Page 5 of Riot

Not a chance in hell I was inviting him to hang out, if that’s what he was hinting at. I would rather hang out with a pack of rabid dogs.

I shrugged, hoping he’d finally get bored and leave me alone.

Unlikely.

Since discovering Ramos was out of prison and planned to live at home, my day had steadily gone downhill. Half the dryers at work stopped heating around noon. A pack of unattended kids spent an hour sprinting through the laundromat screaming like tiny, caffeinated demons. Then one of them jammed the change machine with what looked suspiciously like gum, and somehow that became my fault according to every angry customer within a three-foot radius.

My head still throbbed and Mr. Creep wasn’t making it any better.

Miguel took another drink before stepping closer. “You always did keep to yourself.”

Which I was trying to do now.

I’d made the mistake of glancing at him once already and caught the smirk pulling at his mouth. He was enjoying this. Pushing buttons just to see me squirm.

I opened the cabinet and grabbed a plate. “Hmm.”

“Still shy?”

Oh my god. I just wanted him to leave me alone. I wanted to shout, throw something at him. Instead, I looked at the bread box. Then at the sink. Then at the half loaf of wheat bread. Anywhere but his face. “Just tired.”

“Tired, huh?”

Every instinct I had screamed at me to get out of the kitchen. Instead, I kept making my sandwich like everything was normal. Like there wasn’t a creep standing too close behind me getting entertainment out of making me uncomfortable in my own house.

Keep quiet. Act like he’s invisible.

The last thing I needed was to give Miguel a reason to focus on me more than he already was.

Because he’s doing such a fantastic job respecting your boundaries already.

Great. Now my brain was arguing with itself.

This night needed to end. Fast.

Miguel’s stare stayed fixed on me while I pulled cheese and mayo from the fridge. The longer he stood there watching me, the tighter my shoulders got.

It felt weirdly like being observed instead of talked to, almost like I was performing for someone who might abduct me later.

That might’ve sounded dramatic, but Miguel had always given off a quiet serial-killer vibe. The kind of psycho who looked at flies and wondered what would happen if he pulled the wings off one at a time.

I focused on making my sandwich, my movements quicker now. Bread. Mayo. Turkey. Cheese. If I acted busy enough, maybe he’d finally lose interest and go bother someone else.

“Used to be all elbows,” Miguel murmured.

I kept my attention locked on the sandwich.

“Grew into your body nicely.” He took another sip of beer. “Slim looks good on you.”

My grip tightened around the butter knife. It felt like Miguel was building to some finale. He kept moving closer. Kept complimenting my body, using that whispering voice that legit was freaking me out.

“Ramos grew into his too,” I said.

Miguel laughed softly under his breath like I’d flirted with him. Damn it. Exactly what I was trying to avoid.

“Where the fuck’s my beer?” Ramos shouted from the living room.

Miguel didn’t answer right away. He was still watching me. I could feel it between my shoulder blades.