CHAPTER 9 — EYES ON THE STREET

Sable

I didn’t wake up screaming.

Didn’t flinch at the sound of the garbage truck outside.

Didn’t lie in bed trying to figure out what kind of mood Luke would be in today.

Progress.

The morning light bled through my thin curtains, hazy and gold. For early November, it was almost warm. Not enough to ditch the jacket, but enough to make me pause in the doorway and just breathe.

I was impressed that after the wood splitting I did yesterday that I wasn’t super sore. My back didn’t ache. My fingers weren’t raw. I hadn’t split any knuckles or shoved anything too heavy. But that didn’t mean I was taking the day off.

I needed a wrench. A proper one. And probably a tarp to throw over the broken-down mess of a porch bench before the next rain.

Mom’s note said the hardware store was just a few blocks west. Three, maybe four. Walkable. And a walk meant I could get a better lay of the neighborhood.

I slid into my jeans, pulled on my boots, shoved my keys into my pocket, and zipped my jacket tight.

I hadn’t even made it a full block when I saw them—again.

The two idiots from yesterday.

Parked on some half-collapsed porch, drinking tallboys before noon, still looking at me like I was an item they’d misplaced and were trying to figure out if I was worth digging for.

“Damn, girl,” one of them called out. “Lookin’ all serious this morning.”

I kept walking.

“Where you headed?” the other added. “Need a ride? Or a little company?”

“Not today,” I said without breaking stride.

“Oh, so there is a day?”

That earned a smirk from his buddy. I could feel their eyes crawling over me like roaches.

“Bet there’s something else we could help with,” the first one added, voice dropping low and filthy. “Bet a girl like you’s got needs.”

I stopped walking.

Turned.

“Yeah,” I said. “And if I wanted them filled by someone whose dick matches the IQ of a busted lawn chair, I’d have said so.”

The smirk vanished. The second one stood, can still in hand.

“You got a mouth on you, bitch.”

“And you’ve got too many teeth for someone that dumb. Balance it out.”

He stepped down one stair. The porch groaned like it knew better.

“Careful,” I warned, cocking my head. “If you take one more step, you’re gonna find out what kind of girl I used to be.”

We stared each other down. Neither moved.

Then his friend said, “Fuck her. She’ll be beggin’ for it soon enough.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I said, and turned my back on them.

My hands were fists in my pockets the whole three blocks.

The hardware store sat wedged between a liquor shop and a run-down laundromat. The signage was faded, one letter missing from the name. But the bell above the door still rang when I stepped inside, and the air smelled like sawdust, rubber, and old motor oil. Comfort scents.

A man in his late fifties looked up from the register, grease under his nails and a pencil behind his ear.

“You must be Sable,” he said.

I blinked. “How—?”

“Your mama called ahead last week. Said you might be in. Said you were stubborn, but smart.” He grinned. “I believed the second part after seein’ the look on your face.”

I tried not to smile. Failed.

“Name’s Jimmy. Everything’s labeled. You need help, just holler.”

I made my way through the narrow aisles, picking up the wrench first, then a tarp, then added a box of screws because I didn’t trust the shed’s hinges.

It wasn’t until I was waiting to check out that I heard it.

The low growl of an engine outside.

A motorcycle.

Not one of the local rattletraps. This one purred. Clean, tuned, dominant.

I glanced out the window—and froze.

Black bike. Wide bars. Rider dressed in dark denim and a worn leather cut that fit him like a second skin. Broad shoulders. Gloved hands. He didn’t even look this way…

Until he did.

And when he did?

His eyes met mine through the glass like he’d known I’d be watching. Like he wanted me to see him.

Not a wave. Not a nod. Just a single look, long enough to carve itself into my spine.

Then he turned and rolled on down the street. Slow. Smooth. Gone.

“Friend of yours?” Jimmy asked.

I shook my head slowly. “No. Those biker’s are nothing but trouble. 

I walked slower on the way back.

Not because I was tired.

Because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get home.

I didn’t know what that look meant—only that it made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Not fear. Not safety. Something in between.

And maybe that was worse.

I was two houses from mine when I heard them again.

The assholes.

“Well look who survived her big trip to the man store,” one of them called out.

I didn’t stop walking.

“Find what you needed?” the other added. “Or you still need someone to screw it in for you?”

They laughed, a wheezing, mean little sound that curled around my spine.

“I’m good,” I called over my shoulder. “But thanks for the offer. If I ever need an example of what not to do with my life, I know where to look.”

This time, they didn’t follow. Didn’t escalate. Just spat and went back to their beers.

But the tension stayed with me. Crawled up my neck. Settled behind my ribs.

Because someone else had followed me.

Not them.

Someone quieter.

Heavier.

Intentional.

I glanced around casually, pretending to check the fence as I walked. No shadows. No sound. No movement.

But I knew what it felt like to be watched.

And whatever looked through that window at me from behind a motorcycle helmet…

wasn’t done watching.

Not yet.

As I shut the front door and locked it behind me, I heard the low rumble of the same pipes just up the street.