

  “I’ll see you later,” Andrew says, opening the door for me as I leave. “You should relax. You can take a few vacation days. I don’t mind. You never take time off.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to function if I didn’t come to the bookstore.” Holy moly, I hope he doesn’t think I’m hitting on him. What I said almost sounds like I only come to work for him, which is not the case. Not even a little.

  As I said, Andrew is too normal.

  “Well, we will be here waiting for you when you come back tomorrow.” He grins, rocking back on his heels and rubbing two fingers over his bottom lip as he grins.

  How do I tell my boss I’m not interested in him because I think I’m falling in love with a man who lives in the dark?

  I wave goodbye and start my journey walking two blocks, replaying the conversation I had with Tongue in my head. Why won’t he talk to me? Like truly speak and have a conversation? He doesn’t have to watch me from afar or from the corners; he can touch me if he wants, and love me if he wants.

  I keep my head down, thinking about a million reasons and excuses for him, but at the end of the day, I truly don’t know anything about him. For all I know, Reaper is right. No matter what I try to convince myself, Tongue is the night, and according to Reaper, his armor is caked in blood.

  If he is so bad for me, why can’t I rationalize that?

  Thinking about him makes the time walking to my apartment fly by. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but the excitement isn’t there, the heat, the anticipation. It’s gone. This creepy feeling has my skin pebbling in warning and fear tearing into my stomach. Pausing mid-step, I look over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching me.

  There’s a mailman wearing a light blue shirt and navy shorts walking to his United States Post Office car. There’s another woman who is walking her chihuahua. A few cars are parked along the street. They are compact, small, and I can see through the windows. No one is there.

  A hot breeze has me turning my head in the other direction, so I don’t choke on the dry heat. Studying another point of view, I don’t see anything except trash cans and the shadows casting onto the road from the buildings.

  The inkling that someone is watching me doesn’t go away. The keys in my hand jingle, clinking together as tremors overtake my body. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I chant when the feeling gets worse, like the evil is closing in, and I only have a second to get inside before it snatches me.

  Tears blur the keyhole, but I’ve unlocked this door so many times that I can do it in my sleep. I let out a relieved huff of air as the doorknob turns. I turn my body and squeeze my way inside, keeping the door as closed as I can. I slam it behind me and twist the bolt until the lock slides in place. Covering my face with my hands, I laugh. Oh my god, I’m so ridiculous. It was probably nothing. I’m freaking out for no reason.

  Everything is A-okay. I’m peachy. Life is good. I need to have a glass of wine and relax. My phone rings in my purse, and I scream from the unexpected sound cutting through my anxiety. I lay palm against my forehead and chuckle. “God, he really has you in a freaking mess, doesn’t he?” If he doesn’t approach me soon, maybe dating a normal guy will be better for my freaking health.

  I pull my phone out of the side pocket of my purse, and a folded-up piece of paper falls to the floor. “Hello?” I answer, bending over to pick up the grocery list, receipt, or whatever it is. My purse isn’t the cleanest, okay? I bet I have receipts in there from my damn birthday last year.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Aunt Tina greets me. “Oh, no. You stop it.” She giggles to someone.

  I grin. She’s always been the life of the party. “Traveling sounds like it’s going well.” While Aunt Tina lives here in Vegas, she isn’t here half the year. She’s always traveling. Years ago, her daughter died a few hours after she was born, and Aunt Tina has never been the same. She doesn’t like to stay in one place. She’s always on the move. I think when she stands still long enough, she remembers holding her daughter for the first and only time.

  I don’t blame her for not wanting to be here. If that had happened to me, I’m sure I’d be moving all over the country too, flirting with men I don’t know, and drinking yummy fruity drinks. She can afford it too. Apparently, the hospital was negligent and caused her baby to die. She was born a healthy, crying baby, but that’s all I know. Details of her past are not something Aunt Tina discusses with me.

  Aunt Tina sued the holy moly out of that hospital and got millions. It’s part of the reason why I can work at a bookstore and afford this apartment. She makes sure I’m okay. She doesn’t want me to live my life working; she wants me to truly live, but I’m only twenty-five. I have no idea how to live like she wants me to, so I work. I like working. I barely ever have to dip into the funds she left me. I’m thinking of going back to school too, and the little egg she left will help with that.

  I have plenty of time to figure it out. If life keeps going the way it’s going, I’m going to be an old cat lady by the time I’m thirty.

  And I’m allergic.

  “It’s fun. I miss you. I think I might come home for a few weeks. I’d love to see you.”

  “Really? I miss you too. I want to talk to you about … someone I met.”

  “Oh my god!” she squeals, and then she grunts. “No, you get away. Fucking asshole.” I hear a splash, and then she mutters, “What a waste of good tequila.” The phone rustles, and the noise in the background fades. “Is it about a boy?”

  I roll my eyes when I hear her smile. “It’s about a man; thank you very much,” I say, finally climbing up the steps. I unfold the piece of paper and think about Tongue and the way he makes me feel.

  It’s hard to explain, but it’s that feeling you get when you’re standing at the edge of a really high cliff, looking down at the lake or ocean, contemplating if you should jump. It’s safe. All your friends have done it, but it’s your turn. You’re excited, scared, nervous, and nearly shaking because even though there is water at the bottom, the cliff is still high.

  He’s the butterflies in my stomach and the water beneath me, but he won’t let me jump into him.

  And I’m bound to the cliff with the feeling gnawing at my stomach. It’s torture.

  He’s torture.

  And I like it.

  It’s a weird, sick, foreplay, and it kind of turns me on.

  This is why I can’t do normal.

  Tongue’s weirdness calls to mine.

  “Oh, what’s he like? What’s he do? I bet he’s a sexy mechanic or something, isn’t he?”

  Or something.

  “We just met. We’re taking things slow. Super slow. No, sloth slow. In fact, Aunt Tina, I don’t even know his real name, and we haven’t had a conversation that is longer than one minute.”

  “Oh, life is too short for slow. Go fast, sweetie. Fast is fun.”

  “Your fast is too fast, Aunt Tina,” I chuckle, placing my shoulder against my phone to hold it so I can open my apartment door.

  Only to find it already open.

  “Aunt Tina, I’ll call you back,” I say slowly.

  “What? No! Tell me about this guy—” But the phone goes dead when it hits the floor with a hard thud, and then cracks spider across the screen. Bending down, I pick it up off the floor and swipe across the screen to get to my keypad to dial 911.

  I drop the receipt on the floor to get my hand free when I notice writing on it. It isn’t an old receipt. It’s a piece of paper.

  I open the last fold and gag when I see what it says:

  Roses are red,

  Dead lips are
blue,

  Stay away from him,

  Or next it will be you.

  I hold a hand over my mouth, stifling a sob, and dial 911.

  “911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asks.

  “Someone is in my apartment,” I whisper, taking my hand away from my mouth. “I have a note that was left in my purse too. I think someone is watching me.” Is it Tongue? He did say he is always going to watch me, but I don’t see him doing something like this. He wouldn’t scare me.

  “Someone broke into your apartment. Is anything damaged or missing?” they ask.

  I lay my palm flat against the door and push it open, hoping to see nothing. My hand reaches inside and pats against the wall in an uncoordinated way. I flip the light switch, and my hand slides across something wet.

  I stare at the red liquid on my hand, and the breath is knocked out of me. “Oh my god.” I follow the line of blood across the wall. It looks like something was dragged.

  “Ma’am? What is it? Are you okay?” the operator asks.

  I don’t respond. I follow the trail of blood, and what I see has the phone falling from my hand.

  There’s a tongue nailed on the trim of the window, dripping blood on the stack of books beneath it.

  I scream at the top of my lungs and forget I have blood on my hands, smearing it across my cheek. I inhale a deep breath and scream again.

  “Help is on the way, ma’am. I’ll stay on the phone with you until the police arrive.”

  Reaper’s warning about Tongue is a siren in my head, and doubt starts to creep in. What if I’ve been obsessed with a monster this entire time? What if he’s been staying away, not because I make him nervous, but because he’s hunting me.

  Holy moly.

  I really need to evaluate my taste in men.

  I run out the door and hurry down the steps, leaving the bloodstained apartment as fast as I can. I trip over my left foot and fall, tumbling down the staircase. My knee hits the solid hardwood that makes the steps, and my wrist bends in a funny position. When I get to the floor, the momentum of my body can’t be stopped, and my head slams against the wall.