Stalk Her Read online

  “Do you know who that is?” I tipped my chin behind me, hoping he knew who I was talking about. Richie looked over my shoulder and cleared his throat, looking uneasy all of a sudden, and gave me one sharp nod.

  “You mean the man who’s been staring at you since you came out from the back?”

  So it wasn’t just me who noticed.

  “The man who asked about you?”

  I felt my brows lift in surprise. “He asked about me?”

  Richie nodded. “Poppy, do yourself a favor and don’t get on his radar anymore than you already are.”

  “Well, who is he?”

  “He’s Butcher, President of the Devil’s Right Hand MC. He owns this town. He owns everything and everyone.” He leaned in close and said, “So when I say you’d do best to stay out of his line of vision, I mean just that. You’re too sweet of a girl to get mixed up with all that.”

  I could see he was afraid, probably shouldn’t have even said anything, but despite the fact that I’d only worked here for a week, Richie was looking out for me. I wasn’t used to that. I didn’t trust that.

  I did look over my shoulder then, and sure enough, Butcher had his gaze right on me once more. I swallowed, my throat feeling tight. No, I didn’t like the way I felt when he looked at me. I wasn’t afraid, didn’t feel like I was in danger. But I felt like he watched me as if he were waiting for the right moment to pounce. There was no other way I could describe it, no other way I could even begin to think of how to explain how I felt as we stared at each other.

  What I did know for certain was that I needed to stay away from Butcher. He was dangerous. That much was obvious, and right now in my life, that was the last thing I needed.

  Chapter Three

  Butcher

  I kept my gaze on the fucker with his two buddies, the one who slapped Poppy’s ass. I’d been stewing about it ever since I saw him touch her. I wasn’t about men fucking with women, but the rage I felt toward that prick who touched Poppy was a lot more personal.

  It was wild and dangerous. It was violent.

  That’s how I knew she was different, that she was special to me. I didn’t need to hear her voice or know her personally to understand how I felt. I always went with my instincts, and they told me she was mine whether she knew it or not.

  I knew I wouldn’t let it go. I couldn’t.

  He needed his fucking teeth knocked in, and it was only because I’d gotten a call right after she was touched that I didn’t go over there and break his bones. And after the call ended, I told myself to wait, that if I made a scene in front of everyone, then someone would call the cops and I’d have to deal with that bullshit.

  No, I’d wait. And when he left, when I got him alone, I’d teach him a fucking lesson.

  It was getting to be closing time, and I was antsy, on edge. I was waiting until he left, would follow him out, would give him enough pain he wouldn’t forget why he was getting the shit kicked out of him. He’d sure as fuck think twice about putting his hands on a woman again; that was for damn sure.

  Poppy had gone into the backroom five minutes ago, and as I leaned back in the wooden chair, the piece of furniture creaking from my weight, one of my arms resting on the table, and my leg bouncing as I grew impatient, all I could think about is all the filthy fucking things I wanted to do to her.

  I thought about following her, seeing where she lived. I thought about getting her alone, looking through her window, seeing how she lived. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about what I’d do to her if I got her alone, all the dirty, obscene tings I could show her, let her experience for the first time.

  Or maybe I’d just stand back and watch her, memorize her movements, how she did things.

  I’d never had this kind of pull toward someone, a draw that had me so consumed I honestly felt like I was losing my fucking mind. And I’d only just met her. Hell, I hadn’t even actually met her. I’d only just seen her.

  She came out of the backroom, her purse slung over her shoulder, her expression telling me she was trying her damnedest not to look at me. I was making it perfectly clear what I wanted, wasn’t even trying to hide the fact. I stared at her, saw she noticed me watching her. Hell, Richie kept glancing at me hesitantly as if he thought I’d fucking take her right up against the bar or some shit. She lifted her hand and said bye to him as he wiped down the bar counter.

  I stood, intent to go out there, follow her, and tell her that I thought we should see more of each other... demand it. Hell, I’d never even been on a fucking date before, not officially, because I’d never wanted a female the way I wanted Poppy.

  It was this powerful, consuming, soul-sucking need that maybe could have been explained as wanting to fuck her senseless. But I knew better. I knew myself better than that.

  I wanted to take her out, buy her things, dress her up real nice. I wanted everyone to know she was mine as I wrapped my hand around her waist and pulled her in close. But just as I was about to take that first step to follow her, I saw the asshole who’d touched her zero his focus on her. He said something to his buddies before he made his way toward the door she’d just left out of.

  I narrowed my eyes, curled my hands into fists at my sides, and knew shit was about to get bloody. I anticipated it like a drug addict salivated for that first hit after being dry.

  I looked over at Richie and saw he watched me, could see on his expression he knew what was about to happen. But Richie knew better than to intervene. He knew to look the other way. He knew that, because his life depended on it.

  So I found myself walking toward the front door, gripping the handle, and pulling it open.

  * * *

  Poppy

  I was no more than a few seconds outside when I heard the front door open and close behind me. I looked over my shoulder, honestly expecting to see Butcher after how hard he was watching me inside, but the man staring at me was the drunkard with the grabby hands.

  He narrowed his gaze at me and took a wobbly step forward. Then he took another one. His eyes were bloodshot, his face sweaty. He was wasted.

  I didn’t see his buddies follow him out, but it didn’t matter, because this asshole had been the problem, not his friends.

  “Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood.”

  I felt my throat tighten at the disgusting sound of his voice, at the way he said those words. I might have been small, a woman, and seemed weak, but I’d fight with everything in me. And this fucker would soon find that out.

  I didn’t respond, just started making my way toward my apartment building, a short five-minute walk that had been convenient up until now.

  My heart was racing and my palms damp. I was nervous, the flight or fight instinct riding me hard. I could feel him following me, and as I looked over my shoulder and saw him keeping pace with me, my mouth dried.

  “Where are you running off to, pretty little thing?”

  God, this night was getting horrible. I clutched my purse, the small pistol inside something I kept for obvious reasons. It wasn’t like I’d even used a gun before, but I’d seen enough movies to get a good idea.

  Or at least I thought I knew what the hell I was doing.

  Worst-case scenario, he got scared when I flashed it.

  I sure as hell wasn’t going to be a victim, especially not after I’d gotten this far. But just as I felt the cold, hard metal brush against my fingers, before I could wrap my hand around the grip, I felt him tangle his hand in my hair as he yanked my head back.

  A shocked sound left me, and in a matter of seconds, he had me in the small alley beside us, my back pressed against the cold brick wall, my purse wrenched from my arms and tossed across the way, hitting the pavement with a dull thud.

  My heart was racing, a hard beat behind my ribs. Fight or flight was moving swiftly through my veins, the adrenaline pumping through every single part of my body.

  “Feel lucky someone fucking pays any attention to you.” His voice was slurred, his breath hot and
smelling like booze.

  I turned my head and tried to push him away, but he was strong. He was really strong, the alcohol giving him this superhuman strength I knew all too well. It was the same strength the addicts got, that rush of power.

  “How about you go fuck off,” I said, knowing it didn’t matter if I fought or submitted; this would probably end up the exact same way. And fuck that. If this was going to go down that dark path, I was going to fight until the end. I was going to make him bleed before this was over with.

  “You little bitch,” he garbled and grinned.

  “A little bitch who won’t make this easy on you.” I spat in his face, and he growled out low right before he reared his hand back and connected his fist with the side of my face. My head flew back against the brick wall, my skin scraping against the rough edge, abrading my flesh, sending pain spiraling through my body.

  He gripped my chin with his fingers, digging those digits into my face, forcing me to turn my head in his direction. I didn’t cry out, didn’t show him anything but pure venom.

  “I’ve lived my life with assholes like you breathing down my neck. I’m not afraid of you, so if that’s what you’re going for, you can just go right ahead and fuck off.”

  He made a low sound, as if I’d pissed him off even more.

  Good. Fuck him.

  “The fact you’re fighting me makes me even harder.” He ground himself against me, and all I wanted to do was bring my knee up and kick him in the crotch. But the position I was in, with his body pressed to mine, made that impossible.

  I spat in his face again, and the look of surprise etched on his expression sent pleasure through me. Good, he was now realizing I wasn’t some shrinking violet. He had his hand on my neck, turned my head roughly to the side, and scraped my other cheek against the brick. I refused to cry out in pain as I felt the rough surface tear at my flesh, as I felt the warm wetness of my blood start to come to the surface.

  “Stupid fucking bitch,” he growled. “I’m going to make you lick that spit off my face before the night is over with.”

  Suddenly, this inhuman sound tore through the air and the drunk asshole was abruptly pulled away from me. I blinked a few times, my heart thundering, my head feeling dizzy, and the pain in my cheek dissipating as I stared at the scene in front of me.

  A fight.

  A violent one at that.

  I should run, escape. This was my chance, while that asshole was occupied. But instead, I found myself transfixed at the sight in front of me.

  “You think you can touch what’s not fucking yours?” The sound of his voice was thick, deep… deadly. It had chills racing up and down my spine, had fear and wonder choking me until I couldn’t breathe.

  I didn’t know who the man was, couldn’t see him with the dark shadows playing across his face. He was big, muscular. I could tell that much.

  And then the man doing the beating moved toward the flickering streetlight, the one with the muted yellow glow, the light seeming dirty, far dirtier in this dank alleyway.

  Butcher.

  He stood menacingly over the drunk, who was now on the ground, looking up, his ugly face twisted in anger.

  Again, I should have moved, should have run, but here I was, hypnotized by the violence, by the arousal of watching Butcher beat the fuck out of the man who assaulted me.

  I felt my eyes widen as I watched Butcher slam his fist into the asshole’s jaw. Over and over again, repeatedly. And the drunk was no match, despite him trying to fight Butcher off. Despite the fact that all his moves were defensive ones.

  Butcher’s muscles strained every time he reared his arm back and slammed his fist into the asshole’s face. God, I couldn’t move. I should. I should run, not stand here like a fucking idiot watching in awe the feral intensity that came from a man I didn’t even know, from a man who scared me but aroused me more.

  And then the drunk stopped fighting. He just stopped. But Butcher didn’t. I took a step forward, a small one, and opened my mouth, not knowing what to say. He’d kill the man, and although I should let him, something inside me knew this had to stop. I had to put an end to this.

  “Butcher.” I said his name softly, too soft for him to hear.

  I swallowed as I watched him continue to fight. Not fight—destroy the other man.

  “Butcher!” I yelled out his name, louder, clear. Fierce.

  And I watched as his body went tight. Ramrod-straight.

  I didn’t know what was about to happen, but for the first time in my life, I felt… safe.

  Chapter Four

  Butcher

  I hadn’t seen her at first, hadn’t seen that fucker either. But I heard them, heard the sound of her body hitting something, the gasp of her surprise, of her fear.

  Rage had risen up in me, bubbling in the pit of my stomach so all I saw was red, all I felt was violence.

  It had only taken me a few seconds to find them, to see the blood on her face from his clear aggression. He’d had her pressed to the wall, his body against hers, his face by her neck.

  Everything happened in slow motion as I went to him, as I pulled that fucker away from Poppy and just started wailing on him.

  And right now, I saw nothing but red. I didn’t feel anything but violent delight.

  Bone hitting bone.

  Warm, sticky blood covered my knuckles and chest, splattering against my face. It was only when I heard her voice calling my name that I finally stopped, was finally able to stumble back.

  I looked down at his still body, his face looking like raw meat, his chest rising and falling.

  He was still alive. Lucky bastard.

  I could feel his blood covering me, but I was used to this war paint. I welcomed it. And when I glanced over at where Poppy stood, seeing her wide-eyed expression, the shock, horror, and about a million other different emotions running across her face, something in me switched. It was like a light going off and on.

  Off and on.

  Dark and light.

  I found myself stumbling toward her, feeling drunk although I wasn’t. The adrenaline was rushing through my body addictively, swiftly. It was like a high, this rush of being alive. She didn’t move, her back still pressed to the brick wall, her hands curled into tight little fists in front of her.

  She was afraid; I could tell. I could practically smell it coming off her in waves. But she didn’t run from me.

  I was now just a couple feet from her. I let my gaze travel over her face, the side of her cheek all scraped up and bruised, the blood starting to dry around her jaw.

  I didn’t know what had gotten into me, why I’d gone so fucking insane. I’d never gotten violent like this before.

  Never like this.

  “You’re hurt,” I said, more to myself than to her. She still hadn’t moved, and as I lifted my hand, I was pleased, so fucking pleased, that she didn’t shy away, didn’t wince.

  I ran the tips of my fingers along the edge of her wound, and the small sound that escaped her lips had me holding my breath, had my heart jackhammering in my chest, and had every possessive instinct in me rising.

  “I’m fine,” she finally said, and I pulled my hand away, curling my fingers into my palm.

  I shook my head. “You’re coming to the clubhouse. I’ll have our doctor look at you.” I had her hand in mine as I pulled her toward my SUV. But she resisted.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  I stopped and looked over my shoulder at her.

  She pulled her hand from mine, and instantly I felt this coldness slam into me. I could tell she was strong. She was a fighter. And I knew she wouldn’t budge on this, and forcing my hand would only push her further away.

  And that I wouldn’t do.

  I wasn’t used to not getting my way. No one dared deny me, not unless they had a death wish.

  “Okay,” I said and tipped my chin toward the bar. “I’ll have the doctor come here.” I let resolve cover my face. “But I won’t take no for an answer
on this, Poppy.” Her eyes widened, and I could tell she was surprised I knew her name. “Okay?” Although I’d posed it like a question, the truth was, I wasn’t asking. I was telling, but with Poppy, I felt this softening toward her. This weakness.

  And that was fucking dangerous.

  Finally, she nodded slowly, and I took her hand in mine once more. It was warm and soft. Feminine.

  I led her through the back door of the bar, and all the while I was very aware of the scent of her, the feel of her. She smelled so fucking good, like something sweet, spun sugar maybe. The stink of the bar didn’t penetrate her, didn’t surround her.

  I passed Richie on the way back, and he knew better than to ask any questions. He knew to look down, not make eye contact, and to mind his own fucking business.

  When I was in the storage room, I shut the door and reached for my cell, dialing our resident doctor’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “I need you at Richie’s bar.”

  All he said was he’d be right there. No questions. No arguments. No hesitation.

  I ended the call and looked at Poppy but didn’t put my cell away. She moved back several feet, her gaze on me, her wound looking even worse under the harsh light of the fluorescent bulb above. I felt my anger grow tenfold. I wanted to go back out there and beat the fuck out of that asshole again and again and again.

  I dialed up Stix and put the cell to my ear, waiting for the call to connect.

  “Yo.” Stix’s voice was clear, like crystal. He didn’t drink. Never. It was why I called him when there was an issue, because there would be no mistakes, no alcohol clouding judgment and inhibitions.

  “I have a cleanup at Richie’s.”

  “Alive?” Stix asked.

  “Still breathing. Unfortunately.” I kept my gaze locked on Poppy.