4. Mira

4

MIRA

I dump my sodden work uniform in one of the trash bins along the wall and, without breaking pace, snatch two green aprons from the hooks next to the break room. Kylie and Aaron will be missing their name tags when they come in for their shifts in an hour, but that isn't my problem.

None of this is my problem.

Not anymore.

I tie one apron on the right way and then spin the other around and fasten it on backwards. The thigh-high slits on either side of my makeshift ensemble aren't exactly modest, but there's no exposed butt cheeks in sight, so I'm calling it an improvement.

As I look back at The Creep, I want to stop and study his unconscious face. See if I recognize him. I want to ask him, Why me? Is he just some run-of-the-mill pervert who saw an opening, or did he target me with a purpose? Was he watching me?

Does he know who I am?

Does he know what I've done?

Anxiety crawls up my spine, but there isn't time for questions.

I've still got The Pretty Boy Savior in my rearview mirror. Broad shoulders lean out of the open bathroom door and I flinch. Pretty Boy kicks the unconscious lump in the hallway.

"I knocked him out," he explains. "You don't have to run."

For a single second, I consider what it would look like to stay.

I could scrounge for a new outfit in the dregs that make up the shop's Lost & Found. I'd finish out my shift. Maybe even gift Pretty Boy a free drink as thanks for the whole rapeus interruptus thing.

When I filter out the horrors of it all, there was something actually kinda beautiful in the way he beat my attacker to a pulp. Graceful. It wasn't the first time the arrogant jerk had thrown a punch, that's for sure. He used his body like he knew exactly how powerful he was. Like he was used to throwing his weight around.

Maybe I should stick around and see if this fighter coin has a lover on the flip side.

But my skin itches just thinking about it. Fear creeps through my muscles, tightening every one until I'm a bundle of anxious energy.

I need to run.

My chest clenches and the emotion I've kept bottled away since I was old enough to form memories burns at the backs of my eyes.

"Yes," I breathe both to Pretty Boy and myself. "I do."

I shove through the back door and stumble into the day, blinking against the brightness. I get gawked at by hordes of shameless ASU students on their way to Rocks for Jocks 101 while I desperately clamp the seams of my apron dress around my thighs.

I check over my shoulder as I go to make sure I'm not being followed. My phone, which I artfully wedged down the front of my panties so I could wash my clothes in the bathroom sink, vibrates with a call. It's either my manager, Brody, calling to see why I'm not slinging coffees at the front counter, or my best friend, Taylor.

Either way, I'm not fishing into my underwear to answer that call. I'll email my resignation to Brody later tonight. Fuck him and double fuck a two weeks' notice.

Taylor, on the other hand, would immediately hear the panic in my voice. She'd want to know what's going on, and I can't answer all of her questions.

I can't tell her why I'm quitting my job— again.

Or why I may need to move— again .

I can't explain why the crazy man who followed me into a bathroom might have been sent there by someone else.

I definitely can't explain why, no matter how hard I try, I keep seeing Pretty Boy's face as he threw open the bathroom door. I keep replaying over and over again the way his eyes trailed over me when we were alone, but he kept his distance. He waited for me to make the first move.

Is it possible that underneath his asshole-ish ways and Adonis exterior, my savior was a gentleman ?

No. Not possible.

In my experience, there's no such thing.

I punch in the code for my apartment building, take the stairs two at a time to my unit, and breathe the shallowest sigh of relief when the deadbolt thuds into place.

I forgot what "safe" feels like years ago.

But being alone behind a locked door is as close as it gets.