CHAPTER 3 Charlie
CHAPTER 3
Charlie
H yperventilating, I try to buck the attacker off, but they’re straddling my back, knees holding my arms to my torso so I’m squashed to the ground, knife blade still threatening my vulnerable skin.
It happens so fast, I don’t react except for a yelp, a grunt, and a “What the fuck?”
I’d have thought that my childhood martial arts training would’ve made my reflexes faster, but nope. He caught me off guard.
I assume it’s a man, at any rate.
Fear floods my body. Because what the actual hell? Am I going to get my throat slit right here on the side of the highway?
Breathe, Charlie.
Think.
I stop moving. I might be able to get up on my knees and throw the guy, but I’m not willing to risk it when, if I move wrong, he’ll slice my jugular.
While the person who is … mugging me? … smells like he needs a shower, there’s also a sweeter, muskier, woody scent about him. Like he’s been living in the sage .
His hot breath fans over my ear, and my skin prickles.
The blade touches my skin. I don’t think he’s drawing blood yet, but the knife feels really sharp. My muscles are contracting so hard in my effort to freeze that I’m shaking. Which is counterproductive, but I can’t control my reaction. My heart rate’s spiked, and my adrenaline’s redlining.
“Fucking give me your keys and wallet, man.” His cool drawl sounds young and, surprisingly, not as wound up as I’d expect. He seems bored.
Is this unexciting to him? Dick.
If he’s young, and—I wiggle my back slightly—doesn’t weigh too much, I may be able to get the upper hand if I just keep my wits about me. Which is hard to do when my body’s in fight, flight, or freeze mode.
“My wallet? I don’t have any cash,” I rasp, feeling the burn on my chin from it kissing the asphalt. Damn. I scraped it hard. My palms might also be torn up. And my knees.
“I don’t believe you,” he snarls.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Who carries cash anymore? If you really want my Costco card, it’s yours. The rotisserie chicken isn’t that good.”
I’ve always wondered if my snark would disappear in moments of crisis. That question is now answered. Not that I spent hours of every day on the topic or anything, but?—
“I mean it.” The guy shifts his weight to, I don’t know, hold me down more, but it gives me an opening.
“Yeah, sure. And no, I’m not giving you my car. Do you know how much it cost?” It’s now or never. I press into a pushup, then throw an arm up and twist my hips to flip the guy off me and onto his back, where he lands with an “oof.” His knife nicks my skin as we move, but I can tell the cut is shallow. I’m not gushing blood—none even trickles down my neck. Positioning my knee across his hips, I focus on his knife hand. He’s fighting me, kicking and wriggling, but I push his pinky back until he yelps, then wrench the knife from him and throw it as far as I can before grabbing both his wrists and pressing them to the ground.
Now I’m straddling him, staring into his face. Our eyes lock, and some force crackles between us.
What the actual fuck?
He’s just a kid. Well, maybe early to midtwenties, so at least five years younger than me, from what I can tell in the light from the streetlamp a distance away. He’s got unruly pink hair and tattoos scattered along his bare arms and neck.
And he’s damn pretty.
Not just pretty. His face has an unearthly beauty. Ridiculously big eyes. Straight nose. Pouty mouth. Clear, pale skin. A mole on his cheek. Multiple piercings in his ears, and a nose ring.
He’s also really small. His black T-shirt’s painted on, showing off his super slim arms. He’s short, too, and just … tiny. He seems feral—a guttersnipe. His hands are like ice cubes. Where’s his jacket?
What the hell was he thinking? I’m a lot bigger than him. Twice his weight.
His nostrils flare, and his eyes widen, though I’m not sure how well he can see me. My face is probably in shadow. On the other hand, I imagine he was watching me as I walked to my car, so he already knows what I look like.
“I got jumped by a twink,” I blurt.
“Fuck you,” he growls. “Don’t call me that.” He bites his lower lip, and before he can sneer again, a lost expression flashes across his face. One that makes me pause.
What the hell am I doing? He’s young and scared.
Now I feel like a bully, which is ironic as hell—he had a knife to my throat . But someone needs to be the adult in the room. Might as well be me.
He’s clearly desperate. It doesn’t seem like he’s on drugs—he doesn’t smell like weed or anything chemical.
He grunts and tries to shove me off him, but I stay put, even though his feet are scrabbling at the pavement and he’s doing his damnedest to knee my balls. The angle won’t work for him, though.
“Why are you trying to rob someone twice as big as you? Do you have a death wish?” I hiss.
“Maybe.” The kid spits in my face.
I tsk, letting it drip back down onto him. “Someone should teach you some manners.”
“They tried. They failed.” He’s breathing hard.
“Yeah, I can tell.” I’m very aware of my own heartbeat.
The guy’s eyes are blazing, although I can’t quite tell their color in the low light. They’re very dark. Navy blue, maybe?
A car whizzes by. I’m not surprised they don’t stop, even if they saw us. Right now it looks like, what? I’m making out with him?
I glance down. He wouldn’t be so bad to make out with. If he weren’t trying to kill me. And maybe had a shower.
Tristan wouldn’t care. We’re not jealous of each other’s hookups. Hell, maybe he’d want to watch. Not that either of us would say we’re into voyeurism, but you don’t know some things are your kink until you try them.
And I don’t know why I’m feeling defensive. Nonmonogamy is valid.
“If I get up, are you gonna run away?” I ask.
He shrugs.
That’s a yes, I decide.
“What do you care?” the pint-sized terror sneers.
My response comes from a well of sincerity deep inside me that I don’t usually let out. “That’s a really good question that I don’t know the answer to.” I tilt my head and get in his face. “Why do you need the money?”
“No reason.”
Brat. “Bull. Shit. If you’re going to rob me, at least tell me why. ”
“I don’t have to tell you shit.” He again attempts to throw me off him, but he’s just not strong enough.
Part of me wants him to keep fighting, because I love getting physical. That part of me should probably be locked up. The rest of me is responsible … most of the time.
“True,” I say airily. “But you attacked the king of the assholes, and I have ways of making you talk.”
The kid presses his lips tighter together.
“Is it drugs?”
“No.” His eyes dart from side to side, but I’ve got him trapped.
Is it sick and wrong that I’m enjoying having him pinned under me? That I liked being scraped up by him and that I want to dish it right back? Mess up his angelic face—especially since he’s obviously a tiny devil?
Maybe it’s something more basic. “Do you need money to pay someone off?”
He snorts a laugh. “No.”
“To pay rent?”
He doesn’t answer. Okay, that’s something. Is he living on the street?
“When’s the last time you ate?”
He narrows his eyes and again tries to knee me. This time it hurts a bit, but I stay put. “Fuck you.”
“That’s not what I asked, baby boy.”
Where the hell did that come from?
But he is a baby.
He shivers, and I see the moment he decides to change his tactics from dickhead to flirt. His eyes go extra big. He swallows a few times. Then he coos, “Oh, we’ve met?” Setting a trap to get me to let him go so he can escape, I’m sure.
“Not that I know of,” I say before I can stop myself. Because I think I’d have remembered this kid. He’s not my usual type.
“Never mind. I’ll show you.” He continues struggling under me, but now he’s smiling. And that smile sets off some kind of fireworks under my skin. “Let me up.”
Is he …
He’s getting hard under me.
Damn, that’s making my dick react, too. There’s something seriously wrong with me.
“No. Way. Get off of you so you can stab me? Yeah, that’s smart.” I roll my eyes.
“Fine,” he huffs.
I go back to my earlier line of questioning. “Are you hungry?”
The guy bites his lip and looks away. That’s enough of an answer for me. I scan my mental inventory for late-night eateries around here and come up with a couple of options.
Charlie, what the goddamned hell are you thinking? This kid’s dangerous and clearly out to hurt you.
Sounds like fun.
Still holding his wrists pinned above his head, I do a quick assessment. I have a black belt in tae kwon do, although I’m way out of practice. I’m not sure where the kid’s knife landed. My error was not being aware of my surroundings, but I’m good now. I can take him easily.
I eye him. He still looks desperate, but also somewhat defeated.
“I’m gonna let you go,” I say slowly, “and we’re gonna have a talk. If you want, I’ll drive you to get some food.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
I shake my head. “I’ve got no clue. Maybe the Christmas spirit’s entering my body early.”
The kid grins, and it makes my insides go squishy and my dick get harder. “You’ve got something that can enter my body early.”
He doesn’t want me, he just wants to be free. I let the comment pass by. “So, you hungry?”
He swallows. “Aren’t you scared I’m going to take you out on the way to the restaurant? ”
I scoff. “I can disarm you in two seconds flat. I did it once, and I can do it again. So, no.” I eye him. “I will pat you down before you get in the car.”
“Okay, Daddy,” the urchin says.
My dick plumps even more. “Don’t call me that,” I snap.
Very slowly, I release one of his wrists, then move off him, and he scrambles to sit up.
I expect him to go racing down the street, but he doesn’t.
I take a seat on the cold, rough asphalt next to him and wipe the gravel out of my palms. I didn’t tear my jeans, so that’s a plus. “I’m Charlie,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Rowan.” He’s rubbing at his wrists.
I’m a little surprised that he doesn’t hesitate to tell me. But then maybe he just gave me a fake name. Who knows?
He reaches out to my neck and pulls his hand back with a drop of blood on his finger. “It’s not a bad cut. You don’t need stitches or anything. I’m … I’m?—”
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter. “You’re a doctor?”
Rowan scoffs. “Nope. But I’ve seen … things.”
“I’ll bet. Tell me about it at dinner. There’s a Thai restaurant in Malibu that’s open really late. Want to go there? Best thing available right now.”
I don’t imagine the hunger in his eyes. “Yeah, okay,” he says, trying to play it cool. He dusts off his own hands, and I see him looking around for the knife. I calculate the amount of damage he can do to me or my car, but while I don’t want to underestimate him, I don’t think it’s that much. I’m sure I can hold my own. Like, 95 percent sure.
I gesture to my car. “Come on. And don’t try anything.”
Rowan holds up his hands like the little criminal he is. “Okay, fine.”
“How did you know this was my car?”
“I was following you.”
“Hmm.”
We get to my vehicle, but before I open the door, I order, “Put your hands on the side, and spread your legs.”
“Oooh, kinky. I like it,” Rowan coos, doing as I say and sticking out his pert ass.
“Whatever.” I move closer to him, and in the dim light, I can just make out that he has “baby boy” inked at his nape in a calligraphic script.
Holy shit, that’s sexy.
I glance down at his ass, which nicely fills out those tight jeans.
What would it be like to mark his skin, focus on that tattoo while I was …
Never mind.
I need to get this kid some food, and then I can go back to my normal life, Tristan and all.
Since his arms are bare and his T-shirt’s thin, it’s clear he’s not hiding anything on his torso. But I pat down his waistband, pockets, and legs—especially his ankles.
He’s got nothing but a wallet. I open it up, and his license says his name is Rowan Jones. Not a liar—or, at least, not about his name. His address is somewhere in LA. There’s a bank card, and that’s it.
I shrug off my jacket and drape it over his shoulders.
Rowan whips his head around. “What the hell?”
“Just wear it,” I say gruffly, pushing the button to unlock the car. “Get in.”
He stares at me, tugging the dark brown suede bomber jacket closer to his body. I shoo him toward the passenger seat, questioning my life choices. After a beat, he climbs inside.
I close his door and scan the area where we were wrestling. I spot the hilt of his knife shining in the moonlight, maybe fifteen feet away. I sprint to pick it up, then get in the car.
“Retrieved your knife,” I say. I close up the switchblade and stick it under my seat near the door, out of his reach. Then I put my seat belt on and gesture at him to do the same. “Buckle up.”
He smirks at me, but he gets a funny look on his face as he snuggles into the jacket, sliding his arms through the armholes. Then he puts on his seat belt.
I’m sure I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.