Page 58 of Shamed
Tonight, he’s dressed in dark green cargo pants with an unzipped black canvas jacket over a black T-shirt. I notice the Timberlands on his feet, and his wavy hair perfectly messy.
Sucking in a breath, I force my legs to move again, stopping when I’m in front of him. “What are you doing here?”
If the nearby lamppost didn’t cast a soft glow over him, he’d blend into the night itself with his dark clothing and features.
“Just checking on you after last night.”
“At two a.m.?” I ask skeptically.
He shrugs.
Remembering my manners, and the fact that he did, in fact, save me, I exhale. “Well, I did want to thank you for what you did . . . last night.”
A muscle in his jaw moves. “There’s no way I would have let them touch a fucking hair on your head.”
I blink at the protectiveness in his voice, wrapping my jacket tighter. “How did you even find me?”
“It was by accident, actually. I missed a turn and ended up on your street.”
Nodding, I chew on my lip and think about the odds of him ending up there at the same time I needed him. Probably slim-to-none. “The one you knocked down . . . He was, um, kicked out of the club for harassing me a few days ago.”
I’m not sure why I’m telling him this. I should have simply said thank you and kept walking.
Mase’s lips purse. “So, he followed you?”
“No, not from the club. He was near my apartment when I was going home the same night it happened, and he saw me.”
His eyes narrow. “Did he try something then as well?”
I glance away, remembering my night spent on the bathroom floor while holding the knife. “I made it inside okay.” Luckily, he hadn’t made another appearance until last night.
Mase runs a hand through his hair, jaw still tight. “Well, I’m glad you ended up coming to my class.”
His eyes linger for a moment. Is he connecting the dots as to why I changed my mind about the class he offered? Can he see how fucking scared I was?
Okay, time for me to leave.
“Sure. Anyway, I’m okay.” I adjust my cap, ready to keep walking. “Thank you again. And goodnight.” I continue past him, not leaving room for more conversation.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about Mase turning up outside my work to check on me.
My stride is brisk as I walk down the street and around the corner to the bus stop, only looking over my shoulder once. No one else is there when I arrive, which is usual at this hour.
I stand close to a nearby post, hugging my jacket tighter as I wait for the bus to arrive. God, I’m not looking forward to this trip once the snow comes.
I tip my head back to look up at the sky, but a shadow moving in my periphery makes me whip my head to the side. It’s then that I notice Mase walking toward where I’m standing, coming to a stop when he’s a short distance away.
Brows drawn, I watch him for a moment, but he doesn’t glance at me, doesn’t try to speak to me again or stand beside me. He just stands quietly, as if he’s waiting for the bus as well, with his hands in his pockets.
What are you doing, Mase?
I glance around, as if the answer will pop out from somewhere nearby, but it doesn’t.
A short while later, the bus arrives and I get on . . . and so does Mase. I sit a couple of seats away from the front, while Mase moves halfway down the rows before sitting. He’s notlooking at me when I peek over my shoulder at him, so I turn back around, my frown deepening.
Does he really expect me to believe he needed to catch the same bus at almost two-thirty in the morning?
I spend the rest of the trip staring out the window, watching the buildings streak by in a blur while my mind is on the person a few rows back. Once it’s my stop, I briefly contemplate staying on just to see what Mase does. But it’s late and I’m tired, so I get off as usual, unsurprised when he gets off as well.
