Page 2 of Wrecked By Rev
I know better.
I crumple the note in my fist and go back inside.
“You okay, honey?” Marta asks when I refill her coffee. She’s eighty-two and sharper than anyone gives her credit for.
“Fine. Just tired.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me, but she lets it go. That’s the thing about regulars—they notice things, but they also know when not to push.
The rest of the morning blurs by. I’m on autopilot, smiling when I should smile, making small talk when small talk is required. But underneath it all, there’s this low hum of dread that never quite goes away. It lives in my chest now. A permanent tenant.
Around eleven, Pete Dominguez comes in for his usual late breakfast. He’s a landscaper too—works for a different company, competes with Niall for contracts. Nice guy. Talks too much about his fantasy football team, but harmless.
“Hey, Angel.” He grins as I set down his plate of huevos rancheros. “So you and Niall Garrett, huh? He’s been talking about you non-stop lately. Says you two have really hit it off.”
The plate nearly slips from my fingers. “What?”
“Yeah, we were at the same job site yesterday. Wouldn’t shut up about you. How great you are, how happy he is.” Pete shrugs, still smiling, completely oblivious to the way my stomach just turned inside out. “Honestly, I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone. You two official now, or what?”
“No.” The word comes out harder than I mean it to. “We’re not together. We’ve never been together. I’ve spoken to him maybe five times, and every single one of those times I told him I wasn’t interested.”
Pete’s smile falters. “Oh. Shit. I just assumed—he made it sound like?—”
“Well, he lied.”
The silence stretches. Pete looks down at his plate, clearly wishing he’d never opened his mouth.
“Sorry,” I manage. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”
He nods, still uncomfortable, and focuses on his food. I retreat to the kitchen and press my hands flat against the stainless steel counter, breathing slow.
He’s telling people we’re together. Building a story. Making it so that when I say he won’t leave me alone, everyone will think I’m the crazy one. But Niall said you were dating…Niall said you were happy.
Four months.
The cops won’t help. I’ve tried. He hasn’t technically done anything illegal—no threats, no trespassing, no physical contact. Just a guy who’s interested, they said. Just a guy who doesn’t take no well, they said. Give it time, they said. He’ll move on.
He hasn’t moved on.
My friends think I’m overreacting. He seems so nice, they say. Are you sure you’re not misreading things? Like I don’t know the difference between interest and obsession. Like I haven’t felt him watching me from across the street, patient and smiling, waiting for me to come around.
I’m not going to come around. And he’s not going to stop.
I close up at three, same as always. The lunch rush was steady—sandwiches and salads and the soup of the day, which was tomato basil because I didn’t have the energy for anything more complicated. I count the register. Wipe down the tables. Sweep the floors. All the tasks I’ve done a thousand times, in the same order, because routine is the only thing holding me together.
Check the parking lot twice before I walk to my car. No white truck. No Niall. Just the crumpled note still sitting on my passenger seat, a reminder that I’m never quite alone anymore.
I get in my car and ready myself for the drive home. But it’s also when I slow down long enough to let myself think.
I can’t keep living like this. Checking over my shoulder constantly. Jumping at every engine that sounds like his truck. Lying awake at night wondering if tonight’s the night he finally crosses a line that someone besides me will take seriously.
I need help. The kind of help that can’t come from the cops or my friends or anyone who looks at Niall Garrett and sees the nice guy everyone else sees.
I need someone who looks dangerous.
The thought surfaces fully formed, like it’s been waiting. And with it comes a name I haven’t let myself think about in five years.
Rev.
