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I shake my head, turn, and run. But he’s too fast. He catches me before I’ve gone even a block. His arms come around my body and lift me up into the air as I wildly kick out.
“Please, no. Please… please let me go! Don’t do this… please…” My voice gets more panicked and hysterical with every second that passes.
He clamps a hand over my mouth to shut me up and carries me to the passenger side of the SUV. He carries me like I weigh nothing, and despite the awkward way he’s holding me, his grip never falters.
I think about biting down on his hand, but I’m too afraid of what he’d do to me in retaliation. He opens the door and shoves me inside then locks me in. I jiggle the handle, but he’s put the child locks on. That key fob is the only way the door unlocks at this point.
He gets into the driver’s side and starts the car.
“Please… my dad can give you money,” I say, even though I know it’s a lie.
He snorts, like he knows it’s a lie, too.
Right on cue, a sudden downpour of rain starts. He turns on the windshield wipers.
“You cold?” he asks as he pulls out onto the road.
I realize suddenly that I’m shivering. I’m not sure if it’s because March is still pretty cold in the city or if it’s the fear of where he’s taking me, but I nod.
I shrink back when his hand moves toward me, but he’s just turning on the heat. I’m captivated by the black tattoos on his fingers. They look like astrological symbols, but I can’t be sure.
I’ve never understood people who get finger tattoos, or neck tattoos… or face tattoos. It just seems like really poor decision-making to me. They’re tattoos that aren’t easily covered that mark you as lower class in society. Sometimes wealthier people do have tattoos, sure, but you still don’t move within the same class circles if you have them visible right out there in the open. It seems this guy’s good decision making abilities came back online just before marring his beautiful face with ink. That snake was edging pretty close though, the hissing tongue flicking out to lick the flesh just under his ear. And sure, the scar on his face should take away from his visceral beauty, but somehow it doesn’t.
“Where do you live?”
I just stare at him like he’s an alien. What does he mean where do I live? Isn’t he taking me to some heavily-wooded area to murder me right now?
I give him the address, and he puts it into the GPS.
This is the most uncomfortable car ride I have ever experienced. If I thought he was too close in the alley, it’s a thousand times worse now. His scent fills my nostrils… the scent of money… wealth. The SUV is a Mercedes-Benz GLS-Class, not some average Soccer-Mom-Mobile. And while he’s dressed casually, on closer inspection it’s clear he’s wearing one of those super-soft high end T-shirts that were about a hundred bucks each back when I could afford them. I would think he was somebody’s driver if it weren’t for that cologne and the T-shirt a sick part of me wants to snuggle into right now.
What was he doing on this end of town? And why does a man with so much privilege and comfort have so many tattoos?
We stop at a red light, and it feels like every other car in the world has ceased existing, or like everyone else’s car has somehow melted away in the rain. There is no one for me to signal to for help. But maybe he really is just taking me home.
Except that I told him where I live.
I try not to have a hysterical meltdown about this fact. Why wasn’t I smart enough to give him some other address? Then once he’d left me at some random house, I could have used the last bit of my cell phone battery and called for a ride. Why is my brain not working at all tonight?
The light holds forever, and the only sound is my breathing, my heartbeat, and the windshield wipers. He turns in his seat toward me, and I let out a shuddering breath as his hand slips underneath my hair, stroking the side of my throat.
I want to lean into his touch with the same intensity that I want to pull away. Really I just want to run screaming from this car into the rain like a crazy woman. I obviously am a crazy woman.
The light changes and he reluctantly pulls away. He doesn’t say a word to me the entire rest of the drive to my house. Finally, he pulls up in the driveway.
“Um, thank you,” I say, again. It takes everything in me not to finish that thought with “for not raping and murdering me.” Because that would seal the deal on my lost sanity. Objectively this man didn’t hurt me—yet—but he’s just so terrifying—especially in a closed space. And I know somehow that he’s a killer. Even if he didn’t kill in front of me tonight, I can’t shake the thought that he has killed.
He releases the child lock, and my hand goes for the door.
“Wait,” he says.
I knew my escape was too good to be true. I sit and wait for whatever is coming next. He retrieves a black umbrella from the back seat and opens his door to walk around to my side. While he’s out there, I look in the back seat, but there’s only a black suit back there. His? Suddenly I’m very inappropriately curious about what this guy looks like formal. Does he cover the tattoos with makeup or leave them alone?
My door clicks open and he offers me his hand like a gentleman. Why is this dangerous man more well-mannered than Mike?
I feel the electric sizzle between us as I put my hand in his. Why is he so warm in this cold rain? When I’m out and under the umbrella, he drops my hand, and then he’s touching my lower back guiding me up the drive and up the steps to the front porch.
“W-what’s your name?” I ask when he turns to leave me under the safety of the porch. I don’t know why I need to know this. I’m afraid because this violent stranger knows where I live now, and I’m afraid of what that could mean for the future. What if he comes back for me later? I just need something to humanize him. A name. Anything.