Witness

6: Chelsea

I'd like to say I'm beginning to get used to being followed. 

Don't get me wrong, it's weird. It's more than weird. It's been almost a week since I stumbled into The Swan Hotel and had a gun pushed down my throat, and every day since I've had an itchy feel. A feeling of being watched, constantly, all the time. Even in the shower. 

I know Vik isn't watching me in the shower... probably, but that itch underneath my skin doesn't leave now. I'm constantly tingling with nerves, looking over my shoulder, feeling as if the ground under my feet will crumble any minute. 

Pulling my coat further around my shoulders, I keep my head down as I walk towards the coffee shop down the street from the office. 

It'll go away, I keep telling myself. Soon I won't even notice that he's there. 

But I don't notice him. Not him specifically, anyway. Just the feeling of him being there, lurking in the shadows, in the corners of my driveway, in the fucking supermarket. If Vik got an intern job at my work I don't think I'd be surprised. 

He's everywhere and yet he's fucking invisible. 

Watching me. Right now. 

Like some sort of zoo animal. 

I glance down the street, past some of the parked cars and then over my shoulder, scanning everything in the near vicinity before casting my search wider. He's here somewhere, waiting for me to screw up, waiting for a cop to breathe near me. I can feel his eyes. 

My pace quickens. 

Still looking over my shoulder, I stumble over my feet as I push open the door to the coffee shop. A surprised grunt catches my attention. Hot liquid splashes all over the floor, over my shoes, over my exposed arms. 

"Fuck!" An annoyed voice booms, shrinking me in place. 

I try to apologise but no words leave my mouth as I look down at the mess I've caused; the coffee pasted over the two of us, burning my skin and likely his too. The take-out cup on the floor and a delicious looking pastry face-down next to it, also covered in spilled coffee. 

My head is frazzled as I drag it up to meet the eyes of the stranger whose day I've already ruined. It's not even 9am. 

He's taller than I am by at least a foot. Dark everything - dark eyes, dark choppy hair, and a dark murderous look in his eye as he scans me briefly from head to toe. The only white piece of clothing he wears - a crisp, white dress shirt - is now stained brown with hot coffee, making the fabric stick to his surprisingly toned chest.

Oh fuck, I've spilled coffee on the hottest man alive. 

I swallow and continue to say nothing.

"Apologise," he orders simply, looking down at me with his mouth drawn in a tight line. 

"I'm sorry?" I squeak, shocked at the authority in his tone. 

His eyes narrow. 

Apologise. Again, like I'm an animal. Like I need some random man telling me what to do. 

Then again, I don't think I'd be particularly friendly if a strange girl dressed in combat boots and a shirt four sizes too big spilled my own scalding coffee over me, either. My eyes soften. 

"I'm sorry," I repeat. "I've had a rough wee-" 

"I don't care," he speaks quietly, half-hissing the words. He looks down at his own shirt, my eyes following his. Had it been water I'd spilled over him, the shirt would be entirely see-through. The brown coffee colour, however, has made it semi-transparent and dirty looking, revealing a naturally toned body and - and his nipples. Christ. My head shoots up, my cheeks beginning to pinken. "Don't fucking look at me."