Chapter 15
Caitlyn
"You want a second one?" Jersey growls as he takes a step closer to the other man.
I look around, my entire body trembling. There have to be consequences for just walking up and hitting someone, and I have no doubt that, somehow, I'll get into just as much trouble as he will.
A litany of thoughts swirl through my head. If I get arrested, will I lose my license? Will this man seek retribution on me for getting hit? Am I in danger? Why is Jersey so angry?
"If you don't—"
The man scurries away when Jersey lifts his fist a second time, keeping his full attention on the man until he climbs into a car and drives away. His tires kick up gravel as he leaves the parking lot.
"I hope he eats a fucking guardrail," Jersey growls, his voice full of fury.
Instead of sticking around for whatever comes next, I turn and open my car door, flinching and pulling away when I feel the brush of his hand on my shoulder .
When I spin to face him, to challenge him about the intrusion, I find him standing there with his hands near his ears.
"Sorry," he whispers, his eyes darting between mine as if he's trying to figure me out and I'm somehow the most complicated thing he has ever laid his eyes on.
"I don't like to be touched," I snap before I can evaluate what that confession entails.
He swallows, dipping his head as if he understands.
"Sorry," he repeats.
My lips form a flat line. It would be customary to tell him it's all right, but I'm far enough in my therapy that I no longer make excuses to make others feel comfortable, especially after they've violated my space in any way. To most, it may make me look like a complete bitch, but my boundaries aren't up for discussion today or any other day, for that matter.
I attempt to stand a little taller, but honestly, I'm glad he's here. I don't know what I could've done to ward off that man if he hadn't shown up. I resist the urge to touch my upper arm, sure that I'll have a bruise from his grip.
"You can't just go around hitting people," I chide, trying to take the attention off me.
"He deserved it."
"Do you really think you're in any position to determine what people deserve?" I snap, my voice trembling more than I'd like it to.
The man rattled me, but I don't want to look weak in this situation.
I'm not afraid of Jersey like I am of that other man. I don't think Jersey would hurt me the same way, but I know there's still a level of pain attached to him, and I've never been a masochist.
I turn to get back into my car, and he must've learned his lesson because he doesn't reach out for me a second time .
"Let me follow you home."
His voice is low, almost pleading, and when I sit in the driver's seat and look up at him, I can see he's dealing with his own struggles. He's here to help me, but it also seems like it's the very last thing he wants to do.
"I'm no one's obligation," I tell him, trying to ignore the thrill of anticipation when I think about the last time he followed me home.
"I don't even know if you're safe to drive yourself," he says, stepping in between me and the open car door, effectively preventing me from closing it.
"I'm fine," I insist.
"Your hands are shaking," he says, pointing to the rattling keys in my right hand. "You've tried three times to get the key in the ignition and failed."
I know he's telling the truth, but admitting the weakness isn't going to happen. I'm stubborn that way.
I choose a counterattack instead.
"Not everyone can afford one of those push-start million-dollar SUVs, Jersey."
"Roman," he says with a hint of humor. "Call me Roman."
"Roman," I whisper, my confusion growing when doing what he asked makes his brows draw closer together.
"I haven't purchased one, but I doubt they're that expensive."
I watch his face, seeing when he tries to smile and fails. He's placating me, trying to lead me into a false sense of security as if I could ever forget that he just walked up and assaulted a man without warning.
"Caitlyn," he says, and I hate the way my name on his tongue makes me feel. "Please let me follow you home."
"I can't stop you," I mutter, once again trying and failing to get my key into the ignition.
I drop the keys on my lap and grip the steering wheel with both hands as I let my eyes flutter closed before pulling in a deep breath through my nose in an attempt to calm my nerves.
If anything, it only serves to ramp up my heart rate even higher, and I find him frowning at me when I open my eyes back up.
"Better yet, let me take you home. I don't think you're in any condition to drive."
"Want to show off that slick SUV of yours?" I ask, trying to make this conversation about anything other than the fact that I'm freaking out a little.
That other man touching me has had a longer-lasting effect on me than I'd like, and it is taking a hundred percent of my concentration not to freak out in front of Roman.
"Actually," he says, stepping to the side and waving his arm toward the parking lot. "I'm on the bike tonight."
I look past him, my eyes landing on the sleek piece of machinery. It's beautiful, the chrome and matte black countering each other perfectly, but honestly, I know nothing about bikes.
"There's absolutely no chance in hell I'd ever get on one of those death traps."
"I'm a safe driver," he says. "But I understand. I can leave it and have one of the other guys come get it. They'll pick me up at your house."
There is so much wrong with what he just said, so many things that complicate my entire life.
Anyone knowing that I was here again could be trouble. The fact that we've seen each other outside of my therapy visits to their cabin is a whole other issue.
"I'm fine."
"Caitlyn," he growls, as if he's growing increasingly frustrated. "Let me take you home."
I glare up at him, never one to let someone push themselves onto my life without repercussions .
"What are you going to do if I refuse? Pull me out of the car and force me to ride with you?"
His jaw flexes, tightening twice as he clenches before speaking. "I've heard you loud and clear about not wanting to be touched. I'd never violate you that way."
The world seems to stop turning. Most people can hear the words but somehow think they're different, as if they're immune to my rules. Most people push the boundaries just to see how far they can get before they're triggered, that's if they don't disregard me altogether for having boundaries in the first place.
"Let me take you home," he says in a softer tone. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you. Eli needs you."
The mention of the little boy hits me right in the chest. I may not have much going on in my personal life, but there are people who need me.
Instead of arguing further, I climb out of the car, dropping the keys into his upturned palm, making sure our skin doesn't touch.
He waits for me to open the passenger side door and climb inside before positioning himself in the driver's seat.
Wordlessly, he pulls out his phone and shoots off a text, one I have to presume goes to whichever guy will come to get his bike. I swear I may lose my mind if Jericho shows up outside my house. There are only so many interactions I can have with this man before I'll be forced to have a conversation with my client's parents.
The drive is silent as Roman takes the roads to my house as if he has driven there a hundred times. It's curious the ease with which he finds my home in the darkness after only being there once.
When he takes the final turn, the one that will lead him right to my doorstep, I turn to watch him, wishing the dash lights had the ability to light up his face a little more than they do .
He's rugged. His features cast more in shadow than in light.
He's not a classically handsome guy. There's an edge to his jawline that's almost too sharp to be considered the boy-next-door type. The stubble along his jaw makes me want to lean over and run my tongue along it, and that brings a flash of him wrapping his hands around my waist and pulling me closer.
My body responds to such an image, but not in the same way it would if I imagined someone else touching me.
He looks over when I gasp.
"What's wrong?" he asks as he pulls into my driveway. "Did you see someone?"
His eyes are locked outside of the vehicle, and I'm grateful he isn't analyzing me the same way he is the darkness surrounding us.
"No," I manage. "Sorry. Thank you for driving me."
He opens the driver's side door at the same time I open mine. I want to tell him he doesn't have to walk me to the door, but then I remember we're in my car, and he has to wait for someone to come get him.
I'm torn between asking him in and the trouble that would bring and insisting he stay outside, which would be incredibly rude.
Just because he offered to drive me home, so I stayed safe, doesn't force me into a situation where I owe him anything. There's no reciprocity here, although I do feel like common courtesy wouldn't leave him hanging out in the darkness.
I still haven't made up my mind by the time we're both standing on my porch. The sound of a car engine pulls my attention to the street, and my knees grow weak when I see the car that drives by.
I can't see into the vehicle, but the car is identical to the man who threw gravel up outside the club not half an hour ago. It's too similar to be a coincidence .
"That motherfucker," he growls as the taillights light up at the end of the street before the vehicle turns right and disappears. "Do you know him?"
I snap my head back. "Excuse me?"
He keeps his eyes on the street as if he expects the guy to walk out of the shadows at any moment.
"How far-fetched would it be, Caitlyn?"
I don't bother justifying his question with an answer, but I'm stuck on the porch with him because I'd never be brave enough to snatch my keys from his hand to unlock the front door. It could lead to him putting his hands on me in a way that wouldn't make me gasp with arousal the way it did in the car.
He's slow to turn his eyes to me.
"It's not like you haven't been followed home before. Need I remind you of what happened right here last week?"
I swallow, the memories of what we shared always at the forefront of my mind since it happened.
"I'd like you to leave," I manage, my voice weak.
He shakes his head. "That's not going to happen. How do you know him?"
"I don't," I explain. "He's always at the club. Whispers stuff about hurting me. Tonight was the first night he met me in the parking lot. I don't know if he has followed me home before."
"He had to have," he says, flipping through my keys before turning to unlock the front door.
As always, Kiva starts to bark from the inside.
"We didn't have a tail coming here, which means he knew where you lived before tonight."
The idea of being here alone and vulnerable makes my entire body shiver.
"I'm not leaving you alone. Get inside."
I don't bother to argue this time, reaching down to pick up Kiva the second I step inside. He stays on the porch in complete darkness as he pulls out his phone.