Prey Drive by Jen Stevens
Chapter 11
the wolf
about the girl in the cottage.
My beautiful, deadly little Stardust, as I've decided to call her. A representation of the complicated supernova of feelings I've experienced since first laying eyes on her. Like the dusty remains of a star's chaotic explosion, she’s somehow managed to coat every piece of my existence with her bejeweling presence, and she doesn’t even know who I am.
My brain goes back and forth between wanting to drive to the cottage and stab my knife into her chest and wanting to fuck her. Sometimes, I imagine doing both at the same time, which is even more jarring.
I need time. Time to process. Time to gain control. Time to make a plan and get back on track.
Sleep doesn't come easily for me, and when it finally does, it's fitful and short-lived. I'm up and dressed before the sun even bothers to peek its head over the horizon. In all my tossing and turning, I've decided that the best way for me to gain control over the situation with Stardust is to succumb to the instincts I'm feeling toward her. To lean into these odd, uncomfortable reflexes until I bleed them dry. See how they can strengthen me.
Because there's one thing I'm certain about: strength comes from the most uncomfortable circumstances.
I'm a hunter, after all. And she's just another prey.
So if the feral beast inside of me wants to play with its meal before devouring it, then so be it. I'll play.
That's the thought process that leads me to spend the entire day working on my presentation for next week in a sports bar across from the coffee shop I followed Stardust to this morning. Mostly because Eliza sends me periodic reminders of the things I need to add, and I'm genuinely afraid of what she'll do if she finds out I was watching a woman I don't even know instead.
Even serial murderers have fears. Mine just happens to be a five-foot Italian woman from the Bronx.
I can see Stardust behind the coffee counter perfectly from my spot against the bar window, smiling at customers as they walk in, then chatting with the pink-haired girl she works beside once they leave. At 4:05, they walk out of the café, laughing about something Stardust said, and I'm so caught up in the way she tilts her head back and throws her entire body into the laugh that I completely ignore my waitress standing beside me with the bill. It's only when Stardust shuts her car door that the waitress clears her throat and earns my attention back.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asks in an irritated tone that tells me she's repeating the question. I've been taking this booth up for her all day and haven't bothered to order anything besides a salad I finished hours ago.
With my friendliest smile—one that’s likely not friendly at all—I shake my head and set my credit card on the table. “That will be it, thank you.”
The girl takes the card and walks away, swinging her hips as she passes a table full of men who openly gawk at her ass. When she returns with my receipt, I write out a two-hundred-dollar tip and gather my things, rushing to follow my little Stardust down the road.