4. Chapter Four #2
I flip him the bird behind his back and turn to face the man who stepped in. But he’s already walking away, his broad shoulders clearing a path through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea.
He pours himself into a seat at a small table in the corner and takes a swig of something amber, his eyes remaining on me the entire time, dark and predatory, as he swirls the liquid in his glass around and around.
I take it as my cue to get the hell out of his vicinity before he recognizes me.
Bolting for the dressing room, I lock myself inside and run cold water over my hands in a futile attempt at lowering my body temperature.
What the hell was that? And why is my clit throbbing?
Standing in front of the mirror, I press my palms to the vanity, tuck my chin to my chest, and close my eyes, an image of a sickly nineteen-year-old girl in a ratty white nightgown, her long matted black hair oily from lack of washing, flickering behind my eyelids.
Her skin is pale and eyes sunken deep into her skull.
The color of her pupils is lifeless and dull.
And there’s a relentless ache between her legs that she didn’t ask for.
Refusing to go back to that place, I blink away the image and regain focus.
That girl has been dead for years.
Meanwhile, those to blame are living their lives, carefree and unaffected by her untimely death.
Fuck them.
Fuck all of them.
With renewed vigor, I return to the lounge. Specifically, to the bar.
Taking a seat at the counter, I glance around, refraining from looking in the direction of where Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly is seated. I’m afraid if I do, and we lock eyes again, I’ll go up in smoke.
But since self-control isn’t something I possess, I peer over my shoulder, my gaze settling on the vacant chair in the corner, nothing but an empty crystal tumbler adorning the small wooden table in front of it.
He may be gone. But the feeling of being watched persists.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
I run as fast and hard as my tired legs will carry me, the rubber soles of my shoes pounding the pavement at the same tempo as my heartbeat, while the crescent moon and a million twinkling stars lurk behind the yellow glow of streetlamps.
This kind of freedom—the kind where you can run because you want to and not because someone is chasing you—is something I’ll never take for granted because I know it can all be ripped out from under me at any moment.
And there’s a very real chance that it will someday soon. Pasts like mine never really stay in the past. Eventually, they catch up with you. And before you have a chance to realize what’s happening, it’s too late. And you’re dragged back into the hell you narrowly escaped from.
But that won’t be my story because I would rather die than go back to that place.
Rounding another corner, I count the concrete squares flying beneath my feet and focus on sending all the energy in my body to the muscles that need it most.
I stick to the same streets I always do: desolate ones with only a few old, run-down houses filled with struggling families and elderly people who can’t afford to leave this godforsaken town.
I feel kindred to these people, like maybe they too have been dealt a shitty hand and are doing the best they can with the cards they’ve been given.
So although the crime rate in this part of the city is a little high, I choose to stay here because it feels familiar, comforting even though it shouldn’t.
Just as the last corner comes into view and I prepare myself to veer left and head back to my apartment, the thunderous roar of an engine coming from behind me cuts through my labored breathing.
Before I have a chance to glance over my shoulder, a large black truck blows past, the turbulence from its tires causing a few free strands of my ponytail to dance.
“Hey, slow down, asshole,” I shout, waving a middle finger in the air.
Red taillights glare, tires screeching on asphalt as the truck comes to a stop in the middle of the street, smoke billowing from its tailpipes as it sits idling.
I halt in my tracks. Swallow. Clench my teeth.
No fucking way.
Reaching into the pocket of my hoodie, I grab the jackknife I carry everywhere with me when I can’t carry my gun, and grip it tight as the brake lights switch into reverse and the pickup backs up. Slowly. So fucking slow that I could’ve made a run for it by now.
Should have.
But no. I’m not running because I’m not stupid enough to believe I could escape him on foot.
The truck stops beside me. The driver’s window rolls down and my heart skips a beat.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly.
Damn it. I forgot how unnervingly attractive he is.
A set of tired blue eyes that glitter in the dash light meets mine. He looks exhausted. Nothing like the scary man that keeps cropping up everywhere I go.
Pinning him with a glare, I snip out, “Are you following me?”
A big tattooed hand rakes through his thick hair, messing it up in all the right ways as his gaze flicks down to my throbbing feet, pausing there for a moment before slowly climbing my body.
Inch by agonizing inch, I can feel the heat of his assessment burn through my resolve.
It weakens my confidence and makes me shiver.
When his eyes meet mine again, they’re filled with something dark and daring. He studies me for another beat before finally speaking, answering my question with one of his own.
“Why are you out running in the middle of the night? Seems unsafe, don’t you think?”
Popping a hip, I respond boldly, “Because of creeps who stop random women on the street? Yeah, you’re right. Totally unsafe. Also … you haven’t answered my question.”
“If I tell you, do you promise not to slash another one of my tires?”
He smirks. Another question for a question.
My glare intensifies. We’ll be here all night at this rate.
“I can’t make that promise.”
“Hmm. Are you done running?”
I bristle. “No.” It’s another lie.
Truthfully, my feet are aching and my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti noodles. If I could teleport back to my apartment, I would.
Silence stretches on where I can hear every drop of blood in my body moving through my veins at the same pace as molasses in the winter.
But then the soft click of his doors unlocking cuts through and I take a large step back, the way you would from an angry bear, and clutch my knife tighter.
“Hop in. I’ll give you a ride home.”
I scoff. “You must really think I’m dumb, huh?”
Snark. It runs rampant through my system and has gotten me into all sorts of trouble. But being a shy little bird has never paid off in the past. Never saved me from wandering hands or unwanted touches. And it certainly won’t save me here either.
“You tell me,” he responds dryly, his lips twitching in amusement, a glimmer of mischief dancing behind his irises. “I’m not the one in danger here.”
The way he says it sends a ripple of unease through me, as if there’s hidden meaning to his statement.
“My name’s Lynx, by the way.”
Lynx.
I catalogue his name, although it could easily be fake. He could be a Kyle or Jake or fucking George for all I know.
When I don’t return his pleasantries, he cocks a brow, looking me over once more. And I glare at him a little harder in hopes he’ll take the hint and fuck off down the street.
“There are monsters out here, Rebel.”
I recoil at the use of my stripper name. So I guess the cat’s out of the bag. He knows the feral sewer creature that slashed his tire—twice—is also the girl he so gallantly rescued from that dipshit, Calvin.
Damn it.
This is not good pour moi.
“It would be a shame if one of them decided to sink their teeth into you.”
He flashes me a wink and disappears behind a tinted window, the engine growling lowly as he drives away, slower this time. Taillights fade into the distance as I stand rooted to the concrete sidewalk with a strange fizzing sensation in my gut.
I get the sense this isn’t the last I’ll be seeing of him.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.