Talk To Me

Chapter Seven

Present

Emma walked away, leaving Oliver standing alone near the restaurant entrance. A strange, twisting sensation settled in his stomach, something between unease and disbelief. He pressed his palm against his abdomen as he watched her disappear down the sidewalk.

As she neared the movie theater next door, something caught his eye—a flicker of movement, a glimmer beside her. Oliver squinted, his breath hitching slightly as he tried to make out the shape. A tall and lean man. His stomach dropped.

"Shit." The word left him in a hushed whisper, not loud enough for anyone else to hear. His fingers dug into his curls, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

The sharp sound of an engine revving made him flinch.

"Who's the babe?"

Oliver turned, his shoulders still tense, as Mark pulled his car up beside the curb and rolled down the window.

"Jesus, Mark," Oliver exhaled sharply, placing a hand over his racing heart. "You scared the shit out of me."

Mark smirked. "Seriously? I scared you?" His brows lifted, amusement glinting in his green eyes. "Hop in. I'll take you home."

Oliver hesitated, glancing back toward Emma. The silhouette of her figure was already fading into the distance. He exhaled sharply before climbing into the passenger seat.

"I thought you said my car would be ready by tonight."

The interior of Mark's car was warm, though a cool breeze trickled in through the open window until Mark rolled it up. Faint music played through the radio, some old rock song, but Oliver barely heard it over the familiar scent of the car—cigarettes and Febreze.

He buckled his seatbelt, stealing one last look in the direction Emma had gone.

"You have a shitty car, man," Mark muttered, pulling onto the road. "You should buy a new one. Also—don't dodge the question." He smirked. "Who's the girl?"

Oliver sighed, already regretting getting in the car. "Emma. She's a waitress from the restaurant."

"And?"

"And nothing."

Mark hummed, unconvinced. "Mmm. I don't buy it. I can feel the tension coming off you, brother." He shot Oliver a sideways glance. Oliver shook his head, barely suppressing a groan. "Fine," Mark said, dragging out the word. "I'll come by tomorrow and maybe ask her out myself. She's cute."

"No, Mark." Oliver's response was immediate, his voice sharper than intended.

Mark grinned. "Ohhh. So there is something." He reached over and shut off the radio, turning his full attention to Oliver. "Spill."

Oliver hesitated. His fingers twitched against his jeans. "I think her father followed her," he finally muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "She said he died a few years ago."

Mark's expression shifted. "That's... creepy." His brows knitted together. "Wait—does that mean?" He gestured vaguely with his hand. Oliver swallowed hard and nodded. "You got it back?" Mark's voice lowered slightly.

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Last night."

Mark's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "And you didn't tell me this morning?" He threw Oliver a look. "Did you see her yet?"

Oliver hesitated. "Not yet. But I think I know why. Ann told me you have to be really focused to appear in certain places."

"That's gonna be a problem," Mark muttered. Then he blinked. "Wait—who's Ann?"