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Tattoos cover his arms and hands as well, and there’s a wicked looking scar on the side of his face.
I know I’m in real danger here, and he looks like every woman-in-peril movie nightmare come to life, but he is still so unbelievably good looking somehow that I think my brain short circuits. He has a strong jaw, olive skin, dark hair. His eyes are dark swirling pits I could probably get lost and die in. He looks Italian.
I look back to the skeevy too-skinny guys pinning me against the wall. I have a moment of absolute hysteria where my mind hopes this new guy is the leader and that he lays claim to me.
Okay, that’s it. No more of the books I’ve been reading for me. Do I really think getting raped and possibly murdered by a ‘hotter guy’ is going to make any of this better?
“Get lost, motherfucker, we found her. She’s ours.”
I feel like a half-eaten cheeseburger a homeless man found in a dumpster right now.
“That’s not how any of this works,” the tattooed guy says. He pulls out a switchblade and I hear the snick as it flips open, the blade glinting in the same light that revealed his snake tattoo.
What happens next happens so fast I can barely keep up. The guy that had me pinned to the wall moves as though he’s going to taze the tattooed guy, but tattoo guy does this spin kick and knocks it out of his hand like he spent the last nine years training in martial arts on a secret island somewhere.
He grabs the guy by the hair and pulls him back. He’s just about to strike with the knife, to slit this guy’s throat, to murder him right in front of me. Then his eyes meet mine as though just remembering I’m here. He decides instead to knock the guy unconscious. He starts to go after the second guy, but the second guy runs. He lets him go.
And now it’s just me and tattoo guy, and suddenly my insane thoughts about wanting him to lay some claim to protect me from the other two has flown out the window because now he’s the new threat. His first words when he showed up did seem to indicate he was here for the same reason they were, so I shouldn’t get too excited that I have a savior. No, I most likely only have a less visually repulsive attacker, and given his casual way with violence, he probably won’t let me live long enough to be traumatized by any of this when he’s done with me.
He steps over the unconscious guy. He’s still holding the knife, and I wonder if it was always intended for me.
“Please…” I say, my words finally working again.
I feel completely consumed by his dark eyes as he drinks me in, deciding my fate, because he is deciding, and I know that there are no words that will alter whatever his decision is.
He’s too close to me. I can smell his cologne. It smells woody and musky and somehow green, like rolling landscapes in some fairytale land… and it smells expensive. Who is this guy? He takes another step toward me. I stop breathing when he touches my cheek with the back of his free hand. He is so warm and solid, and I’m torn between the terror of what he might do to me, and the overwhelming urge to just sag against his warm body and cry until there are no tears left. I feel one of these tears start to slide down my cheek, but his hand stops it.
“Shhhh,” he says.
Finally, after what feels like the same length of time I’ve already been alive in this world, he closes the knife and puts it back in his pocket. A long slow breath spirals out of me now that at least that one threat has been removed.
Then he takes a step back and gestures toward the mouth of the alley. It’s an unspoken ‘You’re free to go.’ But I feel like he’s still too close, like I can barely squeeze past him to freedom, or like it’s some kind of trap.
There is this psychotic part of me that feels rejected right now. If I get out of this alive I’m burning every wildly inappropriate romance novel I own. Clearly my relationship with reality is on shaky ground. And bad boys never turn into good men.
I’ve just reached the mouth of the alley when I feel a strong hand clamp on my arm. I let out a cry. Did he change his mind? Was he trying to be the hero, and then found that he just couldn’t do it?
I turn back to look at him, pleading with my eyes. Just please let me go. Just let me live until tomorrow.
“How are you getting home?”
I just slow blink at him because that can’t be what he just said. But he waits expectantly for my answer.
“Um,” I clear my suddenly croaky throat. “I was going to call somebody.” If I still have enough cell phone battery to make the call.
He shakes his head. “No. I’ll drive you.” He pulls out a key fob and there is a double beep as lights flash on a black luxury SUV not far from us.
I slowly start to back away as if I’m trying not to spook him. “That’s, okay. You’ve done enough. Uh, thank you,” I say. It feels awkward thanking this guy for saving my life when I know for a fact he was contemplating whether he should commit a felony once he had me all to himself. The better angels of his nature seem to have won, but I’m not sure how close that fight was, or if his demons are asking for a rematch right now.
Either way, for all my painfully stupid choices tonight, everybody knows that you never let them take you to a second location.
“I’ll drive you home,” he repeats. It’s not a question or a suggestion. It’s a command.
I shake my head. “Please… just go.” I feel my lip starting to tremble again. Am I a mouse he’s playing with? Did he just bat me away to make me think I had some hope here?
“Get in the car.”
Another command.