He looks at me, his face twisting in confusion when I stand quickly and step away, resting against the wall opposite the sofa.
“You don’t like me?” he asks. “I thought we had fun.”
We did. I can’t fault him. He’s well-behaved, well-mannered, and easy-going, but those qualities are no longer at the top of my list. Since two weeks ago, I’ve been attracted to confidence, bossiness, and a sprinkle of arrogance.
Aaron lacks all three.
“No, it’s not like that. It’s just...” I sigh, unsure how to proceed. “I don’t know. We just met.” In a flash, the pleasant evening turns uncomfortable. “I’ll call a cab.”
Aaron’s up on his feet before I take the first step. He rests his hands on the wall on both sides of my head, locking me in a purposely built cage. Dante did that two weeks ago. I wasn’t afraid then, but I am now.
“Stop messing around,” I say, failing to strike a casual tone.
There’s something in his posture; a threatening, determined vibe, that makes me quiver. For a second, I think he’ll retreat, but he grips my throat hard enough to stop me from even thinking about escaping. His other hand travels up my thigh. Fear engulfs me so fast I struggle to keep up with my body’s reactions. Aaron dips his head, forcing his tongue inside my mouth, and I pound on his chest, squealing because I can’t scream.
“Shut up.” He grips my wrists, tying them in one hand, the touch sharp enough to cut off circulation.
“Let me go!” I bite his lip, breaking the skin. “My father will kill you when he finds out about this!”
A maniacal smile spreads across his face as he touches the bleeding lip. I don’t dare look at the crimson trickle dripping down his chin.
My stomach sinks with the copper taste on my tongue as if I’m falling from a fifty-story building. My screams are cut short when he kisses me again. The taste of blood destroys my courage faster than a gun aimed at my head. Bile reaches my throat when he touches my panties. Repulsive thoughts infest my mind like small, biting insects.
I won’t let him touch me that way.
Not in a million years.
Fear dies down, replaced by determination, and my instincts kick in, clearing my head of the panicked static. I swing my knee, ramming it into Aaron’s groin. The punch isn’t strong enough to knock him down but powerful enough that he lets go of my hands, gripping his jewels.
Before he has time to swear, I’m gone.
With my bag in hand, I sprint down the road, turning left, right, and left again. The short streets dotted with rows of similar houses blur together until I stop at a side street filled with small shops. I rest my back on the window of dry cleaners, my feet ache, my lungs burn, and I tremble like a kitten with a mixture of fear, shock, and adrenaline.
I steady my breathing, getting get my pulse under control before I start walking on weak legs. Buried in my thoughts, still shuddering, I wonder if I hadn’t overreacted. Aaron’s drunk. Maybe he didn’t mean to hurt me...
I scoff, annoyed with my own naivety. The way he held me, the force he used to keep my now swollen, bruised wrists away from his face warranted panic.
My house is eight miles away. There’s no way I’ll walk the distance wearing high heels after I just ran however many blocks. The neighborhood I found myself in isn’t the best or the safest. I’ve had enough adventures for one night, so I take my phone out to call Adam.
Once, twice... no answer. I search the contact list for Burly’s number to no avail. I try Adam again.
“Wait up, doll!” Someone shouts behind me. “Wait up!”
My heart rate soars faster than my pace. Not daring to turn around, I rush toward the main street looming in the distance. The man is closing in on me, and judging by the heavy footsteps, he’s not alone. Fear reappears, gripping my throat like cold, wet hands. I can’t outrun them. The street’s empty; not a soul in sight. Adam’s still not answering. I ignore what he said at the club and call Frank.
“The number you’re calling is not available. Try again later.”
A thin, bald guy cuts me off, blocking my way, a bottle of vodka in his hand. “Are you lost, doll?” Dilated pupils size me up. A faded swastika tattoed across his neck looks like a child had tattooed it. Multiple, neglected cold sores surround his cracked lips as he tugs from the half-empty bottle. He jumps forward, shoving me against a shop window.
“Don’t ruin her, Loki,” the other man says when Loki pulls out a long, rusty knife.
“Do you need help?” I ask, doing my best to stay calm.
“How about we help you? You’re not from around here.”
I inch away from the knife. “Don’t touch me.”
They laugh like two maniacs: like villains in superhero movies. “What will you do? You’re alone, dolly.” He inhales deeply, taking a drag of my perfume, eyes closed, lips parted in a repulsive manifestation of arousal.