Page 8 of Faking the Goal

God, what a dick.

And now I get the privilege of seeing his grumpy ass on a regular basis.

Lucky fucking me.

I reach my apartment and shift the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder as I dig for my keys.

Then I stop.

"What the hell?"

There, propped against my apartment door, is a bouquet of dark maroon dahlias.

The same dark maroon dahlias I found this morning.

For several seconds, I don't move.

They've been wedged against the bottom of the door, several petals crushed against the frame, the wrapping wrinkled around the stems. I slowly bend and pick up the bouquet, and as I do, a small piece of thick paper slips from between the flowers and flutters to the floor.

I stare at it before bending to pick it up.

Four words are written across the front.

Didn't you like the flowers?

The hallway suddenly feels strangely quiet.

"What the fuck?"

I turn the bouquet over in my hands, looking more closely at the crushed flowers.

Are these the same ones?

The ones I threw into the dumpster outside my apartment building this morning?

A cold little prickle works its way up the back of my neck.

If they are, whoever sent them would have to know I threw them away. They would've had to either watch me do it or somehow find them afterward, then bring them all the way here and—

No.

I stop that thought before my brain can sprint any farther with it.

This has Kirk written all over it.

It has to be.

The restraining order means he can't come near me or contact me, and he's managed to behave himself since then. Maybe this is his newest loophole. Leave something anonymously, make sure there's nothing directly tying it to him, then sit back and enjoy knowing I'll drive myself crazy wondering whether he's behind it.

The more I think about it, the more irritation starts pushing aside that first flicker of unease.

Of fucking course.

Maybe that's exactly what he wants. He wants me scared again. Looking over my shoulder. Wondering whether he's watching me every time I leave my apartment. He spent months making me feel like I was losing my mind before the restraining order finally shut him up, and I'm not letting him start that shit again.

"Nice try, asshole."

I crumple the note in my fist, shove the flowers straight into the nearest trash can, and reach back into my locker for my camera.