Chapter 7 Not My Girl – Koen
NOT MY GIRL
KOEN
Then…
Intriguing.
Rose.
Dark hair, bright blue eyes that look almost ethereal in the neon glow of the club lights, and a face that looks like she’d been hand-carved by angels.
Most people know better than to look me in the eye. And those that don’t, figure it out real quick the first time they make that mistake. They catch a glimpse of the dark soul radiating through my resting glare and they look away, finding any and every excuse to flee my presence.
But not her.
She’s not from around here. Untouched and untainted by the dark side of Boston I call home.
Good. Honestly, I should have left it that way, should have left her to deal with that shit-stain of an ex all on her own.
But from the moment she glared up at me, stepping closer while demanding an apology, outright refusing to back down even once she glimpsed the darkness in my eyes… oh, she’d gotten under my skin.
Nothing gets under my skin.
No one.
She caught me staring. The little smirk on her face said as much. And then she had the audacity to ask me for a favor? Innocently unaware how favors are currency in my dark world.
It was tempting to take her up on it. I could’ve demanded just about anything from her. Her desperation was written all over her face. The possibilities were endless.
But pretend to be her boyfriend?
No.
Not my girl, not my problem, not my… anything.
I’d sent her on her way, though she hadn’t exactly gone quietly. I almost wish I’d said yes and only so I could teach that mouth of hers a lesson.
Rose.
Still, I couldn’t help the way my eyes tracked her. The way they watched her stand anxiously by the bar, looking around for the friends she’d arrived with. A guy—her ex I presume—wasted no time latching on to her.
He’d been watching her too. Watched her come to me, watched her get rejected, and then moved in, scenting blood in the water.
He stood too close. It was clear by her body language she doesn’t want him anywhere near her.
I saw that fiery side of her flare again when he touched her, she shoved his hand away but he just smiled.
The fucking asshole. He backed her up against the bar until she was trapped between his arms, uncomfortable, eyes darting wildly for help.
People around her noticed but did nothing about it.
I was moving before I knew it.
How dare he touch what’s mine.
My girl, I’d called her, wrapping my arm around her side, my fingers just grazing the bare skin of her back.
I can still feel the electric shock that traveled into me when I made contact.
Searing hot, a wicked thrill shooting through me with all the discretion of a lightning bolt, sparking something long dead back to life.
I liked how she felt against me, the warmth of her skin, how she drew closer after I’d claimed her, finding safety under my protection.
He wouldn’t touch her.
No one would ever fucking touch her again.
She got what she’d wanted finally: my attention. But when I asked her if she wanted to get out of here, she said no. Then practically ran out of the bar.
I let her go. Didn’t try to stop her when she shakily climbed up off my lap, awkwardly waving goodbye and reminding me that she owes me one.
Oh, I know little Rose. I haven’t forgotten.
Then she was gone. Made a beeline for the exit, like she felt the dark pull between us and the overwhelming urge to run from it just as much as I did.
She left her friends at the bar. Her ex was too busy getting thrown out the back by my guys to notice how she just slipped out into the night.
Alone.
Leaving me no choice but to follow her.
My bike is parked just outside the bar—one of the perks of being the owner. I hop on, the engine growling to life beneath me, powerful and built for speed, but I rein it in, gliding slowly down the street.
I keep my distance, hoping she doesn’t notice the persistent rumble of my bike following her, keeping watch as she rounds the corner, heading for the nearest subway station.
She’s halfway down the next street before she encounters trouble.
A group of about five or six college-age guys is headed for her. Her steps slow and I can see her consider whether or not to cross the street but there’s a canal separating this side of the street from the other.
Lifting her chin she powers forward, passing the group without giving them another glance, but I see the moment they notice her. Too caught up in themselves to see her before. I watch as their heads turn and drop, checking out her ass and legs in that short as fuck skirt she’s wearing.
One of them shouts something after her but she doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn, but I see her shoulders tense, how her fists clench at her side.
The street light ahead of her is broken, leaving that end of the street cast in shadow.
I grit my teeth, my grip tightening on the handle as I watch the scene play out.
One of the guys stops entirely, changing direction and walking back toward her.
Not willing to find out what happens next I pull in the clutch, adding a bit of throttle to speed forward until I slide up to the curb right beside her.
Both Rose and the guy following her stop in their tracks, looking over at me.
Rose backs away, moving toward the guy at her back, but when I lift my visor I see the flash of recognition followed by a quick flash of relief.
My gaze trails past her, to the man following her, and my eyes no sooner make contact before he’s turning around, shooing his friends back down the street.
Rose follows my gaze, watching them.
“You want a ride?”
Her eyes are wary, and she doesn’t answer the question. Instead, her sharp blue eyes narrow in suspicion. “Are you following me?”
“Yes.”
Her brows lift at my admission. “Why?” She didn’t expect me to admit to it, and her question comes out a little breathless.
“You’re walking home alone—at night—in Boston,” I say, like it should be obvious.
“I’ll be fine.”
I arch a brow. Are she and I on the same street? She’s tiny and all five-foot-two of her doesn’t stand a chance against what I know is out there.
I don’t have an extra helmet, so I pull off the one I’m wearing and hold it out to her.
She doesn’t take it, looking between me and the helmet like I just asked her to do a bump of coke or something.
“Get on.”
Her gaze trails over the bike underneath me. “Is it safe?”
“No.”
She blinks up at me but I just stare back. It’s not safe. On the bike, nor with me, and I’m not about to lie to her.
“I—I’m going to pass,” she says, reading the look in my eyes.
“You sure?” I question, watching her throat as she swallows hard before nodding quickly. I resist the sudden urge to grab her by it, and force her onto the back rather than let her go. But instead, I tighten my grip on the helmet in my hands, dragging it back down over my head.
“Okay, have it your way,” I shrug, leaning back on my bike and settling into the seat.
She’s got a suspicious look on her face; I gave in way too easily.
“Thanks anyway. And thanks again… for before…”
I nod.
“Have a good night.” She waves, awkwardly, and spins—too fast, nearly knocking herself off balance after tripping on the uneven sidewalk before taking off in the direction she was going before I’d stopped her.
I watch her go, letting her get a few feet ahead before I start my bike, edging it forward a little bit before allowing it to idle again.
Rose’s pace slows and she glances back over her shoulder at me once, before continuing her walk down the dark street.
Again, I allow her to go a few more feet before I release the clutch, gliding the bike forward before stopping just behind her.
Rose looks back again, and this time I wave, placing both feet on the ground while I gesture for her to please, keep going.
Her eyes flash with anger and she whirls around, storming back to me.
I lift my visor and wait, sitting back in my seat and folding my arms across my chest. Oh, she’s cute when she’s mad.
“Are you going to follow me the whole way home?” she demands, looking me up and down.
This girl. Most people would be cautious around me… fearful, polite, careful. But not her. Not Rose. She sees the danger, sure, but snaps back anyway.
“Looks like it,” I tell her with a bored expression on my face.
“I can handle myself,” she snarks, straightening her shoulders back and lifting her chin before turning to walk away again.
“Is that so?” I arch a brow at her, my tone mockingly impressed. She freezes. “I seem to recall you asking, oh wait no—begging for my help earlier.”
Her cheeks flush a bright pink, the color a distraction. I wonder if they do that when she comes too…
“You can stop following me.”
“I can,” I agree with a short nod.
Satisfied, she spins on her heel, gracefully this time, and stalks back off down the street. Her heels click loudly against the concrete sidewalk.
Once again, I pull the clutch and give the bike some gas, however, this time I don’t stop. This time, I ride up right alongside her, keeping pace.
The withering look she gives me makes me smile. “Just because I can, doesn’t mean I’m going to.”
“Oh my god, you’re relentless!” she seethes, stopping in her tracks and throwing up both hands in exasperation, before burying her face in them.
It’s fun, needling her.
“In more ways than one.” I smirk, spying a sliver of blue peeking out at me between her fingers.
“Listen,” I say, seriousness taking over my tone.
“You can either get on the bike and let me give you a ride home, or you can get used to me following you. Because I agreed to be your fake-boyfriend for the night, which means in good conscience, I can’t just leave you out here alone.
” I stare down at her, my eyes dark and uncompromising.
She sighs, looking forlornly in the direction that must be home.
“Fine.” She deflates, stepping closer to me and holding out a hand for my helmet. I slip it off, silently handing it to her, and she rolls her eyes before pulling it on.
“So where to?” I ask, watching as she fumbles with the helmet straps.
“Home, I guess.” She shrugs and I pick up on a slight trace of disappointment in her voice. It’s still early, just a little after eleven. She went to Last Call with her friends, probably hoping to have a fun night out, only for her ex to show up and ruin it.
And now she’s stuck with me.
I tilt my head, studying her. “You sure? Do you really want to go home?”
She’s quiet for a minute, her fingers still on the straps while she stares down at the pavement, debating whether or not to let honesty win.
“No.” The admission is quiet but I hear it.
Reaching out, I grip under the chin of the helmet, pulling her closer, which brings her eyes flying back up to mine.
I hold her gaze, carefully looping the strap of the helmet through its cinch, and tightening it until it’s snug. And fuck, touching her again, letting my fingers graze the delicate skin just under her jaw… it’s addictive, this feeling.
“Okay, get on the back.”
She does so without argument, holding onto my shoulders to keep her balance as she swings her leg over. As she settles around me, her hands tentatively snake around my middle, lighting up each and every nerve along the way until she’s fully wrapped around me.
Kicking the bike stand back with the heel of my boot, I’m just about to release the clutch when I feel her tense, her body growing rigid against my back.
“Wait, you’re not a murderer right?” The words race out of her, half panic, half joke. “Like I didn’t just jump on the back of a serial killer’s bike?” She laughs nervously, her grip on my waist uncertain.
I smile quietly to myself. “Serial killer? No.” I reassure her. “Murderer? Only sometimes.” I spin around in my seat so she can see my face, giving her a little wink; she smiles back and a relieved laugh escapes her because she thinks I’m joking.
“So, where are we going?” she asks, settling back in around me.
“Not home.” I smirk, revving the bike and feeling it vibrate excitedly beneath us. A dark thrill shoots through me when her arms tighten around my waist.
“Don’t let go,” I warn, before I release the clutch and speed off into the night.